Late at night outside an office building an old girl fell into the front seat and commenced huffing and puffing. She had just cleaned two floors, each of 240 square metres. In a thick European accent she grumbled, “Five nights a week for only $200.”
After I suggested that at ten bucks per hour she was earning the same as cabbies she snorted. “But the younger ones get twenty five dollars and I work a lot harder than them. And now the doctor says I’ve got sclerosis in the spine and I’ll be lucky to last the year.”
When she admitted being paid in cash, and working two jobs, she deftly changed the subject. “I need the money after being robbed by my husband. I was married to a bigamist,” she wailed. “Can you believe dis!?”
Apparently the bloke had another family and took half her house in the Family Court, before hightailing it back to Europe.
Just to compound the misery she told of losing her superannuation savings in the HIH fiasco. “They said it would be safe in a cash management fund but now those bastards are out of jail and walking around, free!? I lost $300,000, where will I get that money?”
I tried to look on the bright side and mentioned the approaching age pension in four years. “Pension?” she laughed sardonically. “That mongrel Rudd put the age back to sixty-seven.” “Well, what about your family,” I asked, “can't they help you out?” “My son is twenty nine and can’t find a job. Soon we’ll both be on Newstart.”
Phew, her unhappiness had me struggling for a bit of hope so I inquired about her inner city public housing. “Is the Housing Commission looking after you?” “No!” she cried. “My (terrace) is falling down and I’m too scared to ask for repairs. As soon as you do they sell the place and dump you out in the boondocks.”
With that I knew she was bullshitting as the Government must be the best landlord around, for those with nothing. Residents receive subsidised rent, secure tenure plus, if relocated, a commitment to finding suitable homes in the same area.
And all this is paid for by the Government. Sheesh, what a racket. Thus with serious reservations about her tales of woe I had no qualms in charging the full fare.
Two fares on Saturday night perfectly illustrate the contrasting techniques of vomiting in a taxi. The first example was smart, the second dumb.
The passengers, both women insisted they had never been sick before in a cab and apologised profusely. They were mature, middle-class and well mannered. Both had been farewelled at the pick-up by solicitous friends and appeared sober, with no indication of their inebriation.
The first woman sat up front and lamented going home early after disgracing herself at a party. This was the first sign of her condition. So it was little surprise when two minutes later she requested we stop, quick!
Opening the door she leaned out and went through the standard routine of guttural retching. Between spits and coughs she muttered an apology but I told her to take as long as necessary, just relieved she had given me advance warning.
After dropping her home with no further interruptions I pulled into a service station to clean off any collateral residue, usually on the door and the sill, but was pleasantly surprised to find none. She was a class act.
The second fare climbed in the back seat and ordered the north shore. She had been to the Australia v France rugby match, of which we chatted briefly before falling silent. From this exchange I got no sense that she was drunk at all.
However, within minutes I heard the unmistakable whoosh of gushing fluid and turned to check. She was upright and motionless in the half light and I asked if she was okay.
When she failed to reply I hit the cabin light to find that she had dumped a large deposit down her front, without any attempt to use the window. She was stunned by the sudden eruption, like a child.
Using the drivers panel I dropped her window and headed for a nearby garage whilst another spurt belched into her football scarf which she held to her mouth. An Aussie Wallaby scarf, qué horror! By the time we reached the garage she had totally lost control and was laying across the seat.
The good news was she had managed to spray most of the load over her clothes and once I got her out found there was little left to clean, save for five minutes of sluicing and drying with paper towels. Best of all there no lingering odour to gross out the next passengers.
This poor girl was also totally embarrassed and offered to pay for the clean-up but I only took the fare and told her to get lost. After advising that next time she stick her head out the window, or ask to stop the cab. Common sense, really.
That’s the difference between either trashing a cab or swallowing one’s pride (excuse the pun) by throwing up outside the cab.
As I reassured the first passenger, “Mate, don’t worry about it. You'll never embarrass a taxi driver”.
Last night I carried a young couple from a budget hotel in the City to Merrylands, near Parramatta. They were Fijian Indians who live in Vancouver, Canada and were in Sydney on a short vacation to visit a cousin.
The woman remained silent as the bloke talked about Canada and Fiji, his business plus general tourism stuff. Although he avoided mention of racial tension in his homeland I couldn’t help but recall my visits to Vancouver in the eighties.
Back then there was lots of resentment from Canadians to the sudden influx of Indian immigrants and I heard many stories of tension and skirmishes between groups of young people from both clans.
These conflicts have some resemblance to the bashings of Indian students in Sydney by Lebanese punks.
Twenty five years ago I judged the trouble in Vancouver to be primarily motivated by race. However viewed from the perspective of the Sydney assaults I now believe those conflicts were more likely about territory disputes between locals and newcomers.
The fact these groups involve different cultures seems purely incidental. Canucks, Indians, Lebanese, Fijians...whoever, just 'not in my back yard'.
We arrived at the address, a block of villas, to find a large group of people gathered around a heavily smoking barbeque in the common driveway.
When we couldn’t see any Indians in the group the bloke got out to confirm the address, thence returned to inform his girlfriend that his cousin and family were also there having dinner with their neighbours.
Early this morning a woman climbed in around 2:30 am at Star City casino and ordered a satellite suburb on the outskirts of Sydney. After a lousy Sunday night I could have kissed her in gratitude.
It wasn’t that she was 34 weeks pregnant which struck me, or the fact she’d just won $5000 on the pokies, or that a heavily pregnant woman was out gambling late at night with three young children at home. Nup, it was her enlightened attitude on race.
“I only gamble when I’m pregnant,” she explained. “In my culture it’s considered that pregnancy either brings good luck or bad luck. So with each of my pregnancies I’ve gone to the Casino and usually I win.”
When she claimed this practise had the imprimatur of her husband I was reminded of Rodney Dangerfield's character in Easy Money. After his wife complains about his gambling he retorts, “You only hate it when I lose!”
The passenger’s parents were a Vietnamese mother and a French father. And her husband’s heritage was Thai and Chinese.
When I joked that her children were ‘Asian salads’, she laughed, “That’s it, but you know what? When people ask what they are I say they’re Aussies. Not because it’s easier to explain but that’s just what they are, Aussies.”
This was me last July cruising through a school speed zone, covered in detail here.
Well, after a number of false starts I finally had my day in court yesterday.
Armed with a solicitor I managed to score a Section 10 which means that despite a guilty plea, the Magistrate accepted my defence of 'honest and reasonable mistake'.
It also helped presenting a driving record of only five offences over the past 17 years, and wearing a smart suit!
Thus the offence was dismissed and no conviction recorded. Also the fine and court costs were waived.
Now the bad news. The legislation(27) stipulates that the demerit points must stand...
NSW legislation specifies that demerit points must be recorded on your traffic record for all offences where the Court finds you guilty irrespective of whether or not you've been convicted.
Doesn't matter, I'm happy with the judgement which I hope to post a transcript later.
After two hours I was out of there and headed straight for a family funeral. What a day.
Here's platform 4/5 at Hornsby station yesterday at noon. I counted approximately 100 twin-tube fluorescent light boxes which, coupled with those on platform 1 and 2/3, totals some 500 tubes blazing away. Then there were the incandescent globe lanterns...
And I thought, it's a wonderful society which can celebrate our unlimited access to power in such a generous fashion. Burn, baby, burn.
This post addresses two of the most common questions asked by my passengers: a) How on earth do you cope with drunks, and b) What do you use the video camera for?
Firstly I've learnt that the best method of dealing with nasty, argumentative drunkards is to give thanks I don’t have to live with them. Thus, in most cases it’s easy to endure their infantile behaviour knowing they will soon be out of my life, gone forever.
In short, don’t react to someone else’s nightmare – that’s their partner’s lot, not mine.
The camera is also a phone and sat/nav device, with video taping on standby position. Not only does it capture blog material but also comes in handy when fellow motorists seek to apply pressure, mostly other cabbies! Once they see a video camera operating they invariably back off.
In the following encounter the camera serves a useful third function, that of recording bad behaviour or potentially reportable situations where it’s helpful to have a tape of what transpired. Or just the visible presence of a video camera is enough to subdue misbehaving passengers.
Regarding this a middle-aged woman on Saturday night climbed in the back seat and announced, “Driver, I’m drunk!” Fair enough, so I left her alone and drove real steady in silence, save for some gentle radio playing in the background.
Approaching the destination I requested which of three exits she preferred in order to best reach her street. This was rudely dismissed with an inaudible mumble as she continued played with her phone. To be fair, she
was having a hard time locating someone and was clearly frustrated.
When I reached for the directory at the next traffic lights she snapped, “You don’t need that, smart arse, I’ve told you where I live!” But as soon as I attempted an explanation she exploded, “Just shut your fuckin’ mouth and drive!” Charming.
With that I immediately triggered the video camera, bringing the blank screen to life and sending a clear message that further abusive and/or unreasonable behaviour would be taped. And she was smart enough to realise the implications. Therefore the resulting clip is a fizzer, entertainment wise, but at the time it served to neutralise a vitriolic drunk...
Once again Cablog plugs the annual Sydney Bloomsday event occurring on Monday, 16 June at the RPA, Camperdown. For lovers of James Joyce head over to Sydney Bloomsday for further details. May 19
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Drowning
On Saturday afternoon at the racecourse a middle-aged punter opened the door. “I’m too pissed to drive home” he told me, “and just want somewhere to stay overnight.” I told him to get in. "Any luck on the punt?” I asked. After taking a deep breath he said, “I just... May 18
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Bashed
On half a dozen occasions last night I passed the scene of yesterday morning’s vicious bashing of an off-duty police woman on her way to work. Until 3.30 this morning the area remained cordoned off as a crime scene, attended by numerous police and forensic staff, directly opposite where I... May 14
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