Cablog

Fearless

One night recently after work I did an interview on ABC local radio. After the usual questions the host threw the spot open to listeners to call in with their own tales from the frontline.

One caller, John, a cabbie from Newcastle was notable for a rambling overview of troublesome passengers. Mercifully the host didn’t require a response from me as I simply didn’t have one.

This bloke holds some pretty controversial opinions which he expresses in a fearless, artless style via his website. He also posts monologues of his world view on YouTube.

Enter Bridgit Gread, an acerbic Melbourne blogger who takes aim at hapless John:

John’s endearing combination of outspokeness (sic), incoherence and ignorance is not so surprising once you learn that he’s a cab driver.

Nice.

Bridgit’s own fearless brand of invective is not so surprising once you learn that she’s anonymous. Bravo!

UPDATE: Fearless Bridgit bows out: "It’s been a rollercoaster few years. I’ve laughed and gasped and cringed; I’ve ridiculed all manner of fools and freaks; and above all I’ve had fun."

Persevering

At 2am this morning I pulled up at a red light and noticed a couple across the intersection having an intense conversation with much gesticulating and agitated body language. When he moved to embrace her, she forcefully shoved him away. Turning, she spotted me and waved.

They both climbed in the back, sitting as far apart as possible. After he ordered a nearby street she said, “I paid for the wedding, I paid for the rings, I paid for your kids and now I’m paying for the trial. How fair is that?” When he failed to respond she repeated the question – the wedding, the rings, the kids, the trial.

Clearly she was taking the opportunity to embarrass him in front of another man. Yet I couldn’t give a toss and it seemed he couldn’t, either, by his continuing silence. Or maybe her claims were simply undeniable and not worth debating.

So she tried a different tack and asked, “Well, do you want to go somewhere for a drink or what?” He mumbled, “What’s the point if you’re going to be like that. We’ll just go to my place and have a glass of wine.” She agreed and they exited the cab together.

I guess she was only persevering with the bludger for the sake of the kids.

Decisions

At work I constantly employ a couple of mantras to get me safely through each shift.

Firstly, never ever, hit anyone or anything as the ramifications go far beyond the moment of impact, terrible as that may be. And secondly, avoid any situation which jeopardises the imperative to sleep in my own bed each night.

Now, as of next month, I’ll be adhering to a new mantra: no speeding; no illegal U-turns; no stopping at outlawed ranks; no rolling stops; no double parking; etc, etc, all due to losing my license points.

A letter from the RTA has arrived confirming 13 penalty points incurred from these four traffic offences. Sure, they were driver errors but I blame, ummm...global warming!

As a result I either accept a three month suspension or take 12 months good behaviour. As I’m inclined to take the latter, for who can afford three months lost wages, I can only incur one further point in that year. More than one point attracts a six month automatic suspension.

Well, at least six months on the dole would allow time to pursue other projects, like investigating whether the introduction of 40kph school speed zones has actually resulted in fewer children being hit. Or the compulsory wearing of bicycle helmets has reduced the amount of head injuries suffered in accidents. So many options.

Or maybe I’ll cop it sweet and take three months off in the hope that, by then, global warming induced swine flu will be under control and my workplace that much safer. What to do, what to do...

In the meantime, there’s a chance my balding pate, another global worming casualty, may be exposed via radio web cam this Saturday at 4:45pm when I join 2UE deejays, Murray and Clive for a short chat. 

Charity

Last night I carried a woman home from a charity fundraiser for children caught in illegal trafficking. Her generosity in spending a winter’s Sunday night helping others got me thinking about the disposed and needy and I recalled an earlier passenger who once worked in the media, quite close to Kerry Packer.

According to my passenger, Packer’s secretary received a call one Friday afternoon from a woman who operated a women’s refuge in Sydney. This woman had mortgaged her home to establish the refuge but after years of battling for government funding and staving off bankruptcy, the bank had finally given notice of foreclosure on her mortgage.

With one hour left and faced with losing her home, and the refuge collapsing, she rang Packer’s head office, despite being totally unknown to him. After tearfully explaining her plight to his secretary the Big Fella came on the line, listened to her story, asked a few questions and promised to do what he could.

The next morning, a Saturday, she was visited at home by a Packer accountant armed with legal documents. Packer had contacted her bank and paid off the $600,000 mortgage the previous evening. 

Additionally, back wages were provided for her staff, unpaid for three months. Last but not least he dropped five million bucks into the refuge to ensure it’s immediate future and requested he be kept informed regarding ongoing funding.

The only condition of the donation was for confidentially whilst ever Packer was alive. Now he’s gone I reckon this tremendous philanthropic story is worth telling. Onya Kezza.

Sexting

One Saturday evening a young woman climbed into the front seat at a railway station...

• Her- Oh my God, I’ve just had the weirdest date.
• Me- Oh?
• Her- A girlfriend arranged for me to go out with this guy she studies with. But after dinner he says he has to meet some friends and he’ll drop me at the station. Huh? And even worst-when he drops me off he says, “Unless you can offer me something else..?” I just played dumb but it was obvious what he meant.
• Me- Maybe he wanted some gum, or a cigarette. Had he been drinking?
• Her- No, he was driving. I mean, who does he think I am? I’m brought up in a good family from the country. I’m not like these city girls, dressed for sex or talking trash. I could have easily refused to meet him cause he’s deaf or I couldn’t be bothered making an effort for someone I didn't really know.
• Me- He’s deaf?
• Her- Yeah. (her phone sounds an incoming call alert)
• Her- It's from him. (reading text aloud) 'Hey, are you okay? Sorry about leaving you at the station.'
• Her- (composing reply, read aloud) No_I’m_very_disappointed.
• Me- If he's deaf how did you communicate?
• Her- A little bit with the hands but mainly with texting.
• Me- You had dinner together by texting each other for conversation?
• Her- Yeah, but I didn’t mind, cause I thought he was a decent guy who would respect me. Not just to dump me at the station because his mates were waiting for him. Sheesh.
• (the phone sounds another alert)
• Her- Oh. My. God! I don’t believe this guy...I can hardly breathe...
• Me- What is it?
• Her- (reading his text aloud) 'It’s just that I really wanted to have sex tonight. So I arranged to meet a fuck-buddy and she’s been waiting for half an hour. That’s why I couldn’t drive you home.'
• Me- Charming!
• Her- (composing her reply aloud) You_are_totally_pathetic. Never_contact_me_again. What a loser.
• Me- Reckon.

Weathered

At an eastern suburbs beach this morning I was hailed by a dishevelled young woman walking on the road. Instead of withdrawing to the kerb and waiting she advanced further into my lane, showing no fear or regard for safety, indicating other cabs had refused to stop.

Climbing in the back seat she requested, “I need to go to a servo then come back here.” As ‘here’ was adjacent to the surf club and outbuildings behind the beach, I wondered if she was roughing it in the dead of winter.

Next she wanted to smoke. When I refused she insisted, seemingly unaware it was a public vehicle. I explained this, ready to cancel the fare but she reluctantly accepted it.

“I need to buy a toothbrush,” she said. “At two o’clock in the morning?” I asked incredulously. “You know when you get the gunk in your mouth, it’s really foul.” No surprise given she carried an open bottle of Coke and cigarettes. By now I had suspicions about her condition - it may have been drugs but I sensed trouble.

At the service station I watched as she ordered at the night counter and decided to take an image, just in case something went wrong back at the beach. Then she sat down on the bare concrete step and smoked a cigarette, hunched and shivering whilst the meter ticked.

Back in the cab she requested, “Do you know where I can sleep tonight; a hotel or motel?” I asked her, “How much money do you have?” After she counted out $170 I suggested the cheapest option was a local backpacker hostel.

To be honest, though, I just wanted to be rid of her and fortunately the hostel was open and displaying a vacancy sign. Happy with that she gathered her boots, climbed out and hitched up her jeans.

Watching her cross the road, barefoot in the freezing temperature, I wondered why she looked familiar. It was only after arriving home that it came to me.

Last Christmas whilst visiting a friend in an acute mental health unit, I had observed this same woman across the exercise yard, laughing, boisterous and clearly manic. At the time I was struck by how young she was to be in such a place, yet now she looks much older, weary and weathered.

Poor thing, hope she escapes the cold soon and finds some proper care.

UPDATE:; Last night I visited my friend in the mental health unit, who is having another 'time-out'. By sheer coincidence the first patient I saw was Ms Weathered, draped in a white hospital blanket and roaming the corridor. Unlike our encounter earlier in the day she was looking refreshed, relaxed and ten years younger. A good result.

Woeful

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.