Cablog

On eggshells

Saturday night was particularly tough due to a shortened shift to attend a family birthday. In attempting to make up for lost time I carelessly accepted certain passengers I would normally avoid like the plague.

In particular one fare involved three young Pacific Island lads pumped on testosterone, booze and pills. Just after I had dropped a fare in the south western suburbs they called me outside a nearby party and I elected to wait. Yet subsequently, on at least a half dozen occasions I could have ejected them.

If it wasn’t drinking in the cab, attempting to blow up the stereo speakers, demanding I loan them my phone, abusing other motorists or female pedestrians or bashing my seat, it was their general antagonistic and intimidating behaviour.

In the end they paid but boy, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the driver who took them home after clubbing all night and coming down off party substances with reduced money to get home. It was my fault for stopping there. 

The other fare which was almost as hard was a young, heavily tattooed fella, also wasted on booze and pills, who barged aboard whilst I was dropping off a fare at an Oxford Street nightclub.

For the next hour I did everything short of hold his dick in order to massage his swaggering ego and empathise with whatever gripe he raised, from a disqualified driver's license to refusenik cabbies to police harassment at Stereosonic.

At the destination his debit card was declined leading to a tense standoff until a trip to the 711 finally cleared the transaction. A lost twenty minutes at my expense.

If either of these fares had elected not to pay, $70 and $100 respectively, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it without risking my personal safety. In both these cases all I can say is thank God for the hug drug.

Actually, ecstasy may well have been invented by the taxi industry in order to neutralise the more aggressive passengers. For it’s impossible to resist the flooding sensations of a chemical rush whilst projecting the persona of a hard man.

Think of Underbelly’s Jason Moran, mid-rage, suddenly breaking for a few moments of meditation and visualisation. One minute my passengers would be swearing viciously thence without warning lapse into a bout of deep inhalations followed by the head drooping listlessly for a minute or two of silence.

These timely interruptions helped avoid lending my phone, justifying short cuts or explaining credit card charges. And once they had recovered there would be no recollection of the said challenge.

However to spend 30 or 60 minutes walking on eggshells, holding one’s breath and hoping for the best explains why some passengers are just not worth it, even under the influence of ecstasy.

UPDATE: "Some of these people stopped breathing. We put them on life support."

Engaged

Last night I engaged three taxis around town, as a passenger. Each journey was without locality or language issues, so nothing to report there.

This week my girlfriend and I are on holidays and managed to find a sweet movie, re a recent post.

On Monday night we got lucky with Mao's Last Dancer, an entertaining and uplifting account of Li Cunxin's true story. Highly recommended.

And thanks to readers who suggested other suitable films worth watching together, especially one dealing with blogging and romance!

Speaking of romance my son and his delightful girlfriend have just announced their engagement so last night we celebrated with a sumptuous dinner at King Street, Wharf. Many times in the cab I've waited outside the Japanese restaurant, Kobe Jones saying to myself, one night I'm going to have a slap-up meal at that joint. Now I have and can highly recommend the banquet dinner for two, with a selection of matching wines. A fat time was had by all.

And speaking of engagements, here's a sweet photo of my mother in 1943 aged 21, newly engaged and reading a letter from my Dad who was away at war. Awww.

Stereotypes

Recently I reported how the application of a little faith and tolerance can successfully counter a cabbie’s first instinct to prejudge passengers. Of course discrimination, unfortunately, is an essential precautionary tool which drivers must regularly employ.

Outside an inner city pub on Saturday evening a young aboriginal kid sprinted across the road and climbed aboard. My first instinct was extreme wariness and doubts about his intentions. 

As we headed for Maccas I wondered if he was picking up mates on the way or scoring drugs rather than simply believing he might be hungry. That’s how it is for cabbies when dealing with stereotypes as bad experiences dictate that trust takes a back seat.

Despite the fact the kid was well dressed and bright eyed and explained the trip was to pick up dinner for he and his father I still was leery of the situation. Okay, I thought, the old man’s in the pub and too pissed to organise dinner himself.

"Mind if I listen to some tunes,” he asked and began searching for some beats. “Sure,” I cautiously replied, “so long as you don’t blow up the speakers.” He looked up at me with a quizzical glance as if to say, shit bro, what do you take me for, a ratbag?

We reached Maccas and ordered at the drive thru in order to take the food home. The kid definitely wasn’t shy and easily held some small talk where often kids his age are prone to monosyllabic mumbling and hiding under a baseball cap.

He revealed that he’d slept through the day after being up all night watching cable television and playing Play Station. This had me considering whether he was on a weekend access visit with his father.

Along with his obvious confidence there was a certain innocence and I asked his age. “Fifteen but I’ll be sixteen in three weeks time.” “Cool,” I said, “then you can get your license?” “Yeah, can’t wait,” he said with instant excitement. “Will your old man give you driving lessons?” I asked. “Nah, my uncle is going to teach me.”

Nearing the destination he requested a laneway and some apprehension reared up before I realised it led to a new development of apartment blocks. “What are these joints like?” I asked, “well built?” “Aw, they’re unreal,” he crowed. “There’s a pool and a spa and everything, eh.”  

When I stopped the meter he said, “I just need to get my dad to come downstairs and pay, okay?” Shit, I thought, if the old man gave him bucks for Maccas, why not for the cab. He’ll disappear upstairs and that’s the last I’ll see of him.

Reluctantly I agreed. “Okay, then, but tell your dad the meter’s ticking.” Sensing my apprehension he left the food on the seat and hustled off to the intercom. Only then did I relax.

Within two minutes his old man arrived through a security gate, travelling in a wheelchair due to amputated legs above the knees. Immediately I felt lousy and adjusted the fare while he filled out a disability taxi voucher.

Although we exchanged parting thanks, I was too embarrassed at my preconceived doubts over the job to actually say, “Mate, your boy is a really pleasant and intelligent kid. You must be very proud.”

And later I decided the kid’s lovely positive nature was most likely the product of a good upbringing and real parental love. Unfortunately, however, I’d failed to identify this at the time and grant him the benefit of the doubt.

Oh well, another lesson learned.

Sights

Here's a couple of sights from around town on Wednesday evening.

Peak hour traffic on the Bondi Junction bypass was particulary skittish with unexpected braking, lane changing and reduced speed. It wasn't until the next block we came across the problem, a commuter enforcing his rights...to be an idiot...

Rob is a mate and a patriot who operates a popular coffee and snacks cart outside POW hospital. Besides great fare and friendly conversation he also plays seventies music videos on a small television.

Another value adding feature is Rob's thought provoking daily quote along with a quizz. Check my contribution to Wednesday's challenge.

Movies

Movies aren’t really my go having long given up on the pap which modern Hollywood deems entertainment. This is not to say the movie industry never produces decent fare, it’s just that I’m particularly hard to please and these days prefer documentaries. Call me a non-fiction sort of bloke.

Actually, why don’t they make movies like the black and white classics shown after midnight on ABC TV? Whilst I admit to often falling asleep I still love them as they’re generally uplifting, have redemptive storylines and don't mess with your senses.

Recently whilst carrying film critic Michael Idato I inquired of a decent movie to see with my girlfriend. If there’s one pursuit sure to find favour with the better half it's a trip to the movies, and a real bonus is to also enjoy the film.

Michael recommended Inglorious Bastards by Quentin Tarantino. Okay, anything by that joker is a challenge, to say the least, and not what I’d call easy entertainment. Indeed, it took me half a dozen viewings of Pulp Fiction, with English subtitles, to get my head around that crazy flick.

Which brings me to a real annoyance – why don’t filmmakers direct actors to enunciate, or otherwise provide viewers with subtitles? Thank God for Asian pirate copies.

This week I carried Margaret Pomeranz of At the Movies and I asked her to recommend a nice romantic movie that I could see with my girlfriend next week. At first Margaret struggled to suggest something romantic, citing a current dearth of that genre.

Finally she offered, “Well, there’s the latest vampire series, Twilight. It’s not that good but it is romantic.” This really got me laughing and I told her that at my age there was no way I’m going to see a romantic vampire movie. Driving off I wondered if she was just pulling my leg.

However I later learnt that my girlfriend has actually read and enjoyed some of the Twilight books (she's got daughters). Then, as an afterthought, mentioned it’s a chick flick. Pass.

So here’s a question - are there any nice romantic movies currently on show? I don’t want anything that’s too heavy, has a message, is political or violent or crass; or a morbid, moody, low light mumble-fest; or an ear-splitting audio assault...actually, bugger it, I’ve got a better idea.

We’ll go see the stage musical, Mama Mia. Apparently it’s a nice show.

(reference: Margaret reviews the first Twilight flick)

Injustice

Yesterday afternoon an elderly woman climbed aboard after visiting her husband in hospital. “Is he comfortable?” I inquired, somewhat prematurely. Well, not exactly it turned out, given the bloke is suffering from amputation, multiple organ failure and cancer. After that start I shut up and allowed her to do the talking.

She explained, “He went into hospital last year with an infected leg and they amputated it below the knee.” Sounds like smoking, I thought, and waited for confirmation. “After three months recovery he came home and the first thing he did was buy a packet of cigarettes.” Ouch. “And they warned him to stop...he hadn’t smoked for three months. I just don’t understand.”

At this she shook her head, not with despair for she was clearly beyond that, beyond hope more likely. Rather, this long suffering wife managed a wry smile tinged with sadness, obviously not being someone who complains to strangers.

To make matters worse she revealed how he’d long pleaded with her to never put him into a nursing home, notwithstanding the fact he was now wheelchair bound and confined to a home unit. “How could I?” she asked, “after all he’s been through?”

That’s true love for you, even though others would label his smoking totally unfair. Indeed, one could rightly contend: Darling, bugger that, where’s the outrage at his inconsideration?

Later in the evening I collected a young woman who had come from visiting her partner, also in hospital. “He smashed his leg up,” she said, “and the hospital botched the operation.” I interrupted, “Let me guess, he was skiing?” “No, he’s a base jumper.” Oh.

Even though they lived together in a serious relationship he was a relentless thrill seeker and had notched up some 1000 skydives and numerous base jumps. Yet, she insisted, he was extremely careful and very experienced, only to reveal how the accident resulted from a basic misjudgement. 

Whatever, mistakes happen and she agreed that the risk of fatality was an ever present concern. But whilst she mentioned a desire to start a family she refused to express outrage over her future mate’s risk taking. For me the real question was: why does he keep jeopardising their love and life together?

Even so, surely such mishaps and failures which accompany extreme sports send a message that these are not accidents but rather inevitable fate. Not a matter of if but when. As with any dodgy pursuit it can only be deemed a success when one finally quits, alive.

Like the fella who attempted to paddle to New Zealand, even after a number of failed starts. In the subsequent harrowing documentary, footage shows him setting out, distraught and blubbering, “I may never see my little boy, again.” Sadly, he didn’t.

Sure, he died doing what he loved but equally it can be argued there’s no justice for the dependants left behind.

A challenge

A few months ago I carried a taxi radio dispatcher to work on the night shift. When he revealed an interest in blogging I suggested he start a blog reporting on the lunatic callers taxi operators deal with.

Unfortunately my passenger cited privacy and confidentiality provisions in his employment contract as a deterant to such an exercise. This was disappointing as I've long been hankering after such a blog since the demise of the wonderful American dispatch blog, Blank Top Chronicles...

The world is full of crazy, stupid assholes. And every single one of them calls my company when they need a taxi.

However there may be another opportunity available as Cablog reader, Peter is not only a new blogger but a former cabbie and radio dispatcher. How about it, Peter, up for the challenge?

For those unaware of the hilarious Blank Top Chronicles here's some archival posts.

Instinct

Last week I was interviewed for Weekend Sunrise which appeared on Sunday morning. Unfortunately they requested I not advertise the fact beforehand, hence the lack of notice here, so I’ll post a copy when it arrives.

One question was what had taxi driving taught me to which I nominated tolerance and heightened intuition as standout lessons. Sooner or later all cabbies attain these essential qualities, otherwise they would not survive for long.

On three occasions last night these attributes were called upon when my first instinct was to reject the fares. By applying some trust, indulgence and humour respectively, each fare worked out okay.

Firstly an elderly woman in a Kings Cross bus shelter hailed a cab travelling in front of me. When he braked then kept going something told me to stop, even though she looked homeless. She was overdressed for the warm evening and clad in the shabby, non-descript clothing favoured by street people.

With an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth and using a walking stick she hobbled to the cab and climbed in the front seat. Immediately I was hit by the repulsing odour of stale sweat.

She paused, spaced-out like, so I waited. Finally she said, “I want to go to a restaurant, where can I go?” Even though no restaurant would accept her in that condition I suggested nearby Darlinghurst as a way of getting rid of her.

When she demurred and requested Bondi instead I wondered if she was a joy-rider. Yet she wound down the window, stuck her arm out and confidently directed me by the most direct route, indicating she knew exactly what she was doing. Thus I relaxed.

Sure enough, at Bondi she opened her purse to reveal around a $1000 in fifties! No worries.

At Central around midnight an aboriginal mother and daughter hailed me for a short fare. Even though they carried open beer bottles I let them board. Don’t ask me why but it just felt like they'd be okay. And they were.

The cops had refused them passage through the country platforms to Elizabeth Street, they called it racism but who knows. I went along with their story and suggested next time they should record such encounters on the phone. This really won them over.

They too produced a fifty dollar note, for a six dollar fare. I couldn’t change it so accepted four bucks in loose coins. Yes, it’s an old trick but sometimes something is better than nothing.

The third passenger was an American woman who, along with a friend was somewhat tired, emotional and really boisterous, bordering on belligerence. Within minutes she was screaming at me to take a certain turn. This unwarranted behaviour almost had me stopping to throw them out.

So when the old intuition suggested giving them a chance I hit the record button on the phone, just in case things went pear-shaped. And with the application of a little levity she soon settled down, making for an entertaining trip which resulted in a small tip. No worries.

Follow up

Yesterday’s Sunday Telegraph published a follow up to their campaign against drivers touting for fares. Of the 82 driver's number plates the paper published the Transport Department has only been able to reprimand four of those drivers. At the time I wrote,

I’m somewhat sceptical as to how the case against the drivers can be proven. Given the complainant, a journalist, is not a compliance officer it must be very doubtful whether the exchange with said drivers can be fairly tested without supporting electronic evidence.

The four drivers reprimanded were pinged using verifiable electronic evidence - they were not logged into the network. Otherwise one imagines the remaining drivers disputed the journalist's version of events or the evidence was simply inconclusive.

FWIW here's a video showing a couple of typical exchanges with would-be passengers in Kings Cross during peak demand.

Yet the Telegraph can take consolation from the fact that their campaign has had the desired effect of cleaning up breaches of touting regulations around changeover time. Well done.

Brutal

The city last night was like one big wire cage and everyone wanted to be a cage fighter. From Kings Cross to Oxford Street, Chinatown to Hyde Park I witnessed drunken young adults engaged in no-holds-barred street brawling. It was that brutal.

In Milson’s Point I came across a large crowd emerging from Luna Park. The aggressive vibe caused me to immediately turn off the Vacant light and select two young Indian restaurant workers. Whilst they boarded I watched police trying to quell fighting on the station platform as reinforcements arrived with wailing sirens.

"What’s going on here?” I asked. One passenger replied, “They're from the Freedom concert,” then added sardonically, “They are celebrating the freedom to fight.” Quite.

At traffic lights at Hyde Park two brawling groups of pedestrians spilled onto the roadway and from three cars back I watched as one bloke in a red shirt copped a solid kicking. He didn’t get up and lay sprawled on the road, motionless in front of the cars.

This led to a frenzied, out of control reaction from his mates throwing themselves on him with confected grief and hysterics, “He’s fuckin’ dying! Don’t die on us, bro!”

He was lying on his back gurgling blood from the mouth. I approached and told them to lay him on his side. One mate turned on me, screaming uncontrollably and shaping to hit me. “Mate,” I told him, “I can help you, I know first aid.” Instead he reeled away and kicked a waiting taxi.

My camera was still recording when I pocketed it, capturing the audio as I put the victim on his side, found a pulse and got his mouth open. The following sound excerpt demonstrates the hostility and rage faced by police and ambos on any Saturday night...

(click bar)

Brutal

Last word goes to one of the Indian passengers, a question: "Why do they drink so much if they can't control themselves?"