Elevators and Gridlock

Wendell finally got his pork dumpling breakfast, eight for two dollars over at the Dumpling House on Eldridge and Broome while Bebo and his pre-ulcer settled on a 50 cent kim-chee free sesame pancakes and I stayed in the truck. Seeing that the only space available was a no parking tow away zone, there was less of a risk that we were going to get towed with a haul full of Richard Prince paintings (again) as long as I sat in the middle seat. It also didn’t help that Eldridge Street was built for horse carriages and barely big enough for a Hybrid, let alone a giant Ryder truck that took up half of this one-way street while illegally parked was one of two reasons why I hated stopping here for the Unofficial Art Handlers Breakfast of Champions. The other being how this place was always way out of our way for any scheduled pick ups or deliveries because most galleries didn’t want to be in a surrounding neighborhood with its uncanny smell of cigarettes and outdoor fish markets. A pit stop here in between jobs usually meant that we were going to be behind schedule for the rest of our day which was eventually followed by an irate phone call from our dispatcher Nick which in turn gave Bebo and Wendell all the more reason to take their time and enjoy their mid-morning pre-lunch break snack. This was much to the chagrin of Eldridge Street traffic which had been blasting their horns for a good fifteen minutes with a blockage of three going on four blocks deep.

“The fuck, all these dudes can get through,” Bebo said and he climbed into the drivers seat, sesame pancake in one hand, Nos energy drink tallboy in the other. Actually, they couldn’t, but I wasn’t about to correct his parking skills or depth perception.

Wendell opened the passenger door and climbed in while he held a small open styrofoam container with a fork sticking up from his last dumpling covered in Sriracha sauce while ignoring the choir of car horns behind him. With his door still wide open, he looked down at his vibrating Blackberry for a second and casually put it back in his pocket without any reaction; this non-action only meant that Nick tried calling him to see where we were. The aforementioned horns were muffled when Wendell finally shut his door and we were off due north towards the Upper East Side just as Bebo’s cell phone started to ring.

“Don’t he know I’m driving today,” Bebo said. He let out a frustrated sigh and hit the mute button from the outside of his jeans. Driving with any cell phone activity, especially with a commercial vehicle meant an instant 2500 dollar ticket, 11,000 fine for our company, ten points on your license and more than likely, an instant termination.

Then, after a minute of silence aside from the occasional black Lincoln town car gypsy cab –still miffed from the mini-gridlock traffic we cause in Chinatown, sped up passed us with a “fuck you” honk, my phone started to ring. Without even taking my phone out, I knew it was Nick trying to reach me as well. This non-emergency either meant a grilling of our location, an estimated time arrival for our next job or worst case scenario, another additional pick-up somewhere in a far off strange place like the JFK cargo terminals. Either way, by the second ring, Bebo and Wendell both shot me a side glance to see if I was going to answer and out of peer pressure, I turned my phone off.

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By the time we arrived at Gagosian an hour later, the snow had stopped and there was a dull, muddy brown pile of slush between the street and the sidewalk which Wendell upon sight took off his scarf and sport coat so not to dirty them up. Along with two Fed Ex and a Fresh Direct truck parked along the left side of Madison Avenue, we had no choice but to double park, thus turning a busy three lane street into two and causing our second Manhattan traffic snag of the day.

The Richard Princes were not as big and heavy as the Chuck Close prints from earlier, but it still took two of us to lift them over the now frozen piles of brown slush without slipping and breaking our necks or worse, the art. Bebo stood by the open truck unflinchingly as cabs zipped by inches from his belly and waited for us to come back for the second piece.

Despite the size of the cardboard wrapped works, both Prince’s along with the two of us could have easily fit in the front passenger elevator, but because Wendell and I were technically in the service industry, we always had to take the service elevator for pick ups and deliveries for almost every Manhattan high rise building. Nothing made you feel more like a second rate person, as if you were just hidden away trash from the wealthy residents of any metropolitan city. It’s demeaning but it’s also something you have to deal with and try not take personally as if it’s part of your daily routine. There have been many attempts over the years to take art through the front door, only to be sent back by an overzealous doorman who, in all fairness, is only doing his job. A few years ago, Bebo once tried to sneak out through the main lobby after a delivery in a Fifth Avenue luxury apartment, only to see the doorman get chewed out and fired by the time he was halfway out of the revolving front door. It’s something he’s since always felt guilty about made sure to retell this story every time a co-worker griped about having to go through the service entrance.

By the time we came back for the second piece, Wendell was clearly shivering from the cold as he only wore a three button black thermal sweater while Bebo confronted a traffic cop who was printing out a ticket for obstruction of traffic and being within ten feet from a fire hydrant. In the case of the former violation, our company usually paid for that as it’s sometimes unavoidable, and more importantly, they can easily sneak the fine into an invoice under “additional labor fees.” Unfortunately for Bebo, who was the scheduled driver that day, he would have to pay for the later offense through our employers usual method of taking it out of his next paycheck.

“Fuck that, you call that 10 feel,” Bebo yelled as he took photos of the distance between our truck and fire hydrant with his cell phone. “You ain’t doing your job right.”

The traffic cop, a small unflappable 50 something looking Indian woman who stood no high than five foot four, didn’t look up as she took two tickets along with the familiar bright orange envelope and placed it under his left windshield.

“What’s your badge number,” Bebo said as he too another photo. “Cause I’m going to take this court.” Wendell and I rolled our eyes, carefully took the second piece, closed the back door and quickly moved towards Gagosian’s back entrance on 77th street.

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By the time we finished our delivery and climbed back into the truck, we noticed on our paper work that we actually had three Richard Prince’s to deliver to the gallery instead of two. This meant a good hour of inconspicuously sneaking back to our warehouse, looking for another lost work and bolting back to Gagosian without any of our supervisors noticing all while trying to fudge our schedule to make it look as if one job took 40 minutes instead of half the day.

“That’s fucking great,” Wendell groaned. “Makes me feel like I have a masters degree.”

Bebo, still fuming about his ticket ignored Wendell, looked over from his drivers seat and started poking at the bill of lading in my hand.

“Nah, it’s here. It’s in a bin box in the back, little guy.” The size of the piece was only nine inches by twelve inches, a little bit bigger than a sheet of paper.

“I got this,” Wendell said as he put on his sport coat. “I’ll be back in a second,” which was code for “I’m going through the front door.”

“Oh hell no,” Bebo hissed. “No you’re not. You ain’t getting no nigga fired, not while I’m here. No way.”

“No one’s going to get fired,” Wendell calmly said as he whipped his black scarf around his neck for the second time today and reached for his bag. “I’m not going back through the service again, it’s fucking degrading.” Before anyone of us could say anything, he slammed the door and headed towards the back of the truck again while Bebo dramatically exhaled through his nose and shook his head disapprovingly.

Looking more like a resident of an Upper East Side penthouse or at least someone significantly more important than an art schlepper, Wendell headed towards the front door with his carry-on bag that he held like a suitcase in one hand and the small cardboard wrapped Prince in the other. Two minutes later, he came back with his delivery accomplished and a big shit eating grin as if he successfully restored his dignity for the day, even Bebo couldn’t help but laugh.

“Nick tried calling me again,” Wendell said, still glowing from this personal victory as the truck started. “Wait until we cross over the Queensboro and check in with him.”

Having been here for several years longer than Wendell, who’d only been here for several months himself, being told what to instantly put Bebo back into a funk. We started to head back towards Queens, orange parking ticket envelope still flapping on the windshield like a nagging fail-flag, while I fidgeted with my cell phone, eagerly awaiting whatever bad news our dispatcher had that was going to sink whatever morale was left in our truck. I looked down at the clock radio, it was only 1:06 in the afternoon.