How I Went Broke Doing Delivery Driving: A 12-Hour Nightmare and -$100
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How I Went Broke Doing Delivery Driving: A 12-Hour Nightmare and -$100
It’s five in the morning. Toronto hasn’t woken up yet. A gray mist rising from Lake Ontario seems to have swallowed the needle of the CN Tower. I’m inside my car — a 2022 silver Toyota Corolla. This is my office, my cafeteria, my waiting room, and most importantly, the small moving cabin where I listen to the sins of this city.
As I start the engine, the familiar blue light from my phone screen hits my face. Pressing the “Online” button isn’t just launching an app; it’s saying “I’m ready” to an invisible boss. Whether the Supreme Court or academic papers call this “working time” doesn’t matter to me at that moment. The reality for me is simple: when the wheels are turning, expenses are piling up; when they’re not, I’m losing time.
From the outside, this car looks no different from the thousands of others in Toronto traffic. But for a driver, it is a constantly depreciating asset, an expense item. The calculations I’ve read on forums never leave my mind. Every time this Corolla’s wheel turns, it costs me roughly 45 to 60 cents per mile. Gas, oil, tires, insurance… Every mile means invisible coins falling out of my pocket.
I flinch at a “ping” sound. The algorithm is awake. The first offer on the screen: from Scarborough to Downtown. The distance is long, traffic is about to get heavy. The “Efficiency Game” (The Efficiency Game) begins. The rule of this game is simple: set emotions aside and focus only on the math. As Lindsey Cameron said, we drivers play two kinds of games. Right now, at this hour of the morning, I’m fully in efficiency mode. No eye contact with the customer, no conversation — just getting them from point A to point B as fast as possible, with the least fuel.
Section II: The Hidden Costs of the Breadwinner +
By midday, things slow down. I pull the car into a shady spot near Queens Quay and turn off the engine. This is one of the places where we “invisible drivers” catch our breath. In the car next to me, another driver is eating with his window half open. Our eyes meet and we nod slightly. We don’t know each other, but we’re in the same boat. Or rather, the same sinking ship.
I have a notebook in my hand. The apps on my phone tell me how much I earned, but they don’t tell me how much I spent. I remember those detailed expense tables on Reddit. If a driver really wants to understand his earnings, he has to become his own accountant.
• Gas: If a gallon is 3 dollars, about 10 cents per mile.
• Depreciation: My car ages with every kilometer, its value erodes. 15-25 cents per mile.
• Maintenance, tires, cleaning…
When I add it all up, I see how much of those “bright” numbers the app shows me actually stays in my pocket. Sometimes I remember reports where full-time workers calculate that they fall below minimum wage. Uber or Lyft tells us we’re “our own boss,” but in reality we bear all the risk.
Meanwhile, another app is open on my phone: Hopp. The app that’s trying to become popular in Toronto, claiming to be “more ethical” but is actually complete chaos. Stories I’ve read on forums come to mind. I open Hopp just to check the market. A ride request comes in. I accept it but don’t move. This is a silent protest among drivers, a kind of “ghost driving.” Hopp’s fares are so low and wait times so long that we drivers only use it as a “spare tire” when there’s no work from Uber. I remember a passenger’s complaint on Reddit: “The driver accepted but has been waiting in the same parking lot for 20 minutes, waiting for me to cancel so he can get the cancellation fee.” This is a cycle of desperation created by the system. The driver gamifies the system to make money, the passenger waits for a cheap ride. The result? Everyone is angry, everyone is a victim.
I switch back to Uber. This chaos on Hopp almost makes me miss Uber’s seemingly perfect but ruthless system. At least on Uber the rules are clear, even if they favor the house (the platform).
Section III: The Confession Booth (The Relational Game) +
In the afternoon, with school dismissals and people leaving work early, the rhythm of the city changes. Now it’s time for the “Relational Game” (The Relational Game) to begin.
My car is no longer just a means of transportation; it’s a stage. There are mint candies in the glove compartment, charging cables in the back seat, and maybe a Spotify playlist I change according to my mood. This isn’t just an investment to get tips; it’s a game we play to remember that we are human.
The back door opens and a middle-aged woman gets in. Her eyes are red, she’s holding a crumpled tissue. “Just drive, please,” she says, her voice trembling. At that moment, I stop being the man behind the wheel and become an anonymous confidant.
This car is a confession booth. Those who get in leave their masks at the door. Because for them, I am a “safe stranger.” I don’t judge them, I don’t gossip with them. I just listen and drop them off where they need to go.
Once, a man who had just lost his job got in. He told me he had been on the verge of suicide. I pulled the car over, stopped the meter, and talked to him for 10 minutes. At that moment, I wasn’t a “gig worker” controlled by an algorithm — I was a human being. When he got out, he shook my hand and said, “Thank you, I needed that.” The 15 dollars I earned that day didn’t matter; that “human connection” had fed me.
Of course, not every story is that heavy. On Friday evenings, the drunk university students I pick up from King Street turn the car into a club. Their laughter and youthful excitement somewhat relieve the fatigue that has seeped into my car. I give them water, hand them a charging cable. In return, I get “5 stars” and maybe a nice comment on the app. These comments are the only “reputation document” I have in this digital world. Opening the app and reading those praises — “Great conversation,” “Very kind driver” — gives me the strength to continue in this lonely job.
Section IV: The Fear of Summary Execution and Digital Surveillance +
Evening traffic clogs Toronto’s veins like cholesterol. The Don Valley Parkway (DVP) is at a standstill. During these stop-and-go moments, there’s always a dark fear in the back of my mind: deactivation.
Last week, my closest friend Hasan’s account was closed. Why? We don’t know. A single email from Uber: “You have violated community guidelines.” Which rule? Which passenger complained? No answer. Hasan had been doing this job for years and had a 4.9 rating. One morning he woke up unemployed. He tried to appeal but couldn’t find a human being — only bots giving automatic replies.
In this system, we are not “innocent until proven guilty.” A passenger can falsely claim “the driver was drunk” or “he harassed me” just to get a free ride. And the algorithm executes us before investigating the truth. Living with this fear is like driving with an invisible noose around your neck. Every passenger could be a potential executioner. That’s why I have a camera (dashcam) in my car. This camera records not only the traffic but also my innocence. I have to put up warning signs that “restrict” the inside of my car: “Please do not touch the camera,” “No food.” These signs are my defense mechanism.
I had read about the Uber BV v Aslam case in England. The court there ruled that drivers should be considered “workers” not only while carrying passengers but from the moment they open the app and wait. Because Uber exerts tight control over us: they set the fares, they draw the routes, they rate our performance. But when it comes to us, they say “you are independent contractors.” In other words, they have the powers of a boss but not the responsibilities (holiday pay, minimum wage guarantee). The situation in Toronto is no different. We are birds trapped in an algorithmic cage, deceived by the promise of freedom.
Section V: Toronto’s Night Silhouette and the Class Divide
It’s past midnight. The silhouette of the city glows with the lights of the CN Tower and skyscrapers. From a distance, these lights are mesmerizing. But from behind the wheel, each of those lights is a monument to inequality.
I drop off a passenger from the mansions of Rosedale at a rundown apartment in Scarborough. Or vice versa; I take a cleaner from Jane and Finch to one of those glass towers downtown in the early morning. My car works like an elevator between the classes of this city. I connect the rich and the poor, the server and the served, but I myself belong nowhere.
One day, an update came about the “Upfront Pricing” system. Now we see how much the trip will cost in advance, but we still don’t know exactly how much Uber takes. There used to be a fixed 25% commission. Now? Sometimes we can’t even get half of what the passenger pays. The algorithm calculates the “lowest” price I will accept for that job and offers it to me. They call this “algorithmic price discrimination.” The driver next to me might be offered a different price for the same job. This is a system that pits us against each other and breaks solidarity.
Still, I keep driving. Because as the child of an immigrant family, or as an “overqualified” person whose diploma from back home isn’t recognized here, this steering wheel is my lifebuoy. Inside my car are people learning English, studying for exams, sending money back home. We are the invisible engines of Toronto.
Section VI: The Last Stop
It’s 3:00 AM. Time to go home. I turn off the app (“Go Offline”). At that moment, silence suddenly descends. No “ping” sounds, no map, no commanding algorithms. Just me and Toronto’s empty streets.
How many people’s stories did I listen to tonight? How many did I carry home, to their lovers, or to their loneliness? I don’t know. They won’t remember me. For them, I’m just “the Driver in the Toyota Corolla.” They’ll give five stars and move on, or forget to give them.
But I remember them. That crying woman, that hopeful immigrant, that drunk university student. My car is the sacred space where their stories intersect, where their lives briefly merge.
As I enter the house, I stop at the door and look at the city lights one last time. This city is made up of millions of stories. And even if I’m not the paper on which those stories are written, I am the wind that carries that paper. Tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, I’ll get back into that metal capsule. I’ll go “Online” again. I’ll swing back and forth between the “Efficiency Game” and “Humanity” again. Because this city doesn’t stop, and neither can I.
This is my Toronto. In the shadow of shiny towers, a deep, complex, and exhausting story lived on four wheels, surrounded by algorithms but still fundamentally human.
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