"Where's Your House Number?!" The Day an Elderly Delivery Rider Scolded Me for His Own Failing Eyesight
It started with an angry phone call and ended with a sheepish apology. But the rage I felt exposed a massive crack in our modern, tech-driven gig economy. It’s 7:30 PM. You’re hungry, you’re tired, and you just want the pad thai you ordered forty-five minutes ago. You watch the little GPS motorcycle icon turning onto your street. You anticipate the doorbell. Instead, your phone rings. I picked up, expecting a standard "I'm outside." Instead, I was met with an aggressive, booming male voice on the other end. He sounded older—perhaps in his late 50s or early 60s—and he was immediately hostile. "Hello? Where are you? You didn't put the house number!" he barked. "How am I supposed to find you if you don't put the number? You people always do this." My adrenaline spiked. Not because of fear, but because of instant, defensive rage. I am obsessive about checking my delivery details. I knew my house number was there. It’s saved in the app. I use it ...