When he heard the news about the coronavirus pandemic and the citywide shutdown, Gerald Timothee called his family back home in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
He wondered how long he could keep his job delivering groceries for the Instacart app with the deadly airborne disease running rampant. And how long would it be before the disease overtook him as he made deliveries?
“I told them I was going to die,” Timothee, 35, recalled. “I thought my life was over. I didn’t know how I could work with this.”
The possibility of getting sick is a reality Timothee and thousands of other workers in New York City’s gig economy have had to face each day as they venture out onto the city’s streets not only to earn a living, but also to feed other residents.
Yet for many of these workers, their initial terror has been steeled with a sense of duty and pride. “It’s all about us right now,” Timothee said. “We are holding this city together. I feel like a hero.”
Following a dramatic increase in demand during stay-at-home orders, Instacart’s personal shopper ranks in New York City alone have swelled to more than 14,000 since March, according to company officials, an increase of more than 150%.
The company employs workers to shop for and deliver groceries and other household items ordered online through an app, paying them a fee for each delivery.
With a more than 400% increase in sales since March, Instacart has seen a greater rise since the pandemic than any other company — even Amazon or Walmart. It is one of several on-demand grocery delivery services, including Prime Now, Peapod, FreshDirect, and Shipt, which send legions of delivery people around the city every day.
Most of the money Timothee makes from his work as an Instacart shopper goes to help family back home in Haiti. But he and some friends from Port-au-Prince also pool money to buy food for needy families back home — packages filled with rice, oil and fish that have helped dozens of families in Haiti get through the pandemic.
Timothee’s day begins each morning with an hourlong trek from his small studio apartment in East New York, Brooklyn, to Midtown Manhattan, where, he said, wealthier city dwellers are more prone to use the app and its shoppers rather than brave the stores themselves. He boards a usually desolate No. 2 train and starts shopping at noon.
Unlike many Instacart workers who own cars, Timothee is a “walker,” making his deliveries on foot.
“I walk anywhere from 5 to 6 miles a day,” he said from behind his face mask one brisk overcast afternoon in late April. Perched outside an apartment on 52nd Street and Third Avenue, he scrolled the Instacart app in search of his next shop, or “batch” as Instacart shoppers call them.
Being on foot forces Timothee to think strategically about each job he accepts. On a recent afternoon, there was a gig on 73rd Street that could score a $45 payment (including tip), and another on 59th Street that would net him $34. He chose the 59th Street option, noting its proximity to a nearby Gristedes market.
“It’s a bit like chess, being a walker,” he said. “You have to be smart. You have to be patient.”
As he does in most trips, he made his way to the grocery store and then to his customer’s building through a mix of walking and public transit.
Shuffling past eerily quiet Midtown streets at 2 p.m. — past empty bagel shops and sushi bars, an Equinox gym and New York souvenir shop — he hopped on a northbound city bus. With hardly anyone riding anymore, swiping was unnecessary. He entered the bus through its rear exit, and took a seat.
In the past, at this time of day, the bus might have been standing room only. But that day, there were only three riders. “This is the new norm now, man,” he said. “It takes some getting used to.”
He is a slender man just a little taller than 6 feet, with tattoos on his neck and a nose ring. But these days, his features are almost always hidden. His protective mask hardly ever comes down below his nose. “It’s my armor,” he said with a laugh. “I never take it off.”
He carried a rolling aluminum and nylon reinforced shopping trolley that he uses to transport his groceries, and a backpack, stuffed with protective equipment provided by Instacart, including hand sanitizer and packs of protective gloves.
For weeks Instacart, and a number of other gig economy businesses like Amazon, drew criticism from workers for not adequately protecting them from the coronavirus.
After months of protests, strikes and walkouts, Instacart said it has improved its protective efforts, including an investment of more than $20 million in the past few weeks on packs of person protective equipment, or PPE, for shoppers.
Now, all Instacart shoppers are able to use the company app to have a package (including a face mask, protective gloves and sanitizer) mailed to them.
Timothee, who has been shopping with Instacart since 2016, said he had never had problems getting equipment from local stores. “You have to know who to ask,” he said.
Entering Gristedes, he began a well-honed routine. He put his cart near the register and approached the shopping baskets. Putting his phone into this pocket, he took a pair of fresh latex gloves from his backpack and slid them onto his hands as he grabbed a small bottle of hand sanitizer and began disinfecting the basket. He then retrieved his phone and sprayed it down.
“You never, ever touch anything first,” he said.
Just then a woman came by and moved his shopping basket to the side. With a sigh, he repeated the process.
Once he has properly sanitized himself and the cart, the shopping becomes easy, he said. In less than 10 minutes he had got what he needed: a pack of toilet paper and paper towels, English muffins and yogurt. After a swift checkout he began the three-block walk to deliver the goods to his customer.
Working usually until 8 p.m. or so, he makes anywhere from eight to 10 shopping trips a day.
The first customer had tipped him generously, but he knew he would never see her. Since the pandemic hit, he said, customers hardly ever interact with shoppers anymore, for fear of contamination. Instead he is typically asked to leave the groceries on a porch, with a doorman or at a front desk.
“Ninety percent of the time I don’t see who I am shopping for anymore,” he said.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
Reference: Yahoo News
