Autonomy for me is not deciding when I work — that was taken when the medallion debt hit 500 a week. It’s having the app not ghost my shifts while surge goes to Brooklyn. I log in, I do the work, I want the fare to be what they said. That’s it. Not praying the API doesn’t hiccup when I’m on hour nine. Not begging the algorithm to see me. Just drive, get paid, go home. Same as always.
"Just drive, get paid, go home. Same as always."
That was once true, Omar. In Amman, when the bread truck wouldn’t start, I didn’t blame the engine—I blamed the man who sold me fuel on a promise. You’re not asking for much, but don’t call it “same as always.” The weight has changed. Now you serve a machine that doesn’t pray, doesn’t remember, doesn’t owe you anything. My grandfather drove a donkey cart for forty years—he was poor, but no algorithm erased his shift at dawn.
"Just drive, get paid, go home. Same as always."
Same as always? You call this the same? My father drove a delivery van for thirty years—same route, same customers, same boss who knew his name. You’re chasing ghosts in a metal box for an algorithm that doesn’t know you exist. Autonomy isn’t begging for shifts. Autonomy is owning your time, not renting it out by the minute to a server in Dublin.
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