Cablog

Caring

Yesterday afternoon a young fella in Darlinghurst hailed me for a roundabout fare. “First I need to drop some money off to my friend," he requested, "then we’ll go to Central Station.” It was only when we arrived and he walked to the unit entrance that I noticed his pronounced limp and a gammy hand indicating some form of handicap.

Within a few minutes a woman emerged aged around thirty years, slightly chubby and buxom. He towered over her whilst they chatted before she decided to take the cab after he alighted.

After he climbed back into the front seat she gently chided him for not joining her in the back. Instead she tossled his hair and couldn’t keep her hands off him, plainly excited to be in his company. In response he reached back and playfully squeezed her leg.

In a softly spoken voice he told her, “I’m really sorry to muck you around. I’ve got to get my act together.” “Stephen, that’s quite alright,” she replied. “Next time would have been fine.”

It was obvious they had feelings for each other, though she seemed like a big sister to him. I asked him, “Is she your sister?” He laughed and blushed whilst she exclaimed, “He’s my beautiful boyfriend!” and wrapped her arms around him. At the station she sought a goodbye kiss, tenderly caressing his face.

As we pulled away I asked, “How come you’re not going with your boyfriend?” “Well, actually,” she explained in a more sober tone, “I’m a prostitute and he’s a client. He’s going back home to his parents. I only see him every month or so.”

When I remarked that they seemed to be in love she replied, “It’s true, I love him heaps. He’s my favourite client but he has a considerable handicap. He has a mental age of thirteen plus minor cerebral palsy.”

She explained they’d been seeing each other for four years and that he was a capable and sensitive lover. “We call it practising,” she laughed, “for when he finds a girl to settle down with. He’s just a wonderfully kind human being and I adore him.”

His parents knew of and understood their relationship. Indeed, they had recently combined to help him through a gambling problem. As he was in his mid twenties with a full time job it was expected that one day he would make the transition from family dependence to living with a partner. Thus their relationship, she revealed, was considered a therapeutic step in the process.

It’s easy to rely on the stereotypical image of a prostitute –wham, bam, thank you, mam-just in it for the drugs and money. However this woman was seemingly drug free and had a genuine interest in her client’s welfare. So much so I imagined she would really miss him once he found a partner. Though given the evident amount of mutual care it would not surprise if they retained an on-going friendship.

Careless

The new boss of the Australian Hotels Association, Sally Fielke needs to pay more attention to her words than her looks. Here she appears in yesterday's Australian.

This outing she conceded a lack of decent argument by resorting to name calling. In responding to the issue of alcohol related violence she labelled community leaders, wowsers...

"We're sick of being unjustly targeted by a small minority group of wowsers," she said..."The bottom line here is that one of the safest places to go out and have a drink is in a hotel."

What about outside a hotel ? Obviously Fielke doesn't live near a popular hotel, work in emergency services or operate public transport (of course she called for more taxis to shoulder hoteliers' responsibilities).

Her members happily profit from selling a debilitating product, then dump drunken patrons on the street to fend for themselves.

A duty of care ? Pfft.

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.

Sweet

After dropping a fare in Alexandria on the weekend I was lazily heading back to the City when way up ahead silhouettes on the roadway hailed me. Normally I’d have my Vacant light off at midnight but this once tough neighbourhood had become gentrified over recent years and was now almost safe enough to relax.

As the hailees came into focus the vehicle ahead slowed and stopped next to them in the middle of the road. It was a police patrol car from neighbouring Redfern quizzing my potential fares, three young guys. Understandable really as they wore the standard street kids' uniform, despite the rain and cold – shorts, hoodies and runners without socks.

They climbed aboard, a full blood aboriginal up front, a half caste and a white guy in the back. “Waterloo, bro !” I groaned. Within a hundred metres I was suddenly ordered, “Turn here, boss, turn here !” I braked heavily. “You want me to go up a laneway,” I asked incredulously. “Yeah, yeah, shortcut bro, shortcut.”

We zoomed up the laneway for a few blocks and landed in front of a Housing Commisson terrace. “Wait here, bro, we gotta get something.” At this point I’d given up worrying about being paid and concentrated on whether I’d be bashed or robbed. Whatever, I figured, if anything happens I’d be able to tell police it was the kids they grilled earlier. If I survived, that is.

Whilst waiting for his mate a back seat passenger made small talk, or to my mind, eliciting information about how much money I was carrying. “Had a good night, boss?” “Nah,” I lied, “nothin’ special.” “You finishin’ soon?” I lied again, “Nah, I’ve only just started a couple of hours ago,” and changed the subject. “Where you guys been?” “Eighteenth birthday party, eh.” “Where yous going next?” He hesitated. “Umm...just next to Redfern police station.” Great, I thought, next stop The Block.

And so we headed for The Block, Sydney’s infamous aboriginal neighbourhood where, after the Redfern riots, taxis required police escorts into the place. Something was going to happen, I just knew it and put my faith in the fact the police vehicle had identified the kids before they’d boarded the cab. Yet whether they’d pursue a simple fare evasion was another question.

Upon arrival one kid commanded I turn into the Block but he was overruled by the dominant mate. Instead we stopped in the laneway next to the railway station. The meter showed $14.50 and as I switched on the cabin light the doors were flung open and they quickly hopped out.

However one kid remained, the dominant fella, seemingly to pay the fare. “Mate,” I told him, “just make it ten bucks.” “Aww, sweeeet, bro!” he exclaimed and handed over a crumpled ten dollar note. “You have a good night, eh,” he said.

Call me cynical, but I’d forgotten about these lovable rascals.

Doomed

A golden winter's afternoon under the rail bridge at Meadowbank on the Parramatta River. But wait...what's that smoke across the river at Rhodes? It's the former site of Union Carbide, manufacturer of Agent Orange. So polluted is the site that the owner (NSW Govt) has been cooking the topsoil in the belief it will render the stuff safe...

No where else in the world has such a toxic site been remediated for residential use. Little wonder fishing in the adjoining Homebush Bay is banned for a zillion years.

Saved

Monday night in the City was one of those nights when you look at the thousands of empty cabs and wonder, how do these guys make money? Yep, cabbies also consider the same question.

My only hope was to join an office rank and endure the long waits for that rare, meaty job. A fate chance, I thought, until the 10pm radio news gave me a break: “...the main award is still to be announced at the APRA music awards in Sydney tonight.” Kaching !

I hurriedly contacted a mate in the music industry and learned the awards were being held at the swish Hilton Hotel. For the next hour and a half I had a party while hundreds of empty cabs cruised past the joint, completely unaware of the 500 plus guests slowly departing. This is how my shift was rescued...

Rabbits

For the first time in ages I was robbed this morning, by a couple of runners around 18 years old. Right away I knew their intentions – call it instinct - but carried on anyway, too tired to challenge them for the bucks up-front.

Sensing this the front-seat kid at West Ryde station gently patted my arm and said, “Mate, we’re really sorry to do this to you, but...” and fled. I was touched...for $23, to be exact.

Upon arriving on the opposite side of the station, a Premier day driver hailed me. He was heading off to work but first insisted we drive around looking for the kids. This was useless, of course, for what could we do?

After delivering him to the cab I reported the robbery to the network operator and confirmed that downloading the images from the security camera was pointless due to the time and cost involved.

In hindsight I regretted not using my own phone/cam to record the kids and post their images here, though this is probably illegal.

For what it’s worth, the kids revealed...

• one lived in West Ryde and the other, Dundas
• they had attended a NSWU Roundhouse concert by Parkway Drive
• one or both were studying to become a personal fitness trainer at TAFE.

Although it was my own fault for stopping, I felt sorry for them out in the cold and rain at 1:45am, dressed in shorts, T shirts and hoodies. Quite possibly, my own son at that age was once in the same predicament so it wasn’t hard to relate to their plight.

What always amuses me about runners, after the initial anger subsides, is how frightened and cowardly they appear whilst bolting like startled rabbits.

Their running shoes slip and scratch on the roadway in a desperate bid to gain traction, as if I’m likely to produce a hand gun and start blasting after them.

They even 'thump' like rabbits in the quiet of night, so frantically do they scamper away. It's a humiliating look.

Brown dog

For Rainer the cabbie, O yea of little faith...

View larger map for legend

(Nokia screenshots enlarge)

Winter(2)

Smokers in motor vehicles will be aware of the precise window configuration required for smoke to vent directly to the outside. A centimetre either way and the smoke can't escape or swirls in gusts throughout the vehicle.

The same principle of aerodynamics applies in taxis when discreetly extracting passenger odour, except for one critical difference – to avoid funnelling the offending odour past one’s own nose. This is the beauty of a driver's central window controller.

Passenger odours are not a problem in warmer weather as windows are invariably open. It’s only during winter that such odours can become trapped inside a motor vehicle.

Indeed, due to the cold a delicate balance is required between shutting out the cold, whilst retaining one window slightly open for venting, and avoiding reliance on the heater.

Heaters in taxis are killers and should be avoided. They can send a driver to sleep and/or have an explosive effect on passengers who’ve been drinking.

Anyhow, with last nights bitter winds and chilly temperatures I got to test each passenger’s personal hygiene, whether it was gut-rot from food and alcohol sloshing around together; acute halitosis from gum disease; foot rot from dirty socks; stale odours from dirty clothing; workout sweat, sex, etc.

Yet one passenger in particular stood out, a well dressed and sober, middle-aged woman from the North Shore. Despite my precaution of adjusting the passenger window, the first thing she did upon boarding was nip the window closed. Trapped !

Yet there was no way I was opening my window and have the vile odour wafting past my nose - she had some nasty sulphuric compounds on the boil. I recognised this rancidness from past encounters with mental patients, maybe the result of their psychotropic drugs.

So I spent the journey in survival mode, hunched against the door and snatching short intakes of air through the opposite corner of my mouth to avoid gagging.

Of course sitting up front she wanted to chat but I steadfastly refused due to the suffocating odour emitted every time she opened her mouth. It was absolutely revolting and would’ve killed a brown dog at ten paces...phwoar!

It’s going to be a long winter.

Hell(2)

View larger map for legend

Last Wednesday, the 4^th June, was my fare from hell. On the same evening some two hours previously, Daily Telegraph reporter Clare Masters encountered her Taxi from Hell.

At almost the exact time, 6.30pm, that she was boarding her devil taxi, I was also on Macquarie Street at the same intersection. I’d picked up a fare from the Sir Stamford Hotel bound for Darlinghurst Road.

“Swing left here,” advised my passenger, “and take the tunnel for William Street to the Coke sign.” I quickly stamped on that suggestion and his follow-up option to go via Woolloomooloo. Due to traffic problems this was one of those rare occasions when a cabbie can confidently over-rule the passenger’s preferred route.

Reaching for the network radio I read him a message issued at 5:51 pm advising of a southbound accident on the Southern Cross Drive at Wentworth Avenue. This was impacting heavily on peak hour traffic entering the Eastern Distributor tunnel.

It was plain to see and he readily agreed to my intended back route through Stanley Street, East Sydney. In short, City North and William Street were totally buggered.

If only Clare Master’s cabbie had explained the problem maybe he would not have made the news, for the wrong reasons. It’s clear to me this is what irked him in the wet and dark conditions after just escaping from the congested area.

Last night I spoke with Masters and she reassured me that what happened was exactly how she reported the event. “There was nothing missing,“ she said, “that’s what happened.”

I noted how ironic it was that the end result - catching a train – was ultimately the best option for getting to Kings Cross that night.

Last Friday I was invited to join her and radio host Steve Price on his 2UE Mornings program to discuss the story. However being asleep at that time of day I’ve had to make do with a copy of the interview, sent by his producer.

After listening to the tape then talking with Masters I’m satisfied the Daily Telegraph are not simply indulging in some gratuitous cabbie bashing. Why, it's not even Christmas!

Seriously, though, it’s embarrassing to hear of a driver threatening to strike a passenger over heavy traffic. It's piss-weak, actually, and time he found a new industry.

(NOTE: Taxi-route plot above an approximation only, based on Ms Master's best recollections).