On the importance of consummate professionalism.

"I'm an actress."
"Oh, cool. I considered it, but the starving actor lifestyle just didn't seem right for me. Do you work at the theatre?"
"Actually, I was in a movie recently."

Sweden doesn't have a lot of celebrities. And out of that meager pool, many choose to pursue their careers elsewhere. The rest of them are mostly found in Stockholm. But that doesn't mean that the dazzling diamond lights of fame and fortune never shine upon my humble cab. It just means it doesn't happen very often, and when it does it pretty much never involves anyone any of you non-swedes would care about (with one or two exceptions ).

I've also driven this guy:

There's no story to this. He's a nice guy, a regular customer

and just eccentric enough to make driving fun.

Avid listeners of Swedish public radio station P3 already know tonight's story. For the rest of you, sit back and listen to how I got a taste the nectar of fame and lost it in a heartbeat.

This was a couple of years ago, and I was down by Iron Square waiting for my fare. It was Saturday, with all the madness that entails. Out of the crowd comes a couple. They identify themselves properly and climb into the cab.

"We're waiting for another. She'll be here any minute."
"Sure," I said, turned on the meter and settled down, enjoying actually getting paid for my time. My customers were chatting with each other, mostly about how fun it is to be away from Stockholm and how awesome it is to be on stage. After a while, they grow restless, and the guy steps out to find their missing friend.

With the guy gone, an awkward silence fell upon the cab.
"So," I said. "I heard your friend mention being on stage. Are you guys musicians?"
"Haha, no," she said. "We're radio jockeys."
"Oh yeah? What station?"
"Morgonpasset, at P3."

(I know this means absolutely zilch to you international readers. But its a morning show that's broadcast across the nation.)

I wasn't star-struck as much as star-gently-poked. I knew these people. The lady in the back seat was Martina, the guy who had gone was Kodjo, and the friend he was looking for was Hanna. I have friends who are avid listeners and I relished the bragging-opportunity this fare would afford me.

Finally Kodjo arrived with Hanna and off we went. From the moment Hanna entered the cab and sat down next to me, it became very clear that this was no longer my cab. Hanna is a gigantic presence, and I do not mean this physically. The woman has an energy and a charisma not unlike that of an avalanche; love it or hate it, you better get out of its way when its rolling toward you.

Luckily, her attention was turned to her colleagues. They chatted, while she shouted. And none of them seemed to have any interest in me, and that suited me fine. Finally we arrived at their hotel and I made a decision. After all, how often do you get to have nationally famous radio-jocks in the car?

I turned off the meter.  "I'd just like to say that Morgonpasset is probably the only show on P3 worth a damn."

Luckily, they took it in the best way possible. Kodjo and Martina in the back were ever so grateful.
"Aww, that's so sweet of you."
"Thanks, man. Nice to hear."

But Hanna, who had been a social thunderstorm throughout the trip said nothing. She merely smiled and opened her arms.

Now, this was early in my career. I hadn't yet defined my role as a cabbie, and I still lived with the (completely unfounded) fear that every mistake might lead to me getting fired. Thus, I found myself wondering just how professional I could be considered, if I actually hugged a customer.

On the other hand, I reasoned, how often do I get to hug a nationally famous radio jock?

So I leaned in to embrace her, when suddenly reality turned itself inside out and shot out of the window. For as much arms were about to close around her, her hands closed around my ears. Before I had time to react, Hanna made her move and engulfed my mouth with hers, giving me the slobbiest, most violent kiss of my life. I'm talking lips, tongue, teeth, the works. Somewhere in the distance, small rational voice was wondering about the professionalism of trading spit with a nationally famous radio jock.

Finally, it was over. And a stone cold silence settled over the cab. Only Hanna seemed unconcerned.

"Oh my god," Martina whispered. "Did you just make out with the cab-driver?"

Clarity returned. I broke the silence.

"I'll be damned if I don't have the most interesting job in town," I said. "That'll be 129 sek please."
_________________________________________________

Hanna, if you're reading this, know that you'll always have a place in this cabbie's bitter lump of a heart.

Midnight rumble.

"I don't think I'd ever dare drive a cab. It doesn't seem very safe."
"Honestly, I'm more worried about what's going on outside the car than inside."

Cabbing is not all vomit and misanthropy. Sometimes it is violence and pants-shitting fear. Like what happened a few weeks ago. It had been a good one and I had been raking in the fares. My colleague Bert was set to give me a ride home as soon as I returned the cab to HQ, and most importantly, I wasn't utterly exhausted but felt  comfortably calm, singing along to the radio and chewing miles.

On my way to HQ, I passed through a rough neighbourhood right on the border of an industrial area. In the corner of my eye, at the mouth of a dark alley, I saw two figures (for the sake of simplicity, let's call them Stack and Billy). Stack had his hand on Billy's shoulder, who was leaning  up against the wall.  I was just about to pass on by, and leave the creatures of the night to their games when the truth dawned:

Billy wasn't leaning against the wall; He was pushed against it. And Stack wasn't holding his shoulder; he was throttling him.

Stack had one hand locked around Billy's throat, leaving one hand free to deliver savage strikes across his face. After a couple of strikes, Stack grabbed Billy with both hands and slammed him hard against the bricks.

I'm not going to lie; I actually passed by. Call it cowardice, apathy or survival instinct, but my first reaction was this: Not My Problem.

I drove on for maybe fifteen, perhaps twenty meters, when I changed my mind. I hit the emergency number on speed dial, made a U-turn and parked my car squarely in the middle of the road, turning on the high beam, flooding the alley with light. Stack didn't seem to care, but went right on working Billy over.

"112 What's your emergency?"
"Hi. I'm Crabby. I drive a cab. I'm standing here at Generator Street, and I'm witnessing an assault. Send cops and an ambulance asap."
"All right, let's take this in order."

The operator then connected me to the police, who proceeded to ask me specific questions about the where and when and how, all the while Stack was going to town on Billy's face and head. Billy himself was sagging against the wall, not really responding to the pain, which was perhaps a mercy. While my first impulse was to curse the police out, and tell them to send cars first and ask questions later, a more rational part of me realized the value in this. So I described the situation.

"Well... The perp is slamming the victim against the wall. And the victim doesn't seem to be responding. He might be unconscious. And-" I saw Stack pull his hand back and thrust it hard against Billy's side. Billy sank to the ground. "Oh shit, I think he just stabbed him. Guys, you better hurry the fuck up-"

"Don't worry. Cars are being dispatched. Stay on the line. What's happening?"
"The perp is ... crouching by the victim. The victim isn't responding. The perp is..." I blinked. "He's lifting the victim up in a fireman's carry. And he's moving this way. He's moving straight toward my cab. How long until-"

Stack reached the car, with Billy draped across his shoulders. And I have never in my life been so happy for my headset. Stack nodded toward me, and I rolled down the window a few inches, all the while ready to kick the car into Drive and get the hell out.

"You have any water?" Stack asked.
"Sure..." I gave him my water bottle, almost empty.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "That's not enough."
"That's all I have."
"Fuck it, it'll have to do," he reached out and I pushed the bottle out  to him. He then turned away from the cab and my conversation with the police continued:

"All right, you heard what happened... he's walking away from the cab and he.. he's placing the victim on the ground. He's... he's splashing water on the victim's face..." Pause. "I don't think this is an assault."

"All right, just stay with us."

Stack got to his feet and hurried back to the cab. And his face was twisted in anguish. "Call an ambulance! Don't just sit there!"

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm way ahead of you. The cops are coming too."
"Not the cops, just an ambulance."
"A bit too late for that."
Stack sighed, shrugged and hurried back to Billy. Warily, I got out of the cab. Already I could hear the sirens in the distance. While still keeping my distance, I asked what had happened.

"I don't know," said Stack. "We were drinking and suddenly he blacked out. I've been trying to wake him."

And then they appeared, in a hurricane of screaming sirens and glaring blue light. One after another they appeared, cutting off the street in both directions, some coming in so hot they skidded to a halt. Not one car, not two, but four, with two cops in each vehicle. I hurried to the first one to leave his car; a huge, clean-shaven viking of a man.

"Hi, I'm the one who called. I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think this is an assault."
"All right," said Officer Olaf Smoothskin, his eyes turned sharply toward Stack and Billy. "What's going on?"
´
I explained the situation and Olaf nodded. He turned to two female cops and told them to see to the situation. Then he took me aside to get my testimony, while the remaining cops stood to a side, setting up some kind of perimeter. As I spoke to Olaf, I watched one of his colleagues speak to Stack, while the other checked Billy for a pulse. Finding none, she started doing CPR.

It was around this time that the ambulance arrived. Having given my testimony, there was no reason for me to stay. I stuck around another moment, until I realized the awkwardness of the situation.

Thinking back, I seem to remember Olaf telling me that Billy was breathing again, and that I'd done all I could do. I hope that's true.

That wasn't the first time I called the cops, nor would it be the last. In fact, the relationship between the cabby and the cop is worth an entry of its own. So I'll save those stories for later.

...but I won't do that.

"Like... I really like you and this is totally not a one time thing... uh... This is kinda awkward to say when the cabbie is listening."
"Don't worry. I can't hear a thing."

There's something to be said for one-night stands.

If there is any doubt about mankind's animal origins, look no further than the weekend nightlife of the western world. Without really thinking about it, we (Straight men, that is. I can't speak for anyone else in this case) enact all kinds of rituals in order to get laid. We dance, we bring gifts, we try to impress with our great survival potential. We start fights and we get beaten. And we will not stop until the female is gone from view.

"Hey baby, what's your name?"

"Fuck off."

"Is that with one F or two?"

I don't know how may times I've had guys keeping women from closing the door of the cab, begging for the names, their number or for a seat in the car. And the ladies tend to simply grin and bear it until the person walks off, or until I start driving. I don't blame them. Spend most of your life being told not to raise your voice, and it gets hard to do just that in these situations. These days, I usually tell them to leave my customer alone in variously clever/uncouth ways. Hero complex aside, I don't really have the patience to listen to Johnny-Come-Early's desperation. 

I've driven guys who dread the evening because all their friends are "on the hunt", and so they don't really hang out as much as arrive at the hunting ground together and then split up looking for their prey.

"I just want to go out, have a beer, and shoot the breeze. All they wanna do is go out and get laid."

Now. I am not going to spend the rest of the entry skewering the male of the species. I know we're not all like that. But let's not kid ourselves. In our culture, men are expected to actively impress the ladies, who will reward their effort with the mashing of genitals. There are individual variations to this, of course, but from where I am sitting behind the wheel, it seems that a significant portion of the population (male and female) who actively take part in that structure. 

But that is not what I want to talk about tonight. Tonight, let's flip it around. Let's talk about female desperation. Or specifically, the story of a woman who knew what she wanted, and wouldn't let something as silly as consent get in her way.
______________________________________________

This was about one or two years ago. The shift was ending and dawn was rapidly approaching. I was out in Mountain Lake, when my com buzzed and dispatch offered me a fare from Angeheath. And what luck! This was a big one, a fare that would take me to a city over an hour's drive outside of town, to the neighboring town of Trollhat. This is the kind of fare we all hope for and weep for joy when we get. That is a solid 1000 sek fare (fixed rate); the average fare is between 90 and 150 sek.

Once again, the com burped and I heard the nasal voice Larry, one of the veterans of the company. He asked me to switch to channel two for a private conversation, and there told me to get them to pay me the rate in advance, as Angeheath was a rough place and anyone travelling from there at 4 am to a neighboring city should be viewed with suspicion. I had been in the business long enough not to dismiss his warning.

So I arrived at the place, and I sat down and waited. Along came a goth-girl with a gangsta-guy in tow. She knocked on my window.

"Hi! I'm Michaela. Are you my cab?"
I was. They climbed into the back seat.
"Before we get going," I said. "I'd like you to pay the rate in advance."
"Not a problem!" she said and did so promptly. And then we started rolling.
"Don't forget to make a stop at Yardstone," said the guy.
"Sure..."
"Why are we stopping there?" she asked with cold suspicion.
"Cause... It's late, you know..."
"I thought you said you wanted me?"
"I do, I do. It's just... I gotta get up tomorrow and..."

Poor bastard. I felt for him. Imagine having to do the walk of shame from one town to another. His lady love would have none of it, however. For the full hour that the trip took, she spent every minute breaking him down. I'll spare you the full transcript, but here's a handful of quotes, all said by Michaela:

(Huffy and indignant) "I'm offended. I take this as a personal insult. This is you saying I'm not attractive to you."
(Mean and challenging) "Is it your dick? Can't get it up? Is that the problem?"
(Sultry and promising) "I really like you. I really do, and I want you. Don't you want me? I can make every fantasy come true."
(Close to tears) "I thought you were not like the others; that I meant something special to you, but you're just like everyone else."

Etc, etc. All the while this guy (who did not in any way look like a softie, mind you) sat quietly, lamely protesting here, assuring her there and just seeming plain miserable. Finally we arrived in Trollhat, and she left the car. As he was about to climb out, I spoke up:

"Hey buddy.... For half the price of the fare, I'll take you straight back home."

He looked at me, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a twinkle of relief. Then he looked at her, who stood outside the cab with an expectant look on her face. He shook his head: "No, man... It's too late for me."

Provided society doesn't collapse utterly, I don't think I'll ever see a man walk toward his own execution. But if I ever do, I imagine that it would look a lot like the way this guy walked toward the waiting Michaela.

I sat there for a while, watching them disappear in the morning fog; she clinging excitedly to his arm, he with a hanging head and a broken spirit.

"You know what our number one threat is? Heart disease.”

"The thing people have to understand is that we don't hate men."
"Of course you don't! If feminists hated men, I'd be praying that you didn't bring a knife with you into my cab."

I try to avoid being explicitly political in my entries. While I have not hidden where my values lie, I think it would distract from the point of this record, if the reader was constantly aware that I am a communist. Or an objectivist. Or an anarchist. Or a libertarian. Or conservative. Or whatever.

However, I can say that I am a feminist. Which is to say this:

I believe in equal rights for everyone, regardless of gender, creed, etc.
I believe that there are structures that inform and underlie many of the things we take for granted in society.
I believe that many of these structures are harmful, regardless of your gender.
I believe that the harm these structures do to women is greater than the harm done to men.
I believe that (much like Abolition after the outlawing of slavery) feminism will cease to be a relevant movement once equality is achieved.

All of this can be debated, expanded, extrapolated to an insane amount of detail. I will not do that. Suffice it to say, these are my core beliefs when it comes to the sex war. And once I realized this, however reluctantly, there was no way I could not call myself a feminist.

And after all, how could I not? I come into contact with sexism on a daily basis. Name your brand of sexism, I have encountered it in my car. Though most of it is the everyday boys-are-playas-girls-are-whores kind of bullshit, every once in a while something truly awful rears its head.

What I am talking about specifically is that of abusive relationships.

"But Crabby!" I hear some of you cry. "Men get abused in relationships too!"

Yes, yes we do. We also are more prone to getting beaten up, robbed and murdered (sometimes in that order). We are also taught to repress feelings, and to constantly measure our dicks with friends and foes alike. But none of this informs the way we as a gender take on the world. None of this polices our behaviour or keeps us from seizing opportunity. Men, as a rule, are not afraid of walking home alone. This cannot be said for most women.

So, where was I? Abusive relationships. All right.

I've seen my share of battered women. On my very first week, I helped a particularly awesome one to flee her home (though that's a story for a later date). I've driven biker chicks with bloody clothes and busted lips channeling their pain into some truly astounding and ghoulish gallows humour. And I've been begged to pretend to be the New Boyfriend when the Abusive Boyfriend makes a phonecall (which I declined).

Tonight I want to tell you about Amanda.

I like to think this was a few months ago, but it could just as easily have been a year ago. I was out in the western end of town where I received a fare from the harbour in Kingstone. I arrived, and there she was.

She was tall, blonde, and hid her middle age well beneath her tan. She wore what I first assumed was a sweatsuit, which was stained with what I assumed was wine. Around her eyes, she was heavily, but sloppily painted. As she approached the cab, I noticed a wobble in her step, and when she opened her mouth words slurred out, I understood exactly what I was dealing with: a fading beauty who escaped her oncoming age through excessive, pathetic partying.

I can be a judgmental fuck at times.

She stumbled into the cab and sat down next to me.

"You're gonna take me to Linnaeus Street".
"Sure thing."

And thus began our trip. We kept up a disjointed conversation, which mostly was her rambling damn near incoherently and me nodding and muttering in acknowledgment.. But as the trip went on, a darker, more sinister picture emerged:

Amanda had spent the past two days at sea with a man. This man was your typical landlubber, the kind of asshole who gets a boat and automatically assumes he's fucking Admiral Nelson. The kind of guy who thinks that the sea is nothing more than a great big swimming pool. Amanda knew differently. She had (much like myself) grown up around boats and the ocean. She knew that whether the sea is calm or rough, you do well to give it the respect and fear it deserves. Or at the very least, not be a dumbass around it.

Admiral Nelson, however, did not share her sentiment. In fact, he thought it jolly good fun to get hammered and then take on the huge ocean waves head on, laughing at her for insisting he wear a life jacket. All of these things are fun in their own right, but none should ever be combined. When she finally put her foot down, he flipped his lid. They argued, and the argument ended when he lifted the anchor and smashed it accross her face. He then had taken her back ashore and dumped her there, wearing nothing but a blood stained pajamas and a rapidly blackening eye.

That's when she called for a cab.

I wasn't sure what to make of this. Or rather, I wasn't sure of what to do, aside from assure her again and again that what he did was wrong and that he was an idiot. As we approached the area of the city called Linnaeus Town, she started staring at the people around her, all of them dressed to the nines and on their way to various pubs, clubs and bars.

"I wanna have fun," she said. "Look at those lucky bastards, they can go out and have fun. Me, I gotta go home. They won't let me party."
"Who?," I said.
"I live in a sheltered housing. They don't let me go out..."
"Really?" I said, finding it harder and harder to keep up with her rambling.
"Drop me off here! I wanna go out and have fun!"

Fearing that she might wander off (without paying), I insisted I take her to Linnaeus street, so she could get changed before she went out. She reluctantly agreed, except
"I don't live on Linnaeus street."
At this point I was beginning to lose my patience. "And where do you live?"
"In a sheltered housing. In Maytown."

Fortunately Maytown is right next to Linnaeus. So I nodded and changed directions. "So how come it says Linnaeus street on my screen?"
"Because that's where he lives."
"Who?"
"My man."

She didn't say much after that. But as we approached the shelter in Maytown, she fished out her phone and called a number. She started talking, angry and anxious. I gathered that she was talking to her abuser, the one who lived on Linnaeus. I assume that he was (though I am in no way sure) Admiral Nelson from before. She angrily told him that he was an asshole for mistreating her, and that she could consider coming over to him if he straightened up and paid for the cab. By now, we had stopped at the shelter and I was patiently waiting for her to hang up.

She did. And she looked at me with dead eyes and spoke in a dead voice: "Take me back to Linnaeus."

At this point, I knew too much. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes."

And so we began the trip back in stone cold silence, and I was stunned. I wanted to do something, but what? Bravely take her away? And go where? Call the police? And tell them what? Take her back to the shelter against her will? With her abuser within walking distance?

She sighed.  "He is not nice to me. He is not nice at all."
"You sure you want to go to him?" I asked. "We don't have to."
She smiled sadly and shook her head. "Let's just go."
So I began driving. And she began whimpering, saying "I'll be good, I'll be good this time" and "Stupid girl. So stupid. No more than you deserve."

Again and again I made the offer to turn back, that she didn't have to go to him, and again and again she declined. Finally, we arrived and my heart was bleeding.

"How much?" she asked, rifling through her wallet.
"No," I said. "I can't take your money."
She looked at me, almost fearful. "Please-"
"No," i said. "I've already driven you to someone I know is going to hurt you. I can't accept payment for that."
"But its your job," she said. "Compensation..."
"Let me take you back to Maytown."

She looked at me, and for a moment I thought she'd agree. But then she shook her head.
"I can't," she mumbled. "Not now."
I sighed.
"Help me get my bag from the trunk," she said.

At this point, its kind of a blur. I suppose I did help her open the trunk. What I do remember clearly is that she wanted to give me a hug goodbye because I was "so nice" to her. So I obliged.

Something broke, and she started crying. She wrapped her arms tightly around me and clung to me,  as violent sobs tore through her body and shook us both. I don't remember how long we stood like that. All I remember are hot tears streaming down my neck and how clumsy my hands felt as I stroked her hair. I like to think I whispered that she didn't have to go through with this. That I'd take her back to Maytown.

Finally, she let me go and she squeezed my hand.
"You are a nice one." she said. Then she went over to the door and rang the bell. It was opened by a fat man wearing a wifebeater and a sour scowl. He let her in and gave me a quick, dismissive look.

Numb, I clocked out for a moment and took the cab up a nearby hill, where I sat with a view over town.

Once I had regained my senses, I called the police and reported the situation, that one of my customers was probably being abused. They thanked me for my report. And I asked them if what I had told them was anything to go by, if there was anything they could do.

"No. Not without further evidence."
_______________________________________________

There is no punchline to this entry. No bombastic declaration of war against injustice or some defining turning point to set you on the course to better living. At best, I suppose, this illustrates the disconnect between values and reality. We can all agree that it is never enough to merely state your values; you have to live up to them and, if possible, embody them. But how exactly do you do that?

To this day, I really don't know what I could have done for her. Sure, I'm a "nice one", but how the hell does that help the Amandas of the world? Would the pain and humiliation she suffered at the hands of that fucker be in any way less awful, just because the guy who took her there was nice to her?  And yet, short of forcing her, I really don't know what else I could do. She already had sheltered housing. If I had refused to take her, would she have stayed in Maytown or was she too far gone to break the pattern?

A friend of mine says that I had encountered her too far down the line. That there was nothing I could be expected or able to do at that point.  Maybe she's right.

But there it is. Amanda's story. She is not unique. She and all others like her, are merely symptoms of a sickness in humanity. And while we're beginning to realize just how sick we are, we are still far from a cure.

Ad nauseam.

"Don't worry, I never throw up when I'm drunk."
"Nobody ever does until they do."

One of the occupational hazards I have to take into consideration when I ply my trade is the human body and its fluids. While most people have the decency to keep their precious bodily fluids on the inside of their bodies, every once in a while things get messy.

Jared Diamond suggests that the human habit of consuming things that are obviously toxic has an evolutionary benefit. He compares it to the peacock, whose spectacular tail is its way of telling the world that its so badass that it can have such an idiotic and ungainly thing and still survive.

 "You do not fuck with me... unless you intend to fuck me, in which case, you're welcome."

By this logic, the attitude and headaches I suffer in my line of work are all part of an elaborate mating ritual. And when somebody's insides finally have had enough and spill out all over my workplace, I should tremble in awe at the culmination of such an intricate, strange dance which began millions of years ago.

I would, but I don't. I'm as transcendental as the next guy, but the moment the cosmic ballet fucks up something specific in my life, it can go hang. Because if you vomit in a cab, the cab has to be sanitized, effectively taking it out of comission for the night. Thus, by vomiting in a cab you can and will cost the cabby his entire shift. Throwing up in a cab is not causing a minor inconvenience; it will really fuck up someone's life.

Now, I am one of the lucky ones. Nobody has ever thrown up in my cab. They've thrown up down the side of it, I've stopped so they can throw up outsíde, and I've offered water and mints to more embarrassed party people than I can count. But so far, I've never had the displeasure of someone actually throwing up inside-

Ok, that's a lie. There was this one time. But thinking about it makes me feel like throwing up.

However, it can't all be glamour and righteous fury. Let's get this over with.

A few months ago, I was given a fare from Galileo Street to Catchfly Street; a good, long trip worth at least 270. So I arrived and waited. Then I saw them;
a man and a woman, looking ragged and worn, carrying shopping bags full of stuff. The wheels of paranoia started turning in my head and I remembered what my colleague Bert had told me a while back; about a couple of junkies, male and female, carrying lots of shit in paper bags, whom he had driven to Galileo street. They had then run off without paying.

I called him.
"Bert, you remember those junkies you told me about? The ones on Galileo street who didn't pay their fare?"
"Yeah, what of them?"
I looked at the screen, at the name that had been given. "What were their names?"
"... why?"
By now, they were nearby and coming closer.
"I might be driving them right now."
"What, are they in the car?"
"No, they-" the woman knocked on the window. "Fuck it, I'll call you back."

I hung up and turned to them and made a decision. If they ran off without paying, I'd write off the trip and not be pissed off about it. More out of preserving my own sanity, than out of any charitable feelings. I let them into the cab and off we went.

They didn't seem to have much to say to me, and I didn't have much to say to them. But the man seemed to have a problem with his lungs; he was coughing. A lot.
Deliberately.
And there was a distinct, splashing sound following every third cough or so.
A cold, indignant fury came over me, and very softly I said:
"What in the name of hell do you think you're doing? Are you throwing up in my cab?"

"It's cool, man," said the woman. "He's got a bag."

A bag.
A fucking bag.

I didn't say anything. I just very quietly, and very methodically pulled over at a gas station. Then I said:

"This is where you get off."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Get out and throw up in someone else's cab."

"But I have a bag!"

"It would've been so easy for you to give me a heads up when the trip started. That would be the polite thing to do. Instead you sit there, throw up, and try to justify yourself by saying that you came prepared-"

"But I'm sick!, you asshole!"

"Damn straight you are -"

"Will you shut up?" said the woman. "He's got cancer."

"Did you just tell-" I froze. "Wait, what?"

"Yes! The chemo makes me throw up."

There was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. And in that moment, things started to add up. These people did not smell. Junkies and boozehounds tend to have a scent about them; a constant miasma hovering about marking their presence. What's more, these people looked tired, worn, and furious, but they did not have that look of ruination that's typical for someone stuck in substance abuse. And finally, and most damingly, despite sloshing contents of the bag and the foul dribble on the man's chin, there was not even a hint of vomit in the air. Completely odourless. Like the vomit of someone who hasn't eaten. Like the vomit of a chemo-patient.

All my cold rage and righteous indignation drained away, leaving a stagnant pool of shame. I turned off the meter.

"... I am so very sorry."

They were surprisingly understanding about the whole episode. I took the bag and threw it away. Then I went into the gas-station and got a new bag, which I lined with yet another one, which I presented to him. He accepted it and my apology graciously.

At the end of the trip, when they paid me, I tried telling them that the ride was for free, that it was the least I could do for their trouble. The man wouldn't have it. So I accepted his money, and watched him and his lady friend disappear into the night.

Despite the bag, there was a puddle of clear, odourless slime on the floor in the back. I cleaned this up without so much as a groan of displeasure.

Papers of leave.

This is just to inform you guys that it is now official: I have been accepted in the teaching programme at local University. Starting this autumn, I will be studying full-time.

Do not fret, however. Until I'm done, I will still need money. And in order to get that money, I will have to keep on cabbin'. 

But yeah. The light at the end of the tunnel is now officially visible.

Give me your answer, do!

"Some people are idiots. This is an inescapable fact of life. Accept this, and move on."

The past few days have been miserable. Not because of work (in fact, I had the weekend off), but because of the weather. Its been hot, humid and horrible. When the sun isn't baking the world, the sky erupts in lightning storms so fierce, it is clear that God is sick of humanity, but unsure of what to do about it.

Conversely, work has been good. Summer is always good. In a country that spends nine months out of the year in gloom and darkness, every moment of sunshine is precious. And so, during summer, people crawl out of their holes. It also helps that people tend to take their vacations during this time. And we all know what happens to Johnny Swede when he has a day off, don't we?

That's right, he gets drunk. And in order to get drunk, he needs a bar. And in order to get to the bar, he needs transportation. And that's where I come in. I bring them, the bartender fills them, and I take them away. And with the drunks returned to their homes, the circle of life is complete. Summer is lucrative and really the only time of year driving a cab is worth anything.


"All right, Crabby", I hear you groan. "We get it. You make money off drunken party people. What else is new?"

There will be no insights tonight. No musings. Just a story.

The shift had been good. I usually don't work on tuesdays, but this week (and the next few to come) I've resolved to milk July for all its worth. I started late, yet somehow managed to keep an excellent pace, pulling in an average of 500 sek / hour. Aside from an incident with a female passenger who was so drunk she couldnt do anything but lay in the back seat crying hysterically (thank GOD for her boyfriend who carried her out, saving my spine in the process), things had been cool, fun even.

And the end of the shift was approaching rapidly. I was down on Frigga Street to pick up some fellow who was going to Gold Heath. I was a few minutes early, so I settled into my seat and resolved to make the minutes pass in any way I could.

Suddenly, in the gloomy distance, I saw a bike; one of those big, three wheeled contraptions used by newspaper delivery men. Nothing too strange. After all, drunks and cabbies aside, the paperboys (and girls... paper people?) are a common sight in the small hours. But something was not right about the people riding the bike. First and foremost, it was people riding the bike, not a person.

A quick note about the paper people (Yes, it's a term now): These are not kids biking through the neighbourhood, throwing papers at people's doors. They are men and women who will drag their sorry carcasses through snow, wind, slush and brimstone, climb a million stairs to make sure that each household, each apartment gets their magazines. They are also paid peanuts.

Thus, the people you find doing that job is the same you'll find at any bottom rung: the fuckups, the inexperienced, the racially discriminated, all the unseen losers that keep the wheels of society greased and turning.

So. Back to the story.

Riding the bike was a girl and a boy. A regular Daisy, looking sweet upon a seat on a bicycle built for one, while her boyfriend rode on the carrier behind her. This was my first bell.
 None were wearing any kind of uniform. Second bell.
The guy was your typical wealthy, healthy brat prince of the world; coasting along on his parent's money (and his girlfriend's pedalling), while wearing Ralph Lauren and sunglasses. At night. Because he was a fucking douche.

A story quickly took form in my head: these two brats had gotten drunk, found a bike and decided to have fun. I rolled down the window:

"Hey, is that bike yours?"
"Yeah!" Sundouche replied, as they whizzed by.
I threw the cab in reverse, followed them.
"You guys paper people?"
"Sure!"

At this point I had to stop, or I'd hit a tree. So I stopped and mulled this over. I could dash after them, which would lead to righteous conflict, but I'd probably lose my fare. Or I could do my job and hope Karma would take care of Daisy and Douche for me.

Well, suddenly the choice was made for me. Running, wearing a uniform, was a young african fellow. As he passed me by, I shouted out: "Hey!"

He stopped, and was about to run again.
"HEY!"
"Look mister," he said. "I can't stop. My-"
"Is that your bike those people took?"
"Yes!"
"Then get in the fucking car!"

He hopped in, and I made a sharp U-turn. We caught up with Douche and Daisy at Odin Plaza. I pulled up and the paper man dashed out of the car. He caught up with them and stopped them, physically. I left the cab, not really thinking. I followed Paper Man who was trying to wrest the bike from Douche. When Daisy saw me, she made like a tree. Douche remained.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Whaddaya mean, bro?"
"This man is trying to do his job. Its shitty, backbreaking work and he doesn't need some worthless twerp making his job harder by taking his bike."
"How was I supposed to know it was his bike?"
"Are you really this stupid?"
"Are you?"

Charming fellow, no?

"I don't know what the big deal is," he continued. "Lots of bikes get stolen all the time..."
"Lot's of people are assaulted all the time," I snarled. "But does that give me the right to smash your teeth in?"
"Sure," he said with a grin. It wasn't even a challenge, he was just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. I was reminded of the golden rule of arguing with drunks: "Whoever wins, you lose".

He turned to Paper Man: "Look, we didn't mean to steal your bike-"
I exploded: "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! Not one more word from you, you disrespectful piece of shit. Do you think he's so stupid, that he will accept your half-assed, and retarded excuses? If you have any fucking decency at all, you leave right now."

And he did. He looked back once, and I spat in his direction. The fact that he didn't give me the finger either shows that he had some kind of remorse, or that I had managed to scare him somewhat. I dunno.

Paper Man was very happy.  We shook hands, wished each other well and went our separate ways.

 Looking at it, I can say this: this wasn't about me wanting to be a hero, or wanting to stand up for the little man. There are elements of both, but really, at bottom, it is because I can't stand bullies. I cannot stand those who would find joy at the expense of others. Those who need to spit on others in order to assert their own worth. And I am well aware of the irony that I find these people to be without worth or value, except perhaps as fertilizer.

So I could count all kinds of noble reasons for doing what I did, and none of them would be wrong. I do believe in doing the right thing. I do believe in acting when possible. But there's also another motivation, which is just as strong and that is this: the satisfaction of taking another douchebag down a few pegs.

Not exactly noble, but it gets the job done.

And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding than a dream...

"Working on midsummers eve must suck."
"Nah, it's fine. People are happy and I'm making money. In fact, it might be a little too fine."
"How so?"
"Well, usually when things look this good, something bad is waiting to happen."

Last night was Midsummer's Eve. It is a significant date in Swedish culture, as it is the brightest day of the year, which in a country with nine months of winter darkness means a lot. It is also a time for dignified and solemn celebration.

Me, I've not celebrated it in years. Midsummer is one of our Big Holidays, and thus I drive using the Big Holiday Tariff, which means Big Money (or as big as this job allows, which isn't huge). It's a fine time to work: lots of people leave the city and travel to the coastal resorts to celebrate, and the indies follow them, leaving us decent cabbies with little to no competition. The fares tend to be long, going from the city to the countryside, and back again.

Of course, Midsummer, like all holidays in this country, is a time of excessive drinking. And so, it is also a time of excessive idiocy. I steeled myself, started my engine, and rolled off into the night.

To my great surprise, things were very calm. A steady stream of fares and cash flowed into my cab. At the start of the evening, I drove two hungarian tourist girls to a party out in Black Valley. By chance, I ended up picking them up again a few hours later, though this time they weren't talkative, what with having their  tongues solidly lodged in each other's throats. I also drove an old lady who had "decided to go all out, and party until half past midnight".  Things were looking good. People were happy and pleasant, and I was having fun too.

But what comes up must inevitably come down- hard.

And so it was that I picked up Wendy (a VIP customer) and her friend Pete.

How do I describe these two? They were like two characters straight out of a Tom Waits song. Middle aged, haggard, and wobbly, the remains of their prime clinging to them in booze-soaked tatters. Pete was dressed in stained jeans, with a doughy belly spilling out accross the top of them. A sad grey ponytail clung to the edge of his rapidly balding head. Wendy was razor thin, with a deeply lined face, and a rasp that spoke of endless cigarettes and whiskey.

"Take us to Erikshome first, and then Landwood," said Wendy and showed me her VIP-card. I nodded (already counting the excessive cash that would soon be mine) and off we went.

They didn't have a lot to say to me, but plenty to say to each other. Pete was expressing his feelings for Wendy, that she had "left a mark in [his] heart". Wendy kept saying that she wasn't interested, and he started demanding that she tell him why.

I could give you a transcript of the conversation, but really, I'm sure you've all heard it. And if you haven't heard it, you've probably said it and should be ashamed of yourselves.

But what he came back to again and again was: "I can't help what I feel! [so how dare you reject me since you made me feel this way?]. Alll the while, I was chewing my mustache in an ever-growing fury.

Is there anything more pathetic than a guy who is so fucking entitled that he is comfortable demanding that a woman takes responsibility for his feelings? Is there anything more loathsome? Probably, but not at that moment. Finally, I snapped.

"Pete," I said. "Is that your name? Pete?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing. "What, am I wanted dead or alive?" (I don't even...)

"Pete, if you want me to drive you even a meter further, then for the love of God show some fucking respect and accept that she does not want you. This is my workplace, and if I'm to do my job, I refuse to listen to your sad bullshit."

He was dumbfounded. He blubbered something, but didn't seem sure of what to do. And you'd think I'd won there, but the trip was far from over. And as we drove, I could hear him muttering, talking about how "you learn your lessons" and other such vaguely threatening stuff. While Wendy was laughing and trying to distract him. Me, I began wondering if I'd not made a mistake. As much as I like standing up for the principles, I'm no fan of getting my ass kicked. So I prepared my phone with the emergency number and let my hand hover closer to the alarm button.

As we approached Wendy's destination in Erikshome, she said:
"After this, you're gonna take Pete to Landwood."
"No fucking way I'm riding with this cabby," Pete snarled.
"That is not a problem, sir," I said. "I wasn't intending to drive you anyway."

And this is where Wendy lost her patience. And by losing her patience, she flipped her lid and started telling me that I should shut the fuck up and just drive that cab and stay out of other people's business.

In a way, I see her point. She didn't ask for my help, nor was it my duty to defend her. So yes, from that perspective, she was completely correct. But there's another perspective, and that perspective is this:

The cab is my place of work. It is my office. It is where I spend time and energy in order to support myself. The moment you drag your personal bullshit into my place of work, you make it my business. I can't ignore you. There is no divider between us. And if you're acting like an entitled, pathetic dick, I see absolutely no reason why I shouldn't put a stop to it, for the sake of my own sanity.

So take this to heart, dear reader: it is NEVER the cabbie's duty to "just shut up and drive". We offer you a service and a certain amount of discretion. In return, we ask for payment and some discretion on your part. If you cannot keep the deal, then all bets are off.

With that, I threw both of them out.

The night ended well, however. Immediately after this kerfuffle, I received a fare way outside of town. In an hour, I made back three times what I lost on Wendy and Pete.

I will return to the subject of male entitlement and sexism. THere's a veritable goldmine of that stuff. Until then, I wish you a happy, if belated, midsummer.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/wVx5RJojwnA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Chinese Box.

"I'm surprised you're saying this, miss. I am a stranger, after all."
"Whatever, its not as if we'll ever see each other again."

My city is not a big city.

Sure, its one of the biggest in the country, but with a population of a mere 9 million people, Sweden is (globally speaking)0, a nation of small towns.

Thus, I often find myself running into old friends, or friends of friends, or lovers of friends of friends. There is a passive game of Six Degrees of Separation running through the land.

With this in mind, I have a special treat tonight. It's not just a story; its two, rolled into one. The ghost of Geoffrey Chaucer is nodding in approval over my shoulder.

Tonight was the first night in a long time where working actually was fun. Being easter eve, a lot of people chose to comemorate the sacrifice of our lord and saviour by either working, or getting shitfaced, or working with shitfaced people. I was no exception. And people were cheerful and the fares were plenty.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I got a fare out in Hill Bay. Hill Bay lies south of Isthmus, and like its neighbour, its an area outside of town where only the very rich live. So I headed out there, and had to navigate a private road filled with drunken brats (rich teenagers, if you remember). Once I arrived at the place, I was accosted by a gaggle of these wealthy healthy kids, until one of them managed to break through the crowd and identify himself as my fare. So he, and three of his friends hopped into the cab and off we were.

"Got any music?"
"Is a fixed rate ok?"
"Gawwwd i'm sooooo wasted"
"Whoooooooooop"

The subject of the car stereo is worth its own entry. I'll get to that some other night. But suffice it to say, in order to keep the peace, I allowed them to connect a phone to my fm-transmitter. The music was your typical brat fare: douche-rap and House. I tuned it out and kept up a light banter with the kid next to me.

"So what kind of music do you listen to, if you don't like House?"
"Oh there's a bunch... I tend to switch it out every month."
"Oh, you like real music."
"I like music."
"Do you like Motörhead?"
I smiled.
"Sure. I actually have a story about them."
The kid grinned. "Let's hear it."

The story of how I didn't drive one of Sweden's Greatest Rock Legends, as told to Rich Kid from Hill Bay.

Last autumn I received a fare from a place called Brewhouse. Brewhouse had during the summer been the site of a very popular club. Since high season was over, I was surprised but not concerned. Fare is a fare is a fare.

So I arrived and waited for my customers. After a while, a group of people arrived. One guy, two women, and a person I can only describe as a transvestite who'd stopped caring about his looks. This fellow was huge, wearing skin-tight leather pants and a matching jacket. On his head was what can only be described as an electrocuted poodle. He basically looked like Jared, king of the Goblins. My smuggysense was tingling.

So, the Goblin king climbed into the backseat, and sat in the middle with his legs spread wide. He was wearing a shit-eating grin a mile wide. The others filed into the remaining seats.

"So!" he said. "We wanna go to the Avenue."
"I'd be happy to take you," I said. "Would the lady behind me and the gentleman in the middle please put on your safety belts?"

Before I continue, let me give some context. I am not a stickler for safety. I believe that it is every persons right to make their own mistakes. Thus, if someone wants to ride unbuckled in a car, risking their lives and the fury of the police, that's their business. However, this liberty only extends as far as yourself. The moment your lack of self-preservation threatens my safety, I will demand that you do something about it. Backseat passengers are not only endangering themselves, but they also endanger the people sitting in front of them. To put it succinctly: If any of my passengers are hurt during my work, I will feel very bad. But I prefer feeling back with my spine intact.

The Goblin king just stared at me. "You're kidding."
"I am not. If there is an accident, I don't want you flying through the car and breaking my shoulder. Please put on your belt." At this point, I noticed that he had brought an open beer into the car.
"Also, i'm going to have to ask you to leave that outside."

"What the fuck for? It's not as if I'm planning on dropping it."

"Nobody ever does, sir. But if I have to brake suddenly and you drop it, that's 30 minutes of income I lose cleaning up the mess. Do me this favour sir, and I'd be very grateful."

"And what if I don't?"

"Then, sir, I will not drive until you do."

"To hell with this! Let's get a different cab."

"Very good, sir."

The Goblin king and his entourage left the cab. I wrote off the fare and contacted HQ so that they too would write it off.

Suddenly a man appeared at my window. Big fellow. Rough and rugged.

"Is there a problem?"

"Not at all. We have a few rules. One of them is the safety of the driver, the other is that no food or drink may be consumed in the car."

"Why not?"

"Because we want to minimize the amount of time we have to spend cleaning the cab."

"What if we gave you 500 sek if he spills anything? Wouldn't that cover your lost time?"

"Sir, nevermind that you're bribing me, the thing is; you could give me a thousand and I'd still refuse. Its not a matter of money, its a matter of me not wanting a cab that smells like a bar."

Rough and Rugged looked at me and leaned in, with a conspiratorial air.

"Do you know who that is?"

Rod Stewarts evil twin? "I can't say I do, sir."

"This country has two great rock legends. One is Yngwie Malmsteen, the other is Mikkey Dee. That's Mikkey Dee. So maybe you can make an exception, huh?"

"Well," I said. "That sure puts things in perspective. Tell Mr Dee that I'd be happy to drive him, once he's finished his beer."

R&R was about to say something more, when Mikkey Dee came storming over, screaming:

"This is bullshit! I've been riding with your company for years! I know your boss! I'm fucking calling him tomorrow."

"Give him my regards, sir. Have a good evening."

I rolled up the window and left.

Thus the story of how I did not drive Mikkey Dee ended. And immediately I realized something. The guys behind me were laughing. The kid next to me was silent. More than silent, he was mortified.

"Dude..." he said. "Mikkey Dee is my dad."


The sun's coming up and I'm sitting here feeling a bit like an asshole. No teenager likes to hear embarrassing stories about their dads. No teenager likes to hear embarrassing stories about their dads while their friends are listening. And no teenager should ever be subjected to having their dad be mistaken of a transvestite who stopped caring about his looks.

It turned out well, however. He was a good sport about it. I get the feeling this wasn't the first time he'd heard a story like that. And who knows, maybe if Mr Dee hears it from his kids, he'll change his ways and we can meet again, this time as equals.

And if any of them ever reads this (and resists the temptation to sue me for defamation), let me give one final piece of advice: if you're so high and mighty that you need no longer respect the workplace of your fellow man, call a limo. Because if you decide to stoop to the level of commoners and call a low-price cab, then by God you better play by the same rules as the other peasants.

Too sexy for this cab.

"So... Ever gotten it on with any of your customers?"
"Mister, I work on comission. Every minute I spend getting it on with a customer is a minute I'm not getting paid."

As far as the local populace is concerned, there are two kinds of cabbies in this world:
Those who successfully get into the pants of their customers and those who try to get into yours. I belong to a third cathegory that is rarely considered: Those who are too oblivious or too busy to do either.

There's an irony in having a sedentary job. You spend all your time sitting on your ass, all the while becoming way too exhausted to exercise once you go home. Its a vicious cycle that leaves most of us, be we slaves of the cubicle or steering wheel, with a round belly, a flat ass, and bruises around our eyes. I am no exception to this. My advice to you, dear reader, is this: if you want to become a drunken reveler's spur-of-the-moment-one-night-stand, keep yourself in shape. This will raise your chances.

As far as I am concerned, the only thing less sexy than screwing in a cab is screwing in a nuclear reactor. Not all my colleagues agree, of course. Some of them even got a relationship out of it. One of my colleagues even had the brilliant idea of letting the meter run during the act, and supposedly got paid after. I applaud his ingenuity and look down on his complete lack of shame.

As for my own experiences, I've been propositioned more times than I know. Literally. The exchange usually follows this model:

Trip starts:
F: So, how long are you working tonight?
Me: Oh you know... a couple of hours more, depending on how busy it gets
<insert smalltalk/intense discussion as the trip continues>
Trip ends. Fare pays. Sits a moment looking at me.
F: When do you get off?
Me: (somewhat confused) In an hour or two... What, will you be needing a ride?
F: (stares at me for a moment in surprise).... No... no nothing. Have a nice evening.
Me: You too.
Five minutes later realisation hits.
Me: GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!

This has happened too many times. And while the above representation might suggest that it causes me dismay, it doesn't really. My annoyance comes from being slow on the uptake, rather than a missed opportunity. When I'm behind the wheel, the last thing on my mind is sex. If I got paid by the hour, I might consider it. But no. If the choice comes between paying my bills and getting my rocks off, I choose the bills.

Now, while I might find a cab to be less-than-optimal for getting down to business, that doesn't mean my customers agree. In fact, judging from the stuff that goes on the back seat, you'd think a cab is the sexiest place on earth. I usually let it slide. I turn up the music, dim the rearview and let nature take its course. most people have the decency to keep their clothes on while in the cab, resorting to foreplay. Most people.

A colleague (who shares my policy) of mine picked up a pair of young lovers. They were both very drunk and they were verymuch all over each other. At times during the trip, things got so intense, sloppy and heavy that he might as well have been driving a couple of incestous conjoined twins. Still, so far things weren't all that bad. Up went the music, down went the rearview.

But then something changed. The air grew thicker, you might say. Thick with moans and gasps, and the unmistakable stink of "unwashed cock" (his words).  Like Orpheus in the underworld, my colleague couldn't resist a glance behind him (in the mirror), and saw the male with his head thrown back in sloppy, savage ecstasy (since I have trouble assigning any humanity to drunken fares, I usually imagine the guy drooling and grunting). His girl was nowhere to be seen. But he could hear her. Or rather, he heard a sloppy gulping.

Putting two and two together, my collague was at an impasse. This was a long trip, which meant good money. Telling them to get a room (or throwing them out) might result in him not getting paid. But on the other hand, no fare was worth having to wipe somebodys happiness off the seat. And in a moment of clarity, it came to him. A way to put a stop to the debauchery, and still get paid.

Without hesitating, he bellowed: "HOLY FUCK!"
The car swerved back and forth, and then he hit the breaks. His customers threw themselves against their seats, grabbing onto anything that would save them from what undoubtedly would be a very messy end to their date.

"What the hell are you doing!" the guy screamed.
"Yeah, what-" said the girl, now sitting straight in her seat.
"Did you see it???"
"See what?!"
"The deer! It ran straight accross us! I barely missed it!"

A silence fell over the cab. Then my colleague got the car rolling again. During the rest of the trip, there was not a peep from his customers (aside from the sound of a closing zipper), and each kept to their side of the car. When they arrived, he was paid, and given a hefty tip for "being so quick with the brakes".

In the end, he wiped down the seats anyway, and kept his windows open until the scent of booze, sex and terror had subsided.

I'm a mothafuckin C-A-B-BIE

"By the way, do you know where we can find girls?"
"Girls?"
"Yes. The kind you can buy."
"... yeeeeah..."
"Oh really? Whe- Hey! Hey, don't close the window!"

It's been a while. Things have been kinda crazy around here. I've only worked as much as I've had to in order to scrape by. Cabbing has been the last thing on my mind.

But now I'm back, and tonight, we're going to talk about man and woman, man to man.

Surprisingly often I encounter people, usually middle aged men of means, who will ask me for a ride, and in the second breath ask me to point out the local red-light district. I won't delve too deeply into these experiences, but here's a list of quotes:

"Nah, I don't do street walkers. They stand all night out in the cold. I want to know where I can find warm girls."

"Could you stop at the red light district? I promised my clients a good time."

"The way I see it, it's win-win. She gets money, I get my dick sucked."

And so on. And so forth. To eternity and back. One long row of johns, all hoping that the nice cabby will be so kind to show them where they can stick it. It's fucking loathsome.

As some of you may have gathered, I am not against prostitution itself. The way I see it, if two people mutually agree to exchange money for sex, that is their business. And in an ideal world, that kind of professionalism would render many of the moral questions about sex-work moot. However, we do not live in an ideal world.

Society has a very weird view when it comes to sex workers. Its a weird mish-mash of different perspectives, all thrown together and blended into a freakish whole.

On the one hand, a prostitute is someone to be pitied. You are, because of desperate circumstances, pushed into a profession where you are rendered to nothing more than an animate sex-toy. You're not just selling a sexual service, you're not just selling your body, you're selling your integrity and dignity. You are a victim.

On the other hand, a prostitute is large an in charge. You love sex, you love money, and you've found the perfect way to combine the two. Getting paid to provide somebody's orgasm is not only just another job for you, it is even a source of amusement, even empowerment, since you get to see your clients at their most vulnerable (if you doubt any of this, dear reader, kindly refer to such stories as Game of Thrones, Copper, Fanny Hill, Pretty Woman, etc etc). You are a hero.

On the final hand, a prostitute is something vile. You degrade yourself by selling your body. You are hooked on drugs, or you failed at life in some other way. The only way you can survive is to get naked with someone and submit to the most disgusting things. You are disease-ridden, uneducated, foolish, disgusting. You are desperate for someone to fuck you, because that will allow you to survive. You are trash, a blight on civilisation. You are sub-human.

Bear in mind, I'm not talking about different people with different point of views. I believe that the prevailing view is a mix of all of this. That people who are not particularly engaged in the subject have a point of view that borrows from all three perspectives, and each perspective has different weight depending on that person's background, experience, or current situation.

So, what does this have to do with my line of work?

Well, because I get to see up close how people either pity, idolize or dehumanize prostitutes. I've done it myself. And I can't speak for the prostitutes themselves. I'm sure there are some who have chosen the profession and do not suffer from it, but I do believe they are a minority. I've driven a couple of them, and my collective experience is that those who blatantly are prostitutes also tend to be silent, withdrawn, even cold at times. They do not strike me as happy people.

But far more often than dealing with prostitutes, I deal with their clients. People ask me where they can find girls. People talk in the back-seat about their experiences with them, and how its all so lovely because they get to fuck, and the girls/boys get paid. Both sicken me to no end.

Like always, however, there is a story. And I have driven johns, I have turned away johns. I've argued against sexist bastards. But none hold a candle to the guy I'm about to tell you. And what sickens me the most was that I was a party to his assholishness.

Taxi M has a VIP list. People who have a special deal with the company. They are given a card, and a special number to call. The perk is that they have an easier time getting a car (in theory, but that's another story), and they always ride cheap. And so there's this one guy. Mickey. I've mentioned him before. Now, Mickey is one of our long-time VIP customers. Mickey is short, but big. A man who measures his value in muscle mass and expects other people to do so too. He is a douchebag who will always ask you to turn off the meter, so that he can pay you illegally, netting the cabbie a nice tip and allowing him to get off more cheaply. I've never cared for him. And these days, he is one of few people I actively wish a painful disease on.

It was late, as always, and I got a fare from Whitefield Street, going on to Kings Gate Avenue (the main drag of this city). Turns out it was Mickey. Fine by me. A short ride, and I could do it on autopilot. Nothing I couldn't handle. So I pick him up together with some blonde airhead (and the only reason I call her that is because of what came out of her mouth during the trip, which wasn't of much value to anyone), and we roll.

Now, Whitefield street is in an older neighbourhood, and its kinda high end. But right next to that neighbourhood is Rose Grove, the local red light district. So we drive, while Mickey and Bimbo chat. Or rather, she says astoundingly superficial things and he sniggers (at her, or with her, I do not know). Then we pass through Rose Grove and Mickey gets excited.

"Hah! There go the hookers!"
"What? Seriously???" Bimbo exclaims. "No way!"
"Seriously."
At this point I chime in, vaguely sarcastically: "Believe it or not, Rose Grove is the red light district..."
Bimbo: "I didn't see any hookers!"
By now, we had crossed the bridge and were driving up Explosion Hill.
"If you want," I said in a disgusted tone, "I could always turn around so you could have a better look at them."
"Seriously???" Bimbo says.
"Oh man," says Mickey. "do it! Do it now!"

And here is where I did something I still don't know how to justify. Maybe because I was on autopilot. Maybe I wasn't thinking. Maybe I didn't feel like entering a conflict. I don't know. But I turned the car around and drove back to Rose Grove.

And that's where I started hating myself. Mickey and Bimbo were howling with laughter. Pointing and exclaiming how disgusting the prostitutes were, calling them names.

"Are we done here?" I asked.
"Yeah, take us to the avenue."

We drove.
"I don't understand how anybody would ever sell themselves lke that!" Bimbo cried out.
"You'd never do it?" Mickey said.
"Never! Well..." she fell quiet. "Maybe for 100 000 sek. Hey cabbie!"
I didn't respond.
"Hey cabbie! How much would you pay to fuck me?"
"Are you seriously asking me that?"
"It doesn't matter, you'll never see me again. Would you pay 100 000 if it meant you could fuck me?"
"Lady, I'm in the low-income bracket. Lower your price to 50 and we can talk."

They kept laughing all the way. And I felt sicker by the minute.

To this day, I don't know why I did as he said. I don't know why I didn't throw them out. I don't know why I didn't call them out on their bullshit. And I really don't know why I joined them in their bantering, even if I did it in a mean spirit.

Had they asked me to stop so they could pick up one of the girls, and pay her for sex, I would've had a lot more respect for them. At least then, they would've treated them with, if not dignity, then atleast acknowledgment. But here where these two successful, egocentric fuckheads who used the misfortune of others to assure themselves of their own superiority.

To this day, I refuse to drive Mickey. If he comes up on my screen, I always call out on the radio to ask if someone wants to drive him instead. The boss doesn't like this, but fuck that noise.  Sure I didn't hurt anyone, but I not only allowed two fuckstains to gloat at other people's misery, I also helped them do it. I can't ever undo what I did, but I can do better next time.

The day any of my colleagues doesn't take Mickey from me, I will let him enter my car. I will then tell him exactly what I think of him.

If he still wants me to drive him, I'll drive him.

If he doesn't, then that isn't my problem.

The kindness of strangers.

"You make a pretty good living as a cabbie, no?"
"It puts food on my table and pays my bills. But I wouldn't call it living; I call it surviving."

This entry is not about awful people. Let me make that clear. A friend of mine who didn't bother to read the blog beyond the titles of the entries told me that nobody would read it unless there were some positive stories in here too. While I thought he was being a conceited dick who apparently has never been on the internet before (after all, nothing draws traffic like schadenfreude and nudity), I will concede to his point. I do meet good people too. Sometimes I end up doing good things for them, and sometimes (rarely) they do good things for me. Tonight, I want to talk about one of those meetings which happened last week.

It was a slow night. Murderously slow. This is february, the month where nobody in the business of serving drunken people in any way makes any money. People stay indoors and wait for the sun to return. And this particular night was a wednesday, smack in the middle of the poorest week in the poorest month. The only reason I didn't return the cab was that a pocketful of change is still better than no change at all.

I was parked, as so many nights before, by the 7/11 down at Iron Square. this is a good place. From it, you can reach most anywhere in town within ten minutes, and lots of people tend to walk by, many of them eager for a cab. Not so tonight, however.

Then there was a tap on my window and there was a girl. Dark skin, curly hair, and very kind eyes. I rolled down the window.

"Hi! How much will you take for a fixed rate to Yardstone, Mount Agnes then to Erikshome?"
The fact that I didn't tell her to stuff it is a testament to how slow the evening was. You already know my stance on fixed rates. Add to the fact that Yardstone (and all the other places) is way out of town, a wretched hive of scum and villainy, a part of town I want to avoid at most costs. 

"How many are you?"
"Oh, me and my friends," she said, motioning over to a bunch of guys over by the 7/11. Immediately, a bunch of red lights went off inside me. They were all in their late teens / early twenties, they were all dressed straight out of a Tupac video, and they were all black.

"Hold on, Crabby. You've gone on a long rant about bigotry and racism before. Surely you, who are so high and mighty, wouldn't stoop so low as to judge these boys on the colour of their skin, or the cut of their clothes?"

Well, that's the thing. I never said it was rational. This was my inner bigot going into defense mode. While I can rationally say that people should be judged by the content of their character, there is a part of me that will judge them on more cruder ground, whether I like it or not. This is not me defending myself. It is a disgusting part of my personality, and whenever it rears its ugly head, I give it the Smackdown of Rational Values, but the fact remains:

Bunch of young, thuggish guys, who want a fixed rate to one of the rougher neighbourhoods in town. This is how almost every mugging story a cabby will ever tell starts. I even have one of my own I'll share some day. At the risk of sounding like I'm backpedalling, it is less about race and more about socio-economics. I daresay that had it been a bunch of white guys with all the other attributes intact, I would still have hesitated. Less racism, more classcism. But yeah, its still disgusting bigotry.

All right. Let's hope you're still with me.

"Based on what the meter most likely would show, I'd say that would be about 450 sek. And I'd want cash up front."

"That's not a problem," she said and pointed to an indie accross the street. "But that guy said he'd take us for 375."

"Unless the indies somehow magically decided to lower their rates, I'd say he'd put that money in his own pocket. He'd be driving without the meter, taking far more money for himself than the trip is worth. I'll give you a fixed rate and I'll type it into the meter, taking no more than what I legally deserve."

"But your car is so much bigger than his, and we're four people. We'd rather ride with you. How about four hundred?"

As I said, it was a very slow night.

"Agreed. But I want payment up front."

"Done!" she said and got her friends. They came over, and climbed into the car, smelling of sweat and weed. I typed in the rate into the meter and off we went.

These are the precautions I took:
I set the emergency number on speed dial.
I let my hand hover close to the alarm button.
I decided to humanize myself in their eyes. After all, its more difficult to rob someone if you consider them people.

How fucking paranoid am I, eh? Not to mention prejudiced. But this is what this job does to you. It expands your view of humanity, while at the same time making your jaded and paranoid. This was all standard survival techniques that you do when your gut is telling you to keep an eye out.

So. How did I humanize myself? I noticed that one of them was about to play some music on his phone. I told him: "I have an FM broadcaster here. We could connect your phone to it so we can hear your music through the speakers."

"That would be awesome, man!"

So he handed me my phone, and I connected it. It was Rick Ross.

I'm no fan of rap. I'm the kind of person who will find one or two songs, or maybe an entire album enjoyable, but the genre as a whole does nothing for me. But I started some smalltalk with the guy next to me, because the music was actually pretty good. We chatted a bit about rap, and how it went from being gritty stories about life on the street to hedonistic bullshit about bitches and bling. I don't think I've ever been whiter.

Still, the mood was light and I began to relax. Then we reached Erikshome, and the girl got off. Next stop was Mount Agnes. Once she left, my hackles rose again. Females tend to have a soothing effect on any bunch of customers and with her gone, I was prepared for things to get a bit harsher. but no, things stayed calm. At Mount Agnes, two other guys got off, leaving two thugs sitting behind me.

I listened to their conversation, on the alert for anything that might indicate that they were about to jump me (there's a precedent for this, which I will talk about later). Still, things remained cool. One of them, a huge gangsta dude, mentioned something about taking a class, but his voice was low so I couldn't hear it.

Reaching Yardstone, the next guy got off.
"All right, just drive to where I tell you," said Gangsta Dude.
Great, I thought. This is it. This is where he takes me to some backwoods road and steals my shit. but... Fuck, what do I have to lose? My phone is in my hidden pocket: he has  no reason to believe that the smartphone on display isn't my own. I've barely made any money tonight, so if he wants todays earnings, he can have them. Let's hope he'll let me keep my driver's license and my debit card. That shit is hard to replace.

It didn't help that this guy was huge, and out of the lot looked the most dangerous. I decided to carefully try the humanisation tactic again.

"I heard you say something about classes. What are you studying?"

"Oh," he said. "Just some community college courses. I want to fix my grade point average so I can apply at the University. Psychology, math, that kind of shit."

"Oh really? I've been thinking about doing that myself. I applied for a degree in teaching last year, but was denied. I figure if I take a few individual courses, I'll be in the system and that'll fix my chances."

"Yeah, man, it's a good idea. With an education, you get far more options."

"Here's the thing, I already have a degree," I said. "A bachelor of arts in Creative Writing and Journalism. But I got it abroad, so it doesn't count when I apply for an education here."

"You're shitting me? What are you doing driving a cab?"

"Long story. Let's just say I burned myself out and needed a job where I didn't have to use my brain."

We arrived at the address. "Look man," he said. "I'd like to keep talking to you. Got time for a smoke?"

Rule one of cab safety: When in doubt, NEVER leave the car.

My inner Klansman  was screaming in fear. But the rational, tolerant, TOLERABLE part of me relished the opportunity.

So we stepped out  of the cab and he gave me a cigarette.

"Look, man," he said. "If you're already smart from the get-go, then for fucks sake, don't end up in the same crap as me."
"And what crap is that?"
"Spending your days studying so you can get to square one. Go take the standardized college test instead."
"I've thought about it, but I've kept putting it off..."
"Don't. Stop doing that. Seriously. The last date for you to apply for the test is like... tomorrow. So once you're done for the night, go home, get some sleep, and apply. Otherwise, you'll still be driving this fucking car a year from now."

".... you're right."

"Fuck yes, I'm right," he grabbed me  by the shoulder. "I've been making good money as a telemarketer, but that's not life. I can't spend my life tricking old ladies into buying shit they don't need. And you, who already have a brain, can't spend your life behind that wheel. So I want you to promise me. Go home, apply for that test, and get your ass in school. If I'm better than this, then sure as fuck you are.."

I stared at him. i felt like a total ass. While I hadn't let my prejudices get the better of me, I had given them far more listening room than they ever deserve. Here was a man who was sick of his current life and had decided to get out of it, make the effort no matter how shitty his starting point was. And here I was, "smart from the get-go", putting off making that very effort, spending my nights  making money and losing life.

"I won't even sleep on it," I said. "You got yourself a deal."

"You better. Because the next time I see you, you better not be driving this car."

It was as if a great weight was lifted from my shoulders.

"What's your name?"
"John."
"I'm Crabby. Thank you, John. I've been putting this off for way too long. This is exactly what I needed to hear."

I gave him my number, telling him that if he ever needed a cab between wednesdays and saturdays, I was his man. We parted ways, I signed off, went home and applied for the test.

So yeah. That's the story.

If there is a moral to the story, it is this: The world is full of bigotted assholes. And  sometimes that asshole is you. As I've said before, you can't control the way you  feel, but you can control how you act on it. And I decided, against every instinct I had, to give this guy a chance, and he ended up giving me the right push toward getting out of this business.

So, John, thanks a million. Even if I never see you again, let it be known that you made me feel like you believed in me. And that is worth far more than any fixed rate.

Under threat.

"It must be scary, being a cabbie."
"How so?"
"Well, I'd be terrified of being mugged. Aren't you?"
"Statistically speaking, we're far more likely to skid off the road and crash. Since I don't fear that, why should I worry about muggings?"

There's an old story about the burden of power. In short, even if you have all the power in the world, it comes at the expense of being surrounded by threats. Since I'm in a pseudo-intellectual mood this evening, I dare to suggest that the themes of the story describe cabbing perfectly.

See, as a cabbie, you have a lot of power. You can decide whether or not someone will arrive on time (or at all, to some extent). You know roads and routes undreamed by all, but a few customers. Your behaviour can, to an extent, decide the mood of the rest of the evening. The only thing protecting the customer from this power is the cabbie's own innate sense of decency / good business. Some of us abuse this power, ranging from the petty (ripping off customers), to the horrific (sexual assault). Most of us don't, or if we do, we stay on the petty scale of things. It takes a certain kind of person, from certain kinds of circumstances, to deliberately commit outright cruel acts on their fellow human beings.

So. With great power, etc etc.

All right, Crabby. We get it. All hail the all-powerful cabbie. But this entry started with a pompous literary reference. If you're the king of your vehicle, where's the sword?

The sword is this: no matter how petty, power-mad, mean-spirited or malicious you are, sooner or later you will pick up someone worse than you.

As a cabbie, you're exposed. Especially in my neck of the woods. Unlike the yellow cabs of New York, or the Black Cabs of London, there is no divider between cabbie and customer in Sweden. It is basically a regular car, modified with a meter, a sign and (sometimes) a computer. But beyond that, its like any car. And anyone can ride shotgun with you.

So, the smart cabbie learns quickly to read his customers and the situation. The few precious moments between spotting your customer and that turning on the meter are important (if not critical). Granted, it's rare that anything bad happens before you've turned on the meter, but when it happens, it's as spectacular as it is awful (and almost always horribly petty).

I've called the police on several fares. And while I've never been mugged, I've been threatened with beatings and murder, as well as having the smartphone we use to keep track on fares stolen.

I will talk about all those incidents, but tonight I'm going to focus on the first time it happened. And as they say, the first time is always the best.

All right. So. The first time I got threatened in my cab, happened at the end of a long, awful shift. On average, maybe 20% of my fares are awful people, out of which 10% piss me off to the point where I throw them out. There are worse people, but they are statistically insignificant (though completely significant to this entry).

During one week, I might encounter a single unit of that 30%, sometimes two or three. But during this particular shift, I had gotten my total monthly share of awful people all in one night. There had been screaming, yelling, racism, sexism, and a lot of missed income due to me throwing them out. And now dawn was approaching, and I was sick and tired of humanity. Despite all this, it had still been a profitable evening and I was only a single fare away from reaching my minimum income quota.

 So I vowed to myself that my final customers, no matter how shitty, would get their trip. They could scream, they could shout, they could say any racist slur they wanted. I would meet them with polite silence, get my money, and head home.

It seemed like such a perfect plan at the time.

So there I was, down at Barracks Square, waiting for my customers to come out of the main music venue. Our version of  Whiskey-A-Go-Go; a place where signed bands play for money, and unsigned bands for the publicity. I took a deep breath, sank deep inside myself, switched on the auto-pilot, and encased myself in a protective coccoon of indifference. Then my customers arrived.

Two girls and a guy. The girls were just that; your typical clubbers, looking for the heart of saturday night. Makeup, high heels, and etravagantly simple hairstyles. The guy was a typical vain gym rat; core muscles ignored, aestetically significant muscles defined to the point of nausea, coated in the sickly orange of spray-tan, and wearing a v-neck three sizes too small. But his face...

No, I'm getting ahead of myself. At the time I didn't notice his face. I rarely do. My job is to keep my eyes on the road; rarely do I bother to study people's faces.

All right. So Gymrat and Clubbergirl-1 (CG1) sat in the back, while Clubbergirl-2 (CG2) sat next to me. They gave me the address, and I turned on the meter.

They seemed more interested in talking to each other than to me, which suited me just fine. Aside from CG2 asking me very politely to turn up the heat (which I did), I had zero interaction with them. A minute passed, and CG2 asked, still very politce, if I could turn up the music (which was a lovely surprise, as when it comes to the matter of the stereo, politeness is rarely, if ever involved). I did as she asked and went back to dreaming of the hot shower I would take once I got home.

It was a lovely dream. Particularly lovely, because it only lasted for about thirty seconds. I noticed in the corner of my eye that CG2 was squirming in her seat, fretting and fussing, muttering beneath her breath "this doesn't feel right. This doesn't feel right at all..."

In my head, I roared to the heavens, cursing the God of Professional Transportation for the fate which He had cast upon me. Great. Fucking great. Not only had I been forced to spend the night dealing with people so primitive that chimps would look down their stubby noses at them, now some drunken clubby was having a freakout. No doubt she had taken a hit of something psychedelic and was now seeing green spiders or some shit crawling out of the glove compartment. So, while silently screaming in unholy rage, I asked her:

"Are you all right?"

She froze, and glared at me (Not that I saw it. But believe me, I felt it).

"I'm not going to fucking throw up!"

"That's not what I-"

"For your information, I never throw up."

"That's not what I asked," I said, trying and failing to keep the edge out of my voice. "I asked if you were all right."

"No, I'm not fucking all right."

"Well," I said, trying to be diplomatic. "If you need it, I can stop the cab for a moment-"

"I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING THROW UP!" she howled. If looks could kill, the one she was giving me would've defintely given me a concussion. "If I throw up, I'll fucking do it on you!"

There was a single, pure milisecond of shocked silence in my head. "... what the hell did you just say?"

Now, during these kinds of incidents where one customer is being an ass, the others will quickly swoop in for damage control, apologizing and generally trying to put a lid on things. And that's what kept me from screeching to a halt and literally throwing her out the windshield; that brief glimpse of Gymrat and CG1 springing into action behind me.

But instead of smiling at me, Lady Luck decided to give me the finger and kick me in the balls.

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" screamed Gymrat.

"You're the worst cabbie we've ever met!" cried CG1.

"Yeah!" howled CG2. "If you hate your pointless life so fucking much, get another job!"

No quota was worth this. They could've given me a million for this ride, and I would've still felt cheated. The only way they'd be able to pay for this ride would be in blood. So, bracing myself against the rising tide of  undiluted murderous rage, I forced a hideous smile.

"You know, guys," I said, pulling over. "You're right. I'm not going force you to ride in my car."

There came a collective scream, along the lines of "What the fuck are you doing? Keep driving, asshole!"
or some such.

"I'm stopping the car," I said, as a beautiful, cleansing cold came over me. "I'm not going to drive you any further. Get lost."

Gymrat leaned in, every lovingly crafted muscle bulging. "There's no way in hell you're getting paid."

"I don't want your money," I snapped my head around, meeting his eyes. "I want you the fuck out of my car!"

Then I saw his face

He had the face of a little boy. I mean, this guy would've made any awkward thirteen-year-old look like a paragon of manliness. It didn't help that his hair was buzzed close to a downright bulbous head. If I were a more shallow, vicious person, I'd suggest that he looked like a baby suffering from a horrifically specific case of elephantisis.

"I'm gonna kick your ass, shithead!" cried Gymrat.

I barked a single, surprised laugh. "Did you just fucking threaten me?"

"To hell with this asshole!" said CG1. "Look at his ID!"

CG2 leaned in and examined my license (which we have to display for legal reasons).

"Crabby Cabbie, ID number 42-22-19."

At this point, I felt utterly detached from the situation. It was as if I was watching some nature show about inbred primates, the only thing keeping me from changing the channel being a morbid desire to see just how stupid these apes really were.

Gymrat had left the car and stood by the open front door. "We know your face and we know your name. From now on, you better watch your back."

"Shit, man," I said, grinning at him. "You got me shaking in my boots. Stick around, and I might piss myself."

He slammed the door and they stormed off. I sat very still for a very long time. Then I started the engine and started to drive very slowly. A cyclone of fury raged inside me, twisting faster and faster until it exploded out of me in a wordless, primal roar, growing louder and louder until I ran out of breath. With a painfully raw throat, I called the police and reported the incident.

"Do you wish to press charges?"

"Damn straight I do."

I don't think the police ever got around to dealing with this. I couldn't give them anything to go by, except a detailed (if undramatic) description of Gymrat, and the first name of one of the Clubbergirls. And this is where I discovered that Taxi M doesn't store the numbers of the fares that call them, not even for security reasons. To my further frustration, I suddenly realized that the local police station was only a block away. I could've easily driven them there and let justice have its course in a very hands-on manner.

Once I had calmed down, I was struck by how petty it had all been. Because I wasn't being my usual, jolly self, Clubbergirl-1 had taken umbrage. Because I didn't engage with the customers, they decided that not only was I rude, I was also deeply unhappy with my life. What perplexes me to this day is not the event itself, but how utterly insignificant and petty the reasons behind it were.

I know human pettiness. I understand that it exists, that it drives people to do horrible things. I understand that it is a common enough that it can't be considered strange. But I can't for the life of me understand how anyone can justify it in their own heads. I've got a fairly good sense of empathy otherwise, but this is one aspect of human behaviour that just doesn't make sense in my head at all.

That was the first time I called the cops on a fare. It wouldn't be the last time, or even the most dramatic.

But that's a story for another night.