Had a young woman Saturday night, who was immediately funny, charming, off-beat and only too willing to engage me in a favourite cab sport - banter. I’m a cabbie - it’s boring - we take our opportunities...
She was quick, witty and very intelligent. Finally, I decided I couldn’t best her, and so conceded defeat, ‘Lady - you’re a sick puppy...’. ‘Hey’, she fired back, ‘you’re really intuitive. You should be a psychologist !’. ‘Whatda they earn ?’, I chimed in, ‘Aw, ‘bout $200 an hour’. ‘Gees, I’m in the wrong game’, I replied, ‘I’m lucky to earn that on a good night - after 12 hours !’.
I reflected on this early this morning, on the rank at Star City Casino. Easy money. At this point I’d earned $90 and was feeling particularly forlorn. Then I recalled an incident last year, at the same place, same time - 1.30 am Monday morn. A Casino passenger tipped me $170 for a $9.70 fare !
A word of caution - in my book, there is no such thing as free money. Namely, this true tale has a highly questionable twist, beyond ‘GROSS’. A tale dealing with dirty money, so if you’re easily offended, don’t do porno - then DON’T-GO-THERE...
On point, in the Casino lobby, I cautiously watched a bloke approaching my cab. Around thirty-something, he had a thick-set build, yet was soft and flabby. His expensive attire was severely dishevelled and he walked slowly with a twitching, painful gait. Gay, I thought. Of more concern though, was the way he carried one hand under his sports jacket, concealing something.
Realising this, my hand hovered over the automatic door lock. I had about three and a half seconds to decide if he was in, or out. At least he was on Casino security cameras, I reasoned as he drew abreast. As he leant down for the front door handle, the jacket fell open revealing he was clutching papers, or something similar. My intuition gave him the all-clear and I allowed him in.
‘Oxford Street driver’, he requested in an affected voice with a quavering tone. Was he drunk, or drugged, I wondered as we headed off. For the next couple of minutes, he sat fumbling and muttering in the dark, as we traversed Darling Harbour. There was something going on in his lap. I sensed his frustration in the dark and said, ‘Mate, let me turn the light on for you’, and reached for his personal cabin light.
Simultaneously I looked across as the spotlight illuminated his lap. It was completely covered with $100, $50 and $20 notes ! Green, brown and red bills spilling from his wide open legs, onto the floor and between the seats ! ‘Mate’, I exclaimed, ‘you’ve had a big win !’ Looking across at me, he found focus, then drawled, ‘Nah, this is nothing - a few bucks’. ‘A few bucks ?’, I responded, ‘I wish I had your sort of luck !’
He considered me with the alertness of a cow, struggling to find me, then asked, ‘How much do you think is here ?’. ‘I looked again at his messy luck, ‘Gees, you must have at least $1000, maybe $2000 there'. ‘There should be $3000', he replied. ‘Yeah, what game were you playing,’ I asked. ‘Game ?’, he laughed, ‘No, no, no. I’ve been upstairs in the hotel, working...’. Now, I was really confused, ‘What sort of job pays that sort of money ?’ I asked.
With uncertain eyes, he looked me over and paused, ‘I have a businessman come up from Melbourne, once a month. He pays me big money to lick his arse...’. Aaaa, o-kay, a little too much information I thought, and quickly changed the subject. I asked him what he would do with it. At first he was non-committal, then inquired if I could get him some cocaine. Laughing, I told him if I could I wouldn’t be driving taxis !
Stopping on Oxford Street, across from the Stonewall bar, the meter showed $9.70. Pitiful really. ‘Mate, that’ll be $97 !’, I joked. By now he had most of the notes in a bunch, on his lap, and he handed me a $20, ‘That’s for you’. ‘Gee, thanks, but listen before you go into the bar, why don’t you sort out that money. Otherwise you’re going to lose it..’. He silently stared across at me, with moist eyes.
‘Put the 100's and 50's together, in a different pocket. Just keep those 20's handy, or believe me, you’ll get ripped off !’ With slow, painful, one handed co-ordination, he spent a good five minutes doing as I’d advised. During this process, he paused, and handed me a $50 note, without looking ‘That’s for you too...’, he said quietly. I baulked, as a feeling of robbery washed over me, then took it quickly before he changed his mind. I’d had a quiet Sunday night, but now knew I could knock off.
Finally he was ready, yet made no move to alight. Looking between the seats, fidgeting and embarrassed, I spotted a fallen $100 note, out of sight. Leaning down, I alerted him before picking it up and handing it to him. He took it yet made no move to pocket it, holding it in mid-air, preoccupied. I considered his dilemma - a walking robbery victim. ‘That’s for you...’, he said quietly, staring off in the distance. Once again, I hesitated, then reasoned someone will rob him anyway, so why not accept. ‘Mate’, I said, ‘you’re a star’, and took it.
We sat in silence, with an air of quiet sadness, as I let him collect his thoughts. Am I the only person who’s been kind, and honest with him lately...But he hadn’t finished with me. Holding out his inactive hand, he said, ‘Wanna see my pictures ?’ Immediately I tensed at the sight of two crumpled Polaroids, hovering over the gear shift. My intuition screamed, NO !, but he’d just tipped me a $170 ! I felt strangely indebted somehow, to indulge this pathetic request.
Have you ever, unexpectedly, chanced upon pornography ? When your vision immediately identifies the colour of flesh, yet the subconscious is yelling DANGER ! Like one of those holographs, at first unrecognisable. But your willpower is overridden by a subconscious voyeurism - a compelling desire to persist. Not wanting to look, but looking anyway.
For what seemed like minutes, though only seconds, I struggled to identify the puzzling image. Then it snapped into focus like punch in the guts. A naked torso shot from above, on hands and knees, seemed not so bad after all. Until I recognised the foreign object. Half a small Coke bottle ! Grossed out I looked away, only to realise his manicured fingernails, holding the photo were dirt-filled !
Mouth open, I looked him in the face, struggling for words...He returned my shocked gaze with his own glazed eyes, ‘It’s what I do..’ he said quietly without emotion, shrugged and opened the door. All I could do was reply, ‘Mate, be careful out there’, and watched him hobble across the road.
Needless to say, I went straight home and washed the notes...then took a shower.
$3000 is't even close to enough.
Posted by: Dirk Thruster | June 28, 2004 at 06:29 PM
I am one of the original chrome plated RWDBs, with a gaping space where my heart should be, but I somehow found that story to be incredibly sad.
Poor bastard.
Posted by: Pedro the Ignorant | June 28, 2004 at 08:44 PM
A good piece about the soft underbelly of todays society. Read while listening to Tom Waits.
Posted by: Francis Xavier Holden | June 28, 2004 at 11:00 PM
Taxicab drivers, bartenders, psychologists.
All socially-required therapists. ;-)
Posted by: Mike Jericho | June 29, 2004 at 12:10 AM
Just as well that was the only tip he offered. He didn't have a guinea pig in one of his pockets as well, perchance?
Posted by: PB | June 30, 2004 at 04:28 PM