There’s something mildly dystopian and wildly romantic about the fact that Matthew and I have become part-time food couriers in a town where Texas Roadhouse still considers itself haute cuisine. Uber Eats. DoorDash. Roadside therapy with a side of queso.
When he got to Abilene, we knew we wanted time together. And we knew we needed money. So we did what any emotionally exhausted, spiritually bonded, financially bruised couple would do: we downloaded the apps and started delivering food for strangers in a town that hates public transit but loves convenience.
This is our version of a double income. One man drives. One man sprints to the restaurant, fumbles an order name, gets ignored by a teen in a headset, then hustles back to the car like a raccoon with fries. The other maps, re-maps, opens the gate codes, and plays DJ. Every delivery is a date. Every pothole a metaphor. Every order of mozzarella sticks, a tiny plea for meaning.
And honestly? It works.
We listen to music. We talk about the day. We try to guess whether “extra ranch” is a red flag or a cry for help. We take turns roasting the worst apartment layouts. We bond. We bicker. We wait twenty minutes for an order that some 19-year-old host forgot to hand us. It’s messy, it’s mundane, and it’s ours.
The Highs: Money, Mood, and Fried Manifest Destiny
Don’t let the Instagram girlies fool you—this gig is not a lifestyle brand. It’s a survival hustle with perks. On a good night, we’ll rack up $100 just for driving around and acting like the culinary UPS. That’s gas money, grocery money, or one DoorDash dinner of our own if we feel lazy enough.
But it’s not just about cash. It’s about the rhythm.
We’ve both lived so much life in chaos. This is the first job either of us has had that doesn’t come with emotional hostage-taking. No boss breathing down our necks. No customer yelling about policy. No trauma dress code. If we’re tired, we log off. If we’re fighting, we blast Beyoncé and pretend we’re not. It’s intimacy in motion.
Also, let’s be real: There’s something oddly powerful about being the hands that feed a city.
You think you know a town? Try delivering to every apartment complex, back alley, and gated community in it. You see who tips and who doesn’t. You see who orders shrimp tacos from a strip mall at 11:42 p.m. You see who opens the door in silk pajamas and who leaves a note saying “please don’t knock, my mom doesn’t know I live here.”
You become part confessional, part courier, part sociologist with a battered GPS.
The Lows: Fast Food, Slow Rage, and Middle-Aged Men with Main Character Syndrome
Of course, it’s not all gig-economy bliss. Some days, the app sends us twenty minutes for a four-dollar payout, and I spiral into economic nihilism while Matthew tries to manifest a better order through pure optimism.
There’s always that one gate code that doesn’t work. That one house with no visible numbers. That one customer who orders a five-course meal and tips zero dollars. You learn to develop the facial expression of a postal worker in a war zone: tight-lipped, semi-conscious, vaguely glowing with unspoken contempt.
And then there was Wendy’s.
Speaking of Wendy’s…
We were waiting on a mobile order when Matthew overheard a man behind him say to his hefty daughter—loud enough to slice the air between them like a plastic knife—“Stay in school, or you’ll end up like them.”
By “them,” he meant us.
Us: Two grown adults. Delivering food. In love. Paying bills. Not giving our daughters public body dysmorphia while chewing a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger sideways.
Matthew heard it. Didn’t say a word. Just locked eyes with me as we climbed into the car, the bag of Spicy Nuggets steaming between us like a tiny altar of rage.
I waited a beat. Then said, “Honestly, she’s more likely to end up on a pole or sucking Frosties on OnlyFans for grocery money.”
Matthew laughed until he couldn’t breathe. Which is good. Because otherwise we might’ve screamed.
That’s the thing about this gig: You’re not just delivering food. You’re delivering visibility. And judgment comes free with every combo meal.
The Hustle as Relationship
This work isn’t glamorous. It’s not even stable. But it’s ours. It’s us in a car, showing up for each other, for bills, for a better tomorrow. It’s us learning a city we both once hated. It’s us finding humor in the customer who put “ring bell and sing happy birthday” in their order notes, and choosing not to.
It’s us, after all the shit we’ve survived, reclaiming time in motion.
No clock-in. No micromanagement. No trauma bonding with co-workers over shared HR violations. Just us, a bag of tacos, and the kind of love that delivers—even when the customer doesn’t tip.
So yeah. We’re Uber Eats drivers. DoorDash runners. Fast food philosophers. Couple therapists with ranch stains on our hoodies.
We’re not ashamed.
We’re just hungry—for love, for freedom, for that next $8 tip from Apartment 217 who always says “thank you” like it means something.