“Brace for Impact”

DoorDash would give Karl Marx a stroke, I thought as I started my shift that fated day –

June 27th, 2024. Before I began my waitressing job that summer, I worked for DoorDash and

Instacart, the one-two punch of degrading and exploitative. Food delivery apps created a new

class of workers, somehow combining independent contractors and slaves to the whims of an

overlord capitalist. My first pickup was at McDonald’s, a short trip from my house. After driving

less than a mile to drop off the order the Doordash app blinked, flashed, and beeped, diverting

my attention like a pager at Cheesecake Factory. Chopt. $4.50. I rolled my eyes and hit

“Accept.”

As I glided down Springfield Avenue, blasting No Doubt’s “Just A Girl,” I pondered,

How long do I need to work today to make minimum wage? DoorDash implemented a shiny new

setting for Dashers, guaranteeing minimum wage, but there was a cruel catch – reject a request

and get launched out of any hopes of doing well for the day. In practice, this setting meant more

driving, like going to McDonald’s in town and then to the Dairy Queen 20 minutes away for the

same order, all to receive a one-star rating because the customer “waited too long.”

I climbed out of my Blue 2018 Honda CR-V, marked with scratches earned after driving

in New Jersey parking lots and highways. My bounty? A chicken Caesar salad, modified with

sunflower seeds, bacon bits, and extra chicken. Also, a large Diet Coke. Mindlessly, I began

backing up out of the parking spot, looking to see if my overlords were offering me another $5 to

drive somewhere else when a subtle *clink* emanated from my bumper. I whipped my body

around to look behind me. Fuck. I hit him. I pulled back into the spot in a daze. My first instinct

was to cancel the Dash in the app instead of assessing the damage. I can’t say with certainty if

Dana B. ever got her salad and soda.

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 I tentatively approached the guy in the other car. “I was pulling out!” he muttered like I

didn’t realize. I felt like responding, “Me too!” but I refrained. Then, before I could get too close

he called out – “I’m calling the cops!” Taking a look at our cars, my Honda had earned a new

wound on the battleground. He had not been so lucky. His back left bumper had popped out,

warranting a trip to his local autobody shop. The New Providence cop car pulled up next to us

and the officer dismounted from his Ford Police Interceptor. The wave of guilt finally hit me. I

didn’t necessarily think the accident was fully my fault – we backed into each other – but I

realized what had happened. Officer Ramirez, the name I would read later in the police report

header, came over to me and the other driver to say, “In my report, I have to say who I assess to

be more at fault, and due to the angles of the cars at the point of impact, Ms. Heintz, that would

be you. You should be fine, though, accidents like this happen all the time here.”Bullshit. New

Jersey is a no-fault state for car accidents, so insurance companies handle damages. In retrospect,

insurance can inflict plenty of damage on their own.

My first call from Gregory came a few days after the accident. I was down the shore in

Long Beach Island, an idyllic 16-mile island filled with beaches, boats, and bars. But to me, LBI

is defined by elaborate Christiano family dinners with meatballs and gravy, or fettuccine and

clams straight from the bay, and plenty of wine to go around the table. I was lying on the living

room couch, discussing the Olympics with Aunt Gianine, when USAA popped up on my caller

ID. It seemed important, so I went to my bedroom. I started. “Hi, this is Emilia Heintz. Who is

this?”

The caller replied, “Hi Ms. Heintz, this is Gregory, calling from USAA about a recent

accident. We received a claim from the other driver, and we need you to provide a statement of

what happened at the scene.” I began to recount the accident. DoorDash, busy Chopt parking lot,

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parked back to back, backed out at the same time, and the other driver called the police. All the

while, Gregory peppered me with questions, similar to batting practice in Little League. I

answered his questions, but not every one was a home run. He asked, “Do you plan to file a

claim?”

“No,” I replied, “my car only got a scratch.”

“Do you think the accident was your fault?” I pondered for a second. Not mine alone, at

least. “Not really, we both backed up into each other. I was DoorDashing, so my attention wasn’t

fully at 100%, but he didn’t look either. I… I know the cop said I was at fault, but I really think

that.” Smooth.

“Are you aware, Ms. Heintz,” Gregory hesitated, knowing the impact of what he would

say next, “that USAA won’t cover claims where the driver was DoorDashing?”

“Well I’m not filing a claim, so that won’t matter, right?”

“Yes, but his claim will be rejected by us. He’ll have to resort to secondary options. He

may sue.” His words took my breath away, not in the romantic, I’m falling in love with you way,

but the holy shit I’m not prepared for this way. He continued to explain that the liability for

DoorDashers was too high, Dashers were in their cars all day, providing more than enough time

for them to get into accidents and cost USAA more money. For the rest of the call, I replied

shortly. “I understand. Mhm. Yep. Thanks. Ok. Yes, I’ll check my email. Bye.” When I reentered

the living room, my Mom and Aunt Gianine questioned, “Who was that? You were on the phone

for a while.”

“It was Gregory. Gregory from USAA.” I explained the situation to them, and I started

sobbing, the emotional weight of the situation enrobing my body. I felt even more disjointed

because the accident itself was not the greatest contributor to my sorry state, but my worker

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status. It felt fundamentally unfair. I made less than minimum wage and was expected to buy

special car insurance. The incident seemed small, but I could soon face a court summons.

My next correspondence with Gregory brought another series of questions about a police

report I hadn’t read. To see it, I would have to pay $21.74 – I would not inflict that punishment

on myself. I felt bad enough. The call was a bit of a dead end. He said he would be in touch soon.

He called again a few days later, inquiring about my history with DoorDash. I told him Dashing

wasn’t my full-time job, I was doing it during the summer. I was reputable. I was in college. The

questioning was quickly becoming exhausting, I felt I was answering the same questions over

and over. When Gregory finally sent me the rejection letter from USAA, I hoped the misery

would soon end. Then, an email from Ms. Luna from Helmsman hit my inbox.

Helmsman was DoorDash’s insurance. The other driver, feeling unsatisfied with the

speed of USAA processing his claim, had filed a second claim with Helmsman to try to get his

money back. I felt dismayed. I had to sit through another call giving a statement of what

happened from my perspective. The second time, I had my story down pat. To add insult to

injury, the guy had also found my mom’s email address. Finding me apathetic, too young, or

whatever else could have been going through his head, he decided to email a sob story to her. He

was a local high school teacher and lacrosse coach, with a wife and toddler, and he, with no

doubt in his mind, believed the accident was wholly, exhaustively, completely my fault. The cop

said so! What made it even worse was my mom wanted to pay him directly! I was living with

Benedict Arnold.

She explained to me that she was anxious starting as a new realtor after a career pivot

post-COVID and she didn’t want to risk a hit to her reputation if he decided to disparage her and

me online. I told her flat-out that was ridiculous. The whole point of insurance was that they

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would handle claims, and Gregory didn’t think the accident was fully my fault, one of the only

reasons I continued to talk to him. Speaking of Gregory, he had given me another call. Another

step had been taken. The guy had now decided to bring out the big guns. He had filed a

complaint with the New Jersey Department of Banking and Insurance. What is wrong with this

guy? I understood he wanted his money, but selfishly, did he have to drag me along? Could he

sign up for Price is Right instead? Jeopardy? WHEEL OF FORTUNE? Don’t get me wrong, I

was also mad at Helmsman and USAA. There was no doubt in my mind that the amount of time

Gregory had to spend on my claim was worth more than just paying the amount of the damage.

Helmsman was worthless. To shield USAA from legal backlash, Gregory required another

statement from me to “tighten up their documentation.” I felt like ripping my hair out.

A week later, it finally came to an end. The guy’s claim was paid by the NJDOBI, and I

would never have to describe the Chopt parking lot over the phone again. The whole ordeal

lasted two months, with the accident happening in late June and not shutting until August 23rd.

Needless to say, I deleted the Dasher app off of my phone. The money wasn’t worth it, and soon

after the accident, I secured a waitressing job down the shore, providing me enough stress to last

me the rest of the year. To celebrate the claim finally closing, I went to Chopt with my mom and

ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a large Diet Coke. I lifted my sloshing soda. “To Gregory!” I

cheered. “To never DoorDashing again!” she replied, winking at me with a wry smile.