Nourished

Yesterday evening I demonstrated the N95 to a handicapped fella, explaining the many time-saving features. In particular he was excited to learn the device is free on Vodafone’s $49 Maxi plan and alighted happy he’d finally found a replacement phone.

Another grateful passenger was a 19 yo kid with no money facing a five kilometre walk to Epping Station. At 11pm he was en route to the Central Coast after a 9 hour shift at a call centre. How could I not drive him to the station - it was on my way, there was no work, what the hell.

At 1:30 am a young woman out of a finance tower fell into the front seat and dutifully ignored me for a short fare to Kings Cross. Why sit up front, I thought, only to brush me with an IPod. For some reason I recalled the Banker and a sense of dread enveloped me, though not for long. At her destination she paid the $8 fare with a $12 tip. What a gal.

A woman in radio; another in television; a Japanese business couple; an Irish lass to Manly; an Irish journalist to the inner west; some of the interesting fares from last night. Granted it was generally light and cursory contact but still, they were invigorating and positive encounters. Good for the soul, that’s cab driving.

I reflected upon this after dropping the last fare at 2:30am. He’d come from a bar after work, though wasn’t drunk, just relaxed. Relaxed enough to change seats and join me in the front after stopping for bread at a 711.

For some reason he felt compelled to justify his nocturnal routine. “I love living by myself...coming home when I want,” he said, without conviction. After establishing that I too was finishing work, was the same age and divorced, he became animated, sparking off the coincidences. But this just seemed to underline his loneliness so I changed the subject.

“Mate,” I announced, “I gotta go” and immediately felt lousy as his kindly face failed to mask the disappointment. Instead he offered a tender handshake, thanking me for possibly the only agreeable chat he’d had all night.

The bloke would enjoy driving cabs, I thought on leaving. A chance to go home happy and content, nourished by his encounters.

Once I heard the writer, Norman Mailer opine that real happiness is taking an active interest in one’s environment. Mailer also once stabbed his wife but she forgave him.

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Frontline

Cablog reader and Sydney cabbie, Rainer, sends a harrowing tale from the frontline,

Hi readers.

I know you enjoy Adrian's stories but tonight I feel compelled to tell one myself. Stuff like this happens to cabbies all the time and I would like you to know what the average taxi driver has to put up with trying to make a living.

Last night I was driving down Balmain Rd in Leichhardt at 11.50 pm, with my nice passenger Tom, who is very tired from a big week and looking forward to a good night sleep.

As we approach a speed hump near Moore Street I see a group of about 10 young punks, aged 13 to 15 standing on both sides of the road, rushing towards me as I slow down. The feeling in the back of my neck tells me that something is about to happen

Soon enough I see two fellows on the left rushing towards the cab and throwing stones at the windscreen. What escapes me is the other 3 on the right who carry and throw a 5 foot garden fence [metal] into the windscreen, which wraps itself around the roof sign after showering Tom and myself in glass.

As I slowed down I looked in the rear view mirror which showed 10 kids rushing towards me, and I realised Tom and myself would be dead meat if they caught us. So I gunned it looking through the holes in my windscreen.

Tom certainly was awake by now, showered in safety glass like me, but fortunately for him not bleeding from tiny cuts like myself.

Now I don't want to play the harp here, but I'd rather tell you people and let off some steam and keep it quiet from my wife who would get upset and worry every time I said goodbye to her after dinner.

Unfortunately stuff like this happens to other cabbies on a regular basis, including abuse, racist slurs and fare evaders. And most of us are the working poor. Show me the cabbie who heard of superannuation or private health insurance and I show you an owner, not a driver.

But then, as the old cabbie whom I met soon after said to me, shit happens. Sadly for most cabbies, it happens all too often. Yet on a daily basis I hear what bastards taxi drivers are and I wonder why.

Rainer the cabbie

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Sex

On Wednesday night I picked up three boofy country blokes in Kings Cross (where else). They were headed to the Swinger’s Club in Bourke Street, Surry Hills.

I’d always assumed that to attend a swingers club one would be required to take a partner, in order to balance the gender mix. Not so. According to their website(NWS),

The male guests are generally in the 25 to 55 age group, females early 20’s to late 30’s.

Apparently women over 40 don't swing. Anyhow, one pays an entry fee, slips on a towel, hits the bar and hooks up with a mate. Too easy, even for boofheads.

Speaking of sex, here's news of the 2008 Bloomsday festival, From the Ear to the Rear,

Sydney's annual literary gathering celebrating James Joyce's Ulysses will focus on tracts that describe the activity of the human body such as eating, defecating and sexual orgasm.

In order to deconstruct Ulysses, experts including a sexologist will explore...hit that link. Obviously cerebral sex is somewhat more challenging than banging on the door of the Swinger’s Club.

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For Mum

Cablog reader, Tanya, a night cabbie in regional Victoria writes,

I read your blog every morning when I get home from my shift as a way to unwind before going to bed.  Love your work as I love mine and can relate to everything you post.

I have 2 kids who have been raised to the ages of 21 and 22 listening to stories of my life as a driver. My daughter recently sent me (an article) as a way to say thanks for all my help in her journey into adulthood.

I really think it sums up much of what we do and why we do it and thought I'd take the bold step to share it with you as I know you will relate to it.

Tanya has kindly allowed me to publish her daughter's tribute here...

Read on...

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Wizardry

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Hopeless

Notorious prankster, Shifty, offers me a 'fresh' coffee at the Airport holding yard last night.

Once again last night at the Domestic Airport hordes of frustrated travellers fumed in taxi queues whilst masses of waiting cabbies cooled their heels in the holding yard.

We just can't get together quickly enough due to the inept rank marshalls. Instead of arriving to find passengers standing at each taxi bay we pull in and wait for the marshalls to release passengers from the queue, one by one. Absolutely hopeless.

Again, there are plenty of drivers waiting to pick-up but the rank marshalls seemingly lack basic foresight, training and supervision. Over to you, Sydney Airport.

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Hidden

Few Oxford Street regulars would recognise this hidden location behind Arc nightclub.

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Stupidity

At 2:30am this morning a policeman hailed me outside a western suburbs police station and requested I take an aged businessman home. The bloke was unsteady on his feet and somewhat dishevelled. It appeared as if he’d hurriedly dressed, most likely after an unscheduled stint in a police cell.

“You get done?” I asked. “Yeah.” “What happened, RBT?” “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it. I got together with a bunch of fellas to watch Underbelly. And we’ve all got a connection to those blokes.” “Who, the gangland figures?” “Yeah, I knew Chris Moran.” This was the father of Jason and Mark Moran, all three old school criminals murdered by the new breed of criminals.

My passenger explained that in 1968 he had served in the Air Force with Chris Moran. “But he never wanted to go back to Melbourne after the Air Force ‘cause he reckoned they were all animals there.” Junk yard dogs, as history has since shown.

I stopped outside his home. “Oh well," I offered, "maybe you can take three months off work and go fishing.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Mate,” he said, “high range PCA is at least a six month suspension. Plus my job depends on the car so as of this morning I no longer have a job.”

I drove off thinking his stupidity could have cost a lot more – his life.

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