Last night I started work determined to avoid the crap, have a good night and give the benefit of the doubt as much as possible. However, cab driving is like riding out the oceans waves, without steerage. Whatever happens, happens. Though it did start with much promise...
On sundown, a full yellow moon blasts up behind the City skyline, the Centerpoint Tower silhouetted like an exclamation challenge, ‘How beautiful is Sydney !?’. Fireworks boom in celebration for ten minutes, somewhere unseen on the harbour, .
You want to impress your loved one ? Then take them up the Tower for dinner in the revolving restaurant. Plan for a full-moon, around sundown. Anytime between autumn and spring when the offshore breezes have washed across Sydney, leaving crisp, glistening air and perfect light.
This is the ideal light in which observe the sun dropping behind the clear Blue Mountains, 100 kilometres to the west. At the same time the restaurant will swing around to reveal the full moon, freshly risen in the east. It beams a path across numerous Harbour bays, punctuated by dark headlands of orange twinkling glass, reflecting the setting sun.
As I take these notes, a young woman jumps in and urgently orders Central Railway, country trains. ‘I’m very late !’, she insists. ‘Why ?’, I ask. ‘Excuse me...’, ‘Why are you late ?’, I ask. She ignores this and tells me she has to get to Wollongong. ‘No worries, I’ll take you there - $200, very cheap !’, I offer. ‘No way’, she returns, ‘I’m only a student !’. ‘Claim it off the Government, or HECS or something’, I joke. ‘HECS is not for taxis’, she says missing my joke.
To reassure her, I hit the fast lane and make an effort. Then proceed to interview her. She’s tiny, with jet black hair and a dark complexion. A Nepalese, of Hindu descent, she is multi-lingual and was educated in an exclusive British hill-top outpost in north-east India, at the foot of the Himalayas.
Currently, she’s enrolled at Wollongong University studying for her Masters in Social something and Developmental something or other. Having the handicap of beauty, she mentions a husband at the earliest opportunity. I don’t believe her. I want to marry her.
At Broadway, five people hail me but I drive on, waving them away. Don’t they know the law. No seatbelt, no go. Insurance rules the world.
Crowds arrive at the Seymour Centre Theatre on Sydney University. On the bill is The Sydney International Piano Competition - Hear 36 of the Worlds Finest Young Pianists. Coming in August is Debbie Does Dallas - The Musical. Only in Newtown...
Reminds me of twenty years earlier, trudging snow covered streets on Broadway, New York, broke, sick and depressed. Stopping outside a cheap rundown movie house, featuring Debbie Does Dallas plus Inside Jennifer Wells. I ended up hitting Half-Tix for a matinee of a Eugene O’Neill play starring Glenda Jackson. Five and a half hours later, I staggered out even more depressed to hit an Irish bar on Eight Avenue. To end up drowning my sorrows with a young Irish bloke. He was also broke and homesick, but good company in a strange city. Misery loves company.
For the third time in an hour, I’m pissing like a fish, indicating a cold night ahead. Do fish piss, I wonder. Another dodgy laneway, this time in Chippendale. I’ve gotta stop this dangerous habit or one day they will find me like this, door open, lights on, crawling across the road.
Two footy chicks, from Redfern Oval Premier League game. They’re off to South Sydney Seniors at Kingsford. I turn on the radio for the Eastern Roosters vs. Queensland Cowboys game at Sydney Football Stadium. The Cowboys are besting the Roosters, until a star, W. makes a break, before being picked up by the cover defence. ‘Gees’, remarks the commentator, ‘that W. is dangerous when he sees an opening !’. The footy chicks snigger.
On offloading them at the club, two young hard boys, hop in an take me further into working class country. Soon one is dropped off, so I engage the remaining fella, a decent young bloke. ‘Whataya on the tools mate ?’, I inquire. ‘Yeah, yeah, forklifts...’, he responds. ‘Gettin’ any work ?’, I ask. ‘Nah, I been lookin’, but it’s real hard like’, he says dejectedly. ‘Why don’t you try Botany Fork and Crane’, I suggest, ‘an old mate worked there as a fitter. Reckons it’s the best workplace around. Family business, they really look after you’. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he replies, ‘a few mates work there and say the same, but it’s real hard to get in..’ His voice trails off. At the end he tries to tip me but I won’t have it.
I pull into Prince of Wales Hospital at Randwick and pick up my first looney of the night. A full moon night. A tough, middle aged welfare women, missing front teeth, short chopped, bleached blonde hair, footy jacket. Sits in the front and says, ‘mate’, a lot. ‘Aw.. fuckin’ hospitals. They’re on Code Red again. Fulla bloody Greek football fans. The nurse said I needed oxygen but the doctor said to put a gown on and wait. Fuck that. May as well die at home !’. ‘Yeah’, I lamely agree, ‘then you’ll get a free ride back - save paying the cab fare both ways !’.
At a tough Housing Commission estate in Eastlakes, she argues over the change. She can’t tell the difference between a $5 and a $10 note. I drive off thinking I shouldn’t have tipped her the 50 cents. It’s only 7.30 pm.
Next in Matraville, a diffident, middle aged skippy slouches in and mumbles, ‘Brighton..’. Luckily I decipher his broad Aussie accent over the footy. He’s real shitty, tired after 12 hours work at a Bottle Shop. But I quickly warm him up, so by the time we get there, he won’t get out for the want of a chat !
Brighton Le Sands on Botany Bay is jumping. Greek heaven. Blue and white streamers, Greek flags wrapped around pedestrians, covering cars, sidewalks packed. They’re in the European Cup Final early Monday morning. This locality will be the focal point of the worlds’ fourth largest Greek population outside of Greece. Melbourne is the second largest.
After a couple of locals around Rockdale, I head back toward the City for the after 10 pm crowd and night rate, 'plus 20%' on the meter. First though I stop at the Brothers Yeeros, a favourite dinner joint in this district. Then I realise this is where the big siege is in progress, only 100 metres away. A young fella has allegedly murdered his alleged girlfriend a few days earlier, and has been holed up at home for the last 30 hours or so.
I ask the bloke serving me what’s going on. He says nothing except to make a cutting motion across his neck. Apparently, the kid killed himself, a couple of hours earlier. Out of interest, I collect my yeeros and wander off to the crowded barricades, down the street next to the Banksia Hotel.
The seige is over yet floodlights are still in place. I note a scene of numerous uniformed coppers and detectives conferring, taking notes. Others in full white, medical protection suits mill about. The crowd, mainly young, second generation ethnic kids in blowsy, designer track suits are only too willing to chat. All seem to know the alleged suicide victim. Whilst there is not much sympathy for the kid, the stories are uniform. Allegedly, he was a local at the nearby Banksia Hotel.
Something piques my interest as I see more here than most, and feel troubled. A 33 hour siege has ended tragically. News reports yesterday mentioned how the kids' father had arrived on the scene, but one report infers the media put him off. Later, radio news states, ‘This was an outcome police were hoping to avoid.’
I chat to a bouncer outside the pub, idly watching the scene whilst finishing my dinner. A barmaid comes outside, looks up the highway, spots me and requests a cab for a customer. On the way to Hurstville, this thirty something, skippy passenger insists he knows all about the two deceased. He alleges he was a casual acquaintance of the dead women and through her, alleges he knew about her dead alleged boyfriend.
He proceeds to tell me an amazingly sad story. Allegedly, a story of love, passion, abuse and betrayal. I’d like to relate this alleged tale but of course I can’t. The case is now before the Coroners Court. It’s at times like this, blogging at 5 am, I need an in-house lawyer. If true, there is so much more to this story and it’s so depressingly sad. So unnecessary.
On midnight, I pick up a young woman on George Street in the City, going home to the Projects in Waterloo. The news mentions how at Wimbledon, the young Russian tennis player has just taken the first set off Serena Williams. My passenger squeals in delight. She’s a Russian from Vladivostok and tells me the tennis star is from Siberia. Additionally her parents know the tennis players’ parents. I switch the radio to BBC for the live coverage and we follow in eager anticipation. The rest is history.
At the end of my shift, my heart sinks when I check a docket off two fellas who travelled from Haymarket to Condell Park. Pushy, hyped up bastards who I had to put in their place, early in the trip. Now the docket, for $60, appears to be dodgy. We’ll see. I know where they are, given one of them is a modelling television star... But if dodgy, it will be a lot of fucking around.
Contrary to first expectations, I finish the shift somewhat ambivalent. Try as I might, it didn’t pan out exactly as I hoped. Oh well, there’s always tonight...
Don't you hate gettin' dudded ?
Posted by: Jeff | July 05, 2004 at 04:30 PM
Yeah, and the worse thing is waiting a week to find out. Coupled with the $60, is $3.30 return toll, plus the same for gas, plus a lost hour during peak hour, another $30. Lets just call it $100. We'll see, the boss thinks I may be lucky.
Posted by: adrian | July 06, 2004 at 05:23 AM