Five Mishpacha writers take the hard route and try a new career for the day

They say that if hard work is the key to success, most people would rather pick the lock. Not today. Five Mishpacha writers take the hard route and try a new career for the day. From the backend of Instacart to the underbelly of the plane, from the serving side of the lunch table to the counsel’s side of the conference table, you’ll experience what it’s like to help buyers find a new home — from the comfort of your home.

Instacart Shopper For a Day

Batsheva Grossman

The number on my screen — “Total 415 seconds per item” — hurts. It looks so long!

DO you read terms and conditions? I don’t. No one does. Somehow, though, I find myself reading very carefully through 80 pages of legalese as I sign my life away to be an Instacart shopper. Social security number? You got it. Banking info? Sure! Criminal background check? They do two. At least I know that whoever does my Instacart shopping hasn’t robbed a bank recently. This will be worth the ride… right?

A few hours after I submit my final document, the email comes in: Congratulations! You’re ready to start shopping

I click into the app, and I find a completely new database of info: the shopper side of Instacart.

It dings with a few “batch” options, which is Instacart-ese for “order.” Before you accept a batch, you can see what store you’ll shop in, where it needs to be delivered, the amount they’re offering per batch (usually about $5), the tip amount, and what items need to be purchased.

In the Batch Eligibility section, you can sign up for advanced options, like delivering alcohol, prescriptions, and heavy or bulky batches. The more seasoned a shopper you are, the more they let you take on, like batches with more than one order in it. There’s also a stats section with all your compliments, ratings, and accuracy numbers, including a shopping summary with “seconds per item.” Whoa — I didn’t realize how intense this is!

This inside look alone might have made all those forms worth it; it’s so interesting to see the backend.

The next evening, I decide to give it a go.

Me, to my husband: “Can you come with me on the first order?”

Husband: “Hmmmm.” (Subtext: Are you nuts? I can think of eight better ways to spend a night.)

Me, to our eldest daughter: “How about you?”

Husband: “Actually, I’ll come to protect you, and we can make it a date!” (Subtext: Wait, you’re going at bedtime? With our resident babysitter? Never mind, I’m in!)

I open the app and check for available batches, waiting until I spot one that seems reasonable. You can tell I have date night on the mind: “Jamie” wants a single large bouquet of flowers to be picked up from the Walmart eight minutes from us and delivered to a home in a nice neighborhood 15 minutes away (which, by the way, is called a “shop and deliver” batch, as opposed to shopping for someone for them to pick up from the store).

I’m surprised — shocked, actually! — to learn that Instacart pays the shopper almost the same amount for an order of one item as an order of 30: a grand total of about $5 per batch. Which is why large orders can just sit for a while — no one wants to take them, because they’re just not worth the time; Instacart will sometimes raise the pay for a batch if no one accepts it.

But I’m happy with my easy one-item batch, and, giddy with anticipation (me, not husband), we head out.

My app dings as we walk toward the store entrance.

What else does Jamie need? Champagne and strawberries?

But wait, what? I can’t find the batch anymore — it’s disappeared from my account!

Then I see an app notification: “Jamie removed an item.” When your order consists of one item, and you remove it, that means the order is canceled.

Great, I’m now at Walmart for nothing.

Ding!

Another batch is available at Walmart. I immediately accept this one, and date night is salvaged. I’m going to blame adrenaline, but I totally forget to check out the delivery details, mainly where I’ll have to deliver the batch. Whoops! Let’s hope for the best — and no, I don’t mention it to my husband just yet.

This order is pretty short — just four cans of baked beans and some instant potato flakes (I don’t have to worry about buying non-kosher food for a Jew because it’s for someone in a non-Jewish area) — and we’re in and out of Walmart in  half an hour. Instacart’s breakdown is less forgiving: It took us 169 seconds per item, 246 seconds for checkout speed. I have an excuse — it’s Walmart, the store is big, and I don’t realize I’m being timed! Plus, the self-checkout is down, so there’s a crazy long line for checkout. But the number on my screen — “Total 415 seconds per item” — hurts. It looks so long!

Back in the car, we follow our GPS — to one of the worst parts of town. I’m talking 500-square-foot homes, broken streets, and minimal street lights. My husband — who, mind you, came to protect me — turns and says, “Rock, paper, scissors?”

I lose.

He almost insists on bringing it to the door, but I remind him this is my writing assignment meshugas so I’m doing it (I’m stubborn like that!). I climb out, hauling two bags down a dark, icy path toward an open garage door. Suddenly, the front door swings open.

“Sorry I can’t come down to you,” says a woman in a bathrobe over a big sweatshirt and sweatpants, gesturing to the socks on her feet.

“Oh no, that’s fine, stay riiiiight there,” I reply, quickly taking a picture of the delivery (as per Instacart’s instructions) and running back to the car as she yells her thanks.

I smirk at my husband, elated to be back in the safety of the car — and then I remember that when an order is delivered, you immediately get a text asking you to rate your order, give your shopper compliments, and leave a thank you note.

I wonder if I have a compliment?

But… nothing; Instacart actually collects feedback sensitively, presenting it to shoppers only after ten orders so they don’t know what each customer said. Ten points for Instacart, but unfortunate for affirmation-seeking me, because with only one order under my belt, I won’t see a thing.

We’re done for the night — one is enough for me to feel like I got my feet wet, and my husband did not sign up for this.