One night becomes another in this game, often distinguishable only by what was on the radio. Therefore I can safely say the following two fares are from last Wednesday night, as Leyton Hewitt was playing David Nalbandian at the time.
Early in this match just after 9pm, the first fare occurred down on Eddy Avenue at Central Station. A woman, no a girl, attempted to step in front of the cab as I approached in fast moving traffic. Somehow I stopped for her to safely climb in the back. On scolding her for the risky behaviour she replied, ‘Yeah I’m sorry but I’m really late for work - Kings Cross please’...
She was dressed in non-descript track pants, a T shirt and carried a medium sized bag. A hooker I figured and stepped on it. Within one block I detected groaning sounds coming from the rear, above the radio tennis and road noise. At the Hyde Park lights she requested I take the short cut via Liverpool Street to Darlinghurst Road. I warned her that due to a double demerit points period, I wouldn’t be risking my license by speeding through a 40 kilometre per hour zone.
‘Yeah, but I’m sick’, she pleaded, ‘and I’m late for work’. ‘I’ll do my best’, I told her. As we were headed directly for Saint Vincents Hospital I thought to suggest she should be going there. Knowing better I asked, ‘Will you be okay, once you’re at work ?’. ‘Yeah - I’m on heroin’, she answered by way of explanation, ‘I know you hate people like me, and I’m really sorry but..’. ‘I don’t hate you mate’, I said, ‘only if you don’t pay the fare. What time do you finish ?’. ‘Seven in the morning’, she replied.
By now we were in slow moving traffic on Darlinghurst Road. This just compounded her misery as she doubled-up over folded arms and leant her head on the front seat. She was obviously in real pain. ‘Why does it hurt so much...’, she moaned.
We finally pulled in opposite a well known strip club and she requested I wait while she went inside for the $10 fare, ‘I’m really sorry I don’t have the money. I’ll leave my bag here, okay ? I’m so sorry for fucking you around’. ‘Yeah no worries’, I told her, ‘I’ll wait’. By now I was feeling genuine concern for her condition. Plus I was impressed by her apologetic candour.
I watched as she hobbled across the roadway clutching her stomach, to disappear into the club. Five minutes later I watched her emerge upright, with a new disposition. Indeed she even paused briefly to acknowledge a greeting from a pedestrian, with a beaming smile. She was a changed girl.
Later around 11.30pm Leyton was still playing, battling a familiar choke to come back into the match. At the same time I accepted a radio job from Dover Heights to Kensington. Arriving at the location I notified the party of two via an intercom, before a fella came down first to chat amiably whilst waiting for his female friend. They were both around 30, she a little older than he.
As they hopped in the back it immediately became clear she was flying. The guy was a visitor to Sydney and somewhat laidback whilst she was in party mode, intent on showing him a good time. I was delivering them to a house-sit address of hers, before they hit the town.
First up she requested to hear the tennis. I turned it up but it wasn’t loud enough for her. ‘More..!’, she rudely demanded, twice. So I gave it to them in the rear speakers. This sort of request often indicates the passengers want to chat privately, yet ironically, having the booming sound in the rear only forced her to shout.
She then proceeded to ignore the broadcast by manically talking at him. ‘But first babe’, she explained to him, ‘we’ll have some more champagne and a spa’. He sounded unsure of this detour, ‘But what about the club - the others..’, ‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted, ‘but first we’ll do the champagne, have a spa and see what happens...’. Leaning over, she sought to spark him up with some lovey-dovey giggles and whispers. Only she sounded pathetic and I felt embarrassed for the guy.
They sat well apart indicating she still needed to do some serious seduction work on him. Hence she constantly mentioned the champagne, which I read as cocaine, and which she seemed to be placing much faith in. He at best was a reluctant starter with this raucous, blowsey blonde whom he didn’t seem to know very well at all.
At their destination, the meter read $16.65 and I verbally applied the phone booking fee of $1.45, rounding it down to $18. ‘Hey, hey’, protested the fella, ‘the meter only shows $16.65 !’. After I repeated the booking fee he suddenly turned nasty, ‘Bullshit, you’re just ripping us !’, then inexplicably, handed me a $50 note and said, ‘just make it $20’. Huh, I thought, he’s bitching over the fare yet tipping me..!?
I turned to face this fella who only 15 minutes earlier had enthusiastically engaged me in friendly conversation. ‘Listen mate, see that yellow sticker there - it lists all the charges including phone bookings’. ‘Fuck you’, he spat out, ‘I’m taking your number - you’ll be hearing more about this’. I was dumbfounded at this infantile display of complete irrationality.
On departing I figured the ‘champagne’ they’d done before departure had worn off and he was badly in need of a top-up. And obviously he was exhibiting the neurotic effects from an extended binge. He’ll learn, if he’s lucky.
What an odd couple of rides... I guess you really do see it all.
Mind you, I've declared war on irrational nutcases who change mid-stream from perfectly friendly to psychotic over some small matter like $1.45. I figure, if they're so happy to snap at others, why should I not reply in kind?
Posted by: Splat Guy | January 30, 2005 at 03:08 AM
Hey there, Adrian,
Who can figure people out, really? If he doesn't learn his lesson, I'm sure he'll learn one way or the other. Perhaps with the aide of his crazy female friend.
At least they didn't do a runner on you.
Posted by: bourbonbird | January 30, 2005 at 09:25 AM