Bad

Here’s a tale of two recent fares from consecutive nights, both headed to Kings Cross.

On Sunday evening outside a Paddington hotel a middle-aged bloke stood smoking whilst waiting for a cab. As I stopped for a red light he looked at me and held my gaze without signalling. I looked either way and found the street devoid of any vehicles, then looked back to the smoker but he now ignored me.

On the green I slowly wheeled around the corner expecting a hail and he lifted a finger and lazily motioned for me to do a U turn. After stopping at his feet he slowly took a last drag of the cigarette, dumped it and opened the front door. As he climbed in I hit the meter.

He noticed the meter and said, “Oh, we’ve started already, have we?” I ignored this and requested his destination, Kings Cross. Whilst waiting for the red light I jokingly asked, “So where you going, Porky’s...Showgirls ?” Silence. Oh.

Upon turning the corner he said, “Just here will do.” “What..?” “You can pull over here.” I stopped and he opened the door. Scrambling to apologize I said, “Mate, if I offended you...” but he was already out and gently shutting the door. No fuss, no explanation, he wanted another cab. I felt bad about that...for about three and a half seconds.

The following night around eight o’clock in the City a teenage girl hailed me on Liverpool Street. Carrying a tote bag, coffee container and an open food bag she self consciously averted her eyes as I stopped. Unsurprisingly she chose the rear seat.

After she nominated Kings Cross I demanded, “What are you eating?” She hesitated, “Sorry ?” “That’s not pizza, is it ?” “Um, no. It’s French pastry.” “Good,” I replied, “cause pizza stinks.” After which I ignored her and returned to the radio quiz. (hey, Art!)

Approaching Kings Cross I glanced in the rear view mirror and realised she had not continued eating, but was absently watching the passing night life on William Street. It seemed she was too intimidated to eat in the cab when all I was concerned about was pizza odour. I felt bad about that and hoped she wasn't hanging out for a sugar hit.

After she left a modest tip and alighted, I paused to watch as she walked past the cab. Her jeans hung off undeveloped, or undernourished hips, revealing a midriff of blotchy, sun-deprived skin. And she was too young to be working at the Adult parlour into which she disappeared.