"People actually say that? That they're relieved that you're Swedish?"
"Without a trace of irony."
"Man... Humans suck."
A quick disclaimer: I'm about to account for how I, an atheist, attempted to represent Islam. If there are any muslims reading this, know that I meant no offense and that I would gladly like to know if I said or did anything that misrepresented the faith, or made any outright false claims. I look forward to your comments.
Read Part 1 here.
So there I was, having now professed my faith before this infidel scum. To my surprise, I found myself terrified. It felt as if I had crossed a line, unlike the times I had pretended to be Jewish, or (during the latest American presidential election) Mormon. Those two faiths I could pull off, partially because my more-than-average interest in religious studies (kind of a hobby of mine), and partially because of people's general ignorance. But Islam, ah, there's a faith I didn't know a lot about.
"Uhuh, so you're muslim are you? Well then, tell me. Why do you approve of animal cruelty?"
In an instant, my fear disappeared, replaced with warm, reassuring smugness. While my knowledge of Islam only slightly above that of the average Swede, this guy had just set the bar well below average.
Time to see just how far I could push this.
"Animal cruelty? Of course not."
"But you eat only eat halal meat, yes?"
"That I do."
"So you approve of animal cruelty."
"Are you referring to how the animal is slaughtered? Cut, and bled in ten seconds flat?"
"Exactly. It's cruel."
"Unlike your store-bought meat? Where animals are transported accross europe in filthy, cramped trucks, to be herded through a pen with hundreds of other terrified animals, smelling blood and fear and horror all the way, until a bolt goes through its head? How is that any less cruel, compared to the animal being ritually cut and bled?"
"It takes a long time for halal animals to die."
"The jugulars are cut and the animal is turned upside down. I assure you that it's dead before it fully grasps its situation."
"It's still cruel."
"Perhaps, but if that is cruel, then the entire meat industry is cruel. You're in a glass house. Don't throw rocks."
"But why is that important?"
"The butchering?"
"Yes."
"Do you want the historical reason-?"
"No, your personal reason."
"Because God commands it."
"That's bullshit."
"To you, maybe. Not to me. in both Judaism and Islam, bloodied meat is considered unfit for human consumption. So is meat from animals who have expired. So, in the act of taking the animal's life, we purify it spiritually and physically by draining it of its blood."
"But why the hell can't you do that after you've slaughtered the animal?"
"Because it would be impure."
"No, it won't."
At this point, I decided to halt my progress, to give him a chance to step back and avoid embarrassing himself further. Also, in part, to give myself a chance to avoid conflict.
"It's obvious that my faith provokes you. We don't have to discuss this."
"Yes, we do!" he snarled. "We do, because what you're saying is absolutely crazy. I want to understand why the hell you believe that shit. So, why the hell is it important? Why do you give a shit about what God thinks of your diet?"
I smiled. Challenge accepted.
"Because them's the rules. If I choose to subscribe to a certain creed and culture, there are certain ways of living my life that I will adopt. Much like a football supporter will root for a certain team, even though there is rarely any objectively logical reason to do so. It's done, because it is how you actively belong to a culture. Same thing with religion."
"Do you like being a slave?"
"A slave, what do you mean?"
"Being forced to live your life a certain way, because some God that might not even exist has told you to."
"There is no force involved. I chose this life. I've studied religions and various faiths, and about five years ago I decided that the faith called Islam was the one that suited my moral principles. So I converted."
"And what principles are that?"
I gave him a cliff's notes version of the five pillars of Islam: "Acknowledging God, self-control and self-betterment, charity, to name a few."
"But how can you believe that God exists!"
"How can you not? Look at the Universe! Look at the complexity, the beauty, the horror, the perfect ticking system that we've only begun to grasp. Look how everything affects everything, look at how it all fits together. For that reason, I can't for the life of me deny the existence of God. Probably the same reason why you can't acknowledge it."
"Aha," he said, grinning smugly. "Then what is God?"
"God," I said, looking thoughtful (only half-feigned). "God is the collective name we give to the forces that created, maintain and drive the Universe. God is not some angry father figure sitting on a cloud judging us, nor is God some mystical being. God is what pulls the strings behind everything. God is everything. I acknowledge the same science you do, the same realities. The only difference is that I believe that that those realities have agency. That there is a Will and a Purpose behind it. And that is what I call God. Islam is merely the way I choose to approach God. It suits me, it is true to me. I don't expect, or demand that others feel the same."
This sent him into an absolute rage, which suited me quite well. Because in his rage, he never asked a single question related to Islam itself, but rather the general, vague, leading questions asked by atheist bullies whose goal is not to understand a faith, but to ridicule it. And those questions I have a lot of experience with. When I was younger, I used to ask them myself. As I matured and developed a respect, even love, for the concept of religion, I also developed an understanding for why people believe. So those questions were easily answered. After all, I've heard the answers a million times before.
We were approaching Landwood. And Mr. Baggins was by now almost frothing at the mouth.
"Islam is without a doubt the most violent religion in human history!"
"Is it? Why do you say that?"
"If it isn't, how do you explain that there's always war in the middle east?"
"One, there isn't always war in the middle east. There is now, because these are turbulent times. Human beings are violent things, and will do violent things in the name of anything, especially religion. We live in Europe, one of the most war-torn places in human history. You don't know it, because you've known nothing but peace. But up until the Second World War, not a decade went by without war in Europe. And Christianity has a long, intimate history with war. Hell, only recently has the latest major conflict between Catholics and Protestants subsided, what with the IRA laying down their arms."
"Bullshit. All kinds of horrible shit happens all the time in the middle east. It's obviously something to do with the culture."
"That's pretty racist, man."
"No it isn't."
We arrived at the destination. It was time to bring this game to a close. As he was about to open the door and step out, I reached out and touched his arm.
"It's been almost half an hour since you climbed into my car. In that time, you have said some horribly offensive things. You have judged me, and you have judged others, without any kind of real knowledge. I have been nothing but courteous to you, while you have done nothing but mock and disrespect a faith shared by millions accross the world. Yet not for even a second did I ever question or disrespect your lack of faith. It saddens me."
"Oh yeah?" he grinned.
"Yes. Not because you don't have faith, but because you couldn't see me as a human being, just a Muslim. Somebody who had to be corrected. Instead of treating me with the same courtesy I treated you, you clung to your ignorance, threw it in my face, and did everything you could to offend and hurt me. I hope one day you'll realize your mistake, and try to learn something about the world before passing judgment."
He stared at me, tried to sneer. "I'm not ignorant."
I smiled and shrugged. "It is not for me to question your beliefs."
After he left the car, I took Lisa and her boyfriend to their home. They were mortified, apologizing and assuring me again and again that Mr. Baggins was not a close friend, only a guy who happened to play on the same hockey team as the boyfriend. To all this, I simply raised my hand and told them they had nothing to apologize for, that I wasn't offended or angry, and that I most certainly would not be blowing myself up. We all have our flaws, and we all have our shortcomings. It was not my place to judge him, because in the end, we were both only human. Glass houses and all that.
I will admit freely that I am a judgmental person. I will make snap decisions on a person's worthiness, many of which you've already seen in my writing. It is not one of my virtues. It is something born out of my own bigotry, and my own instincts. But I am in the business of forcing my mind open. I can't help how I feel, but I can help how I act upon those feelings. And if my knowledge goes against my beliefs, I will make an effort to make my beliefs conform to that knowledge. Sometimes I succeed. Other times, I don't.
For that reason, whatever misgivings I might have against an ethnicity, faith, or political colour, I do my outmost to treat people as individuals. I try to treat people based on the content of their character. I might hate your politics, I might disdain your beliefs, and I might disagree with your morals, but I will not disrespect you, until you show that you have no respect of your own. I will not argue with you, unless I understand your point. There are few things in this world as loathsome (and dangerous) as a person who has decided that anyone who disagrees with a particular belief is an idiot.
Finally, we reached the final destination. By now, the meter showed 570 sek, and I knew I was only a fare or two from being able to go home. Lisa paid and before she left the car she said:
"Thank you for being so cool about all this."
"Don't mention it."
"You have a great night, all right?"
I smiled. "As-salam alaykum."
My life as a cabbie, what I saw, and how I escaped.
Monday 27 January 2014
Saturday 25 January 2014
Racist butts, part 1.
"I gotta say, not to be racist or anything, but I'm glad you're Swedish."
"Actually, I'm from Somalia."
A common problem we face in the western world is the phenomenon of "Not Racist But". We've all seen it: a grossly racist remark prefaced by a disclaimer, made without a trace of irony. The phenomenon is so ingrained in our culture that you're almost tempted to think that there truly is no racism in the world, just a whole lot of horrible people of various non-caucasian ethnicities.
Now, I personally subscribe to the view that true, born-and-bred racists, people who genuinely and actively despise other people because of the colour of their skin / differences of culture are a minority. In a world of six billion people, I think only a few (but still far, far too many) are genuine racists. However, I also believe that out of six billion people, the amount who are genuinely not bigoted are so small a minority, that they are utterly irrelevant in any serious discussion of the human condition.
Tl;dr: Few people are racists, but everybody is a bigot, one way or the other.
(Students of sociology, psychology or, hell, any kind of humanity-related academia can skip the next few paragraphs. Continue reading under the header "STORY")
Before you gasp and angrily tell me that I'm an asshole for calling you a bigot, let try to explain my view. Human beings are creatures of immense complexity. The ways we express ourselves, be it through language, culture or habit, are infinitely varied. We are complex beings in a complex universe, made even more complex by our own complex expressions.. Butwe have our limits. Our brain hangs off an evolutionary branch millions of years long. From that same branch hangs the brains of apes, monkeys, lemurs, and endless other species.
We may be the most astounding species of ape, but in the end we are still apes.
So what's an ape to do, in a world that is in essence immeasurably complex and strange? The ape can't hold the entire world in its head. Why would it? Its got bananas to eat, trees to climb, and feces to fling. So, instead of trying to process the entirety of Existence and blowing every neural fuse it has in the process, the ape simplifies the world. It filters out and organizes the various aspects of world in order of relevance to its its own existence. The ape cathegorizes the world.
That is essentially what bigotry is. A survival instinct, created to allow our primate brains to function in a dangerous world that's far larger than it can grasp. All stereotypes have their founding in a kernel of truth, interpreted from a limited perspective, creating a perceived reality so limited as to be considered false. None of us are entirelly free of it.
What makes human beings so amazing is that we have the capacity of being aware of the limits of our perspective. Having an open mind does not mean accepting everything, but rather questioning everything. Having an open mind is the ability to ask "Hey, could it be that I'm the asshole in all this?"
Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that an open mind is nothing something you have, but something you have to make a conscious effort every day to attain. It's the difference between knowledge and belief; between awareness and instinct. And when push comes to shove, instinct tends to win, regardless of knowledge.
All right, Crabby, I hear you groan. We get it. You want people to be less ignorant and more considerate. What does this have to do with wasting your life away behind a steering wheel?
I'm glad you asked. Because the answer is EVERYTHING.
Quick, imagine a cab driver. Unless you live in London, or outside what we call The Western World (a term which is itself a generalization so broad it could almost be considered a stereotype), I'm going to assume (due to my own bigotry) that you imagine a brown-skinned fellow with a strange accent, who was a lawyer/doctor/businessman in his home country. And you wouldn't be entirelly incorrect. Ethnic minorities are highly overrepresented in the western cab business. Becoming a cabbie does not require a lot of skill (as opposed to becoming a good cabbie), and we're always in demand. Thus, its a popular job for those who for various reasons couldn't get a job elsewhere, a cathegory under which many members of ethnic/cultural minorities find themselves.
As an eloquent, well-educated white dude with roots in the upper middle class, I am often met with relief when my customers find that I'm not one of those nasty brown-skinned people who come here to steal our jobs, wellfare and women.
I fucking despise it.
So what can I do? I can't change human nature and I can't change an entire culture. And I'm not so arrogant as to think that I can change a person's entire outlook in the short time they spend in my car. But what I can do is show them directly that the world is in fact bigger than their bigotry. What they do with that knowledge is up to them (though my hopes aren't particularly high).
I'm a firm believer in not only choosing my battles, but also choosing my weapons. Different people require different approaches. Sometimes I engage them in friendly discussion, forcing them through socratic questioning to examine their beliefs, until they realize that they don't have a leg to stand on. At other times I will simply hear them out and suggest to them that they google the phrase confirmation bias. And, if the person is particularly loathsome, I will tell them that if I have to listen any further to their racist bullshit, they'll be walking home.
STORY
But my favourite weapon is the Minority Card. It's a simple, hilarious, and morally questionable card to play. To put it simply, when someone makes a bigotted comment, I assume the cultural identity of whatever group the comment is aimed toward. Due to my own ethnicity, I'm limited to mainly religious identities, and perhaps that's a good thing.
Now, before I continue, I want you to understand that I don't do this lightly. Nor do I do it often. It is only rarely that this behaviour is even vaguely apropriate. I also take care not to play into stereotypes or in any way misrepresent them. Whatever expression I use, it is firmly based in fact. Even so, the very fact that I would dare to speak for a culture that is not my own is in itself problematic (even offensive). So I tend to tread carefully, never doing anything to deliberately fuel or confirm their bigotry. I don't try to ridicule, partially because that is not how I do, but also because a confirmed bigot will have no trouble tying his own ridiculus noose.
Last summer I was on Theatre Street, waiting for a fare. It was a slowish evening, and I wasn't really in the mood for anything. I just wanted my fares, my money, and my bed, in that order. So I wasn't particularly happy. There was a knock at my window and a girl leaned in.
"Hi, are you my cab?"
"That depends. What's your name?"
"Lisa. to Landwood?"
"That sounds about-"
Suddenly, a wild douche bag appeared. Popped collar, turned cap (nevermind that we left the nineties behind for a good reason), the full nine yards. His face was flushed and his eyes were glazed. Crumpled in his fist was a 500 sek bill.
"Three hundred off the meter to Landwood!"
Stifling the urge to strangle him by rolling up the window, I glared at him.
"Look here-"
"Three fifty!"
"In case you didn't notice, I was talking to the lady. Please step back."
She returned, looking worried.
"You Lisa?" I asked. "Heading to Landwood?"
"Yes," she said. "Is that right?"
"It is. Welcome in."
I unlocked the door. I saw Douche Baggins grab the handle. It is not uncommon for unrepentantly awful people to try to weasel themselves into a cab that's not their own, especially if they are going the same way as the current fare is. And, as if he wanted to get himself murdered, Mr. Baggins climbed into the shotgun seat. When Lisa and her boyfriend didn't protest this, I realized to my horror that Mr. Baggins was a part of her company.
I turned on the meter.
"No, bro!" cried Mr. Baggins. "Off the meter!"
I ignored him. Landwood is an area way outside of town. I figured that this fare would take a lot of time, earn me a lot of money, and drive me to suicide if I even for one moment engaged with the bastard sitting next to me. So I turned up the stereo a notch or two and zoned out, switching on the mental auto-pilot all cabbies develop at some point in their career. I was aware that there was a conversation of sorts going on between Mr. Baggins and Lisa, but I couldn't hear what was being said. That is, until Mr. Baggins finished a sentence by saying:
"...but of course, I couldn't say that if a towelhead had been driving the cab."
I almost ignored it. I almost filed his words under Stupid Shit Conceited People Say. In fact, for that split second, I made up my mind to do just that. Then I opened my mouth.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, that I couldn't say that, if you'd been a towelhead."
"What do you mean by towelhead? A muslim?"
"Well," he said, suddenly hesitant. "yeah."
"But I am a muslim."
"Bullshit!"
"It's true. And I find what you're saying horribly offensive."
"You're lying!"
"I'm not."
"I don't believe you."
"I couldn't give a damn about what you believe, sir. That's my faith. Whether you believe me is irrelevant."
The fare would prove to be quite enjoyable after all.
"Actually, I'm from Somalia."
A common problem we face in the western world is the phenomenon of "Not Racist But". We've all seen it: a grossly racist remark prefaced by a disclaimer, made without a trace of irony. The phenomenon is so ingrained in our culture that you're almost tempted to think that there truly is no racism in the world, just a whole lot of horrible people of various non-caucasian ethnicities.
Now, I personally subscribe to the view that true, born-and-bred racists, people who genuinely and actively despise other people because of the colour of their skin / differences of culture are a minority. In a world of six billion people, I think only a few (but still far, far too many) are genuine racists. However, I also believe that out of six billion people, the amount who are genuinely not bigoted are so small a minority, that they are utterly irrelevant in any serious discussion of the human condition.
Tl;dr: Few people are racists, but everybody is a bigot, one way or the other.
(Students of sociology, psychology or, hell, any kind of humanity-related academia can skip the next few paragraphs. Continue reading under the header "STORY")
Before you gasp and angrily tell me that I'm an asshole for calling you a bigot, let try to explain my view. Human beings are creatures of immense complexity. The ways we express ourselves, be it through language, culture or habit, are infinitely varied. We are complex beings in a complex universe, made even more complex by our own complex expressions.. Butwe have our limits. Our brain hangs off an evolutionary branch millions of years long. From that same branch hangs the brains of apes, monkeys, lemurs, and endless other species.
We may be the most astounding species of ape, but in the end we are still apes.
So what's an ape to do, in a world that is in essence immeasurably complex and strange? The ape can't hold the entire world in its head. Why would it? Its got bananas to eat, trees to climb, and feces to fling. So, instead of trying to process the entirety of Existence and blowing every neural fuse it has in the process, the ape simplifies the world. It filters out and organizes the various aspects of world in order of relevance to its its own existence. The ape cathegorizes the world.
That is essentially what bigotry is. A survival instinct, created to allow our primate brains to function in a dangerous world that's far larger than it can grasp. All stereotypes have their founding in a kernel of truth, interpreted from a limited perspective, creating a perceived reality so limited as to be considered false. None of us are entirelly free of it.
What makes human beings so amazing is that we have the capacity of being aware of the limits of our perspective. Having an open mind does not mean accepting everything, but rather questioning everything. Having an open mind is the ability to ask "Hey, could it be that I'm the asshole in all this?"
Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that an open mind is nothing something you have, but something you have to make a conscious effort every day to attain. It's the difference between knowledge and belief; between awareness and instinct. And when push comes to shove, instinct tends to win, regardless of knowledge.
All right, Crabby, I hear you groan. We get it. You want people to be less ignorant and more considerate. What does this have to do with wasting your life away behind a steering wheel?
I'm glad you asked. Because the answer is EVERYTHING.
Quick, imagine a cab driver. Unless you live in London, or outside what we call The Western World (a term which is itself a generalization so broad it could almost be considered a stereotype), I'm going to assume (due to my own bigotry) that you imagine a brown-skinned fellow with a strange accent, who was a lawyer/doctor/businessman in his home country. And you wouldn't be entirelly incorrect. Ethnic minorities are highly overrepresented in the western cab business. Becoming a cabbie does not require a lot of skill (as opposed to becoming a good cabbie), and we're always in demand. Thus, its a popular job for those who for various reasons couldn't get a job elsewhere, a cathegory under which many members of ethnic/cultural minorities find themselves.
As an eloquent, well-educated white dude with roots in the upper middle class, I am often met with relief when my customers find that I'm not one of those nasty brown-skinned people who come here to steal our jobs, wellfare and women.
I fucking despise it.
So what can I do? I can't change human nature and I can't change an entire culture. And I'm not so arrogant as to think that I can change a person's entire outlook in the short time they spend in my car. But what I can do is show them directly that the world is in fact bigger than their bigotry. What they do with that knowledge is up to them (though my hopes aren't particularly high).
I'm a firm believer in not only choosing my battles, but also choosing my weapons. Different people require different approaches. Sometimes I engage them in friendly discussion, forcing them through socratic questioning to examine their beliefs, until they realize that they don't have a leg to stand on. At other times I will simply hear them out and suggest to them that they google the phrase confirmation bias. And, if the person is particularly loathsome, I will tell them that if I have to listen any further to their racist bullshit, they'll be walking home.
STORY
But my favourite weapon is the Minority Card. It's a simple, hilarious, and morally questionable card to play. To put it simply, when someone makes a bigotted comment, I assume the cultural identity of whatever group the comment is aimed toward. Due to my own ethnicity, I'm limited to mainly religious identities, and perhaps that's a good thing.
Now, before I continue, I want you to understand that I don't do this lightly. Nor do I do it often. It is only rarely that this behaviour is even vaguely apropriate. I also take care not to play into stereotypes or in any way misrepresent them. Whatever expression I use, it is firmly based in fact. Even so, the very fact that I would dare to speak for a culture that is not my own is in itself problematic (even offensive). So I tend to tread carefully, never doing anything to deliberately fuel or confirm their bigotry. I don't try to ridicule, partially because that is not how I do, but also because a confirmed bigot will have no trouble tying his own ridiculus noose.
Last summer I was on Theatre Street, waiting for a fare. It was a slowish evening, and I wasn't really in the mood for anything. I just wanted my fares, my money, and my bed, in that order. So I wasn't particularly happy. There was a knock at my window and a girl leaned in.
"Hi, are you my cab?"
"That depends. What's your name?"
"Lisa. to Landwood?"
"That sounds about-"
Suddenly, a wild douche bag appeared. Popped collar, turned cap (nevermind that we left the nineties behind for a good reason), the full nine yards. His face was flushed and his eyes were glazed. Crumpled in his fist was a 500 sek bill.
"Three hundred off the meter to Landwood!"
Stifling the urge to strangle him by rolling up the window, I glared at him.
"Look here-"
"Three fifty!"
"In case you didn't notice, I was talking to the lady. Please step back."
She returned, looking worried.
"You Lisa?" I asked. "Heading to Landwood?"
"Yes," she said. "Is that right?"
"It is. Welcome in."
I unlocked the door. I saw Douche Baggins grab the handle. It is not uncommon for unrepentantly awful people to try to weasel themselves into a cab that's not their own, especially if they are going the same way as the current fare is. And, as if he wanted to get himself murdered, Mr. Baggins climbed into the shotgun seat. When Lisa and her boyfriend didn't protest this, I realized to my horror that Mr. Baggins was a part of her company.
I turned on the meter.
"No, bro!" cried Mr. Baggins. "Off the meter!"
I ignored him. Landwood is an area way outside of town. I figured that this fare would take a lot of time, earn me a lot of money, and drive me to suicide if I even for one moment engaged with the bastard sitting next to me. So I turned up the stereo a notch or two and zoned out, switching on the mental auto-pilot all cabbies develop at some point in their career. I was aware that there was a conversation of sorts going on between Mr. Baggins and Lisa, but I couldn't hear what was being said. That is, until Mr. Baggins finished a sentence by saying:
"...but of course, I couldn't say that if a towelhead had been driving the cab."
I almost ignored it. I almost filed his words under Stupid Shit Conceited People Say. In fact, for that split second, I made up my mind to do just that. Then I opened my mouth.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, that I couldn't say that, if you'd been a towelhead."
"What do you mean by towelhead? A muslim?"
"Well," he said, suddenly hesitant. "yeah."
"But I am a muslim."
"Bullshit!"
"It's true. And I find what you're saying horribly offensive."
"You're lying!"
"I'm not."
"I don't believe you."
"I couldn't give a damn about what you believe, sir. That's my faith. Whether you believe me is irrelevant."
The fare would prove to be quite enjoyable after all.
Friday 24 January 2014
If you ain't broke, don't fix the rate.
"A fixed rate? About 600 sek. But if that's too hefty for you, we can run it on the meter."
"And how much would that cost?"
"90 sek."
"Oh... Let's go with the meter then."
"Let's."
I've mentioned before that I don't get paid by the hour, but by fares. As a cabbie, I am entitled to about 40% of the total amount racked up by the meter. After taxes and various surcharges, I go home with about 33%. On a decent night, I get about 3000 sek, out of which 1000 sek are mine, not including the tips. In essence, I only get paid for the time that the meter is actually ticking.
Thus, every minute is precious to me. There's nothing as stressful as a slow night, because slow nights mean less pay. Conversely, if business is booming and there's no end to fares, I find myself at my most serene. I can pick and choose, because no matter what happens, there will always be another fare. I call it the Inverted Pyramid of Stress.
"And how much would that cost?"
"90 sek."
"Oh... Let's go with the meter then."
"Let's."
I've mentioned before that I don't get paid by the hour, but by fares. As a cabbie, I am entitled to about 40% of the total amount racked up by the meter. After taxes and various surcharges, I go home with about 33%. On a decent night, I get about 3000 sek, out of which 1000 sek are mine, not including the tips. In essence, I only get paid for the time that the meter is actually ticking.
Thus, every minute is precious to me. There's nothing as stressful as a slow night, because slow nights mean less pay. Conversely, if business is booming and there's no end to fares, I find myself at my most serene. I can pick and choose, because no matter what happens, there will always be another fare. I call it the Inverted Pyramid of Stress.
Most people don't know this. Most people think I have some kind of fixed income, plus whatever comission I make. I always smile at this. What a lovely dream! If I had any kind of fixed ground income, there would be nights where I'd simply find a cheap parking spot and leave the car there overnight. Either that, or I'd be mandatet to sit in the car a certain amount of hours. Since the total control over my work-hours is main thing that makes this work bearable, I am, if not happy, at least content with this arrangement.
But as I said, most people don't know this. Most people think I get paid regardless, and so a lot of people will try to haggle with me, try to get me to accept that hated, HATED concept of the Fixed Rate. And if I were a less than honest man (or an indie, though the difference between the two is a matter of philosophy), I'd accept every time and pocket the money without registering it on the meter. After all, 200 sek on the meter will net me 60 sek, whereas 200 sek off the meter will net me 200.
The only times I accept fixed rates is either on extremely long fares that will take more than an hour (and those are extremely rare), or if I'm feeling charitable. And while I'm at bottom a big softie, rarely do people merit charity.
Some people will demand a fixed rate for other reasons. A lot of people think (often with good reason, sadly) that cabbies will try to scam them.. As I've explained earlier, there are reasons why this is a thing. I don't know how many times I've cursed over a Taxi K driver or an indie crawling down the street in front of me, crawling in order to milk as much cash they can out of the meter. It's disgusting. Understandable, but disgusting nonetheless. So, demanding a fixed rate is a sensible way of assuring yourself that your cabbie won't rip you off
Whenever people opine that I might be scamming them by taking a longer route or refusing a fixed rate, I say:
"This is Taxi M. The amount of money I make per fare is pittance. Even if I wasn't as honest as I am, I'd have to drive through half the province and back before I'd make a profit from ripping you off."
"This is Taxi M. The amount of money I make per fare is pittance. Even if I wasn't as honest as I am, I'd have to drive through half the province and back before I'd make a profit from ripping you off."
People usually accept this with a laugh.
But sometimes I don't feel like engaging in a discussion on the subject. So I offer them a ridiculusly high fixed rate, one so high that only an idiot would accept it. And most people do not consider themselves idiots (regardless of contrary evidence), and decide to go by the meter instead.
But every once in a while, they fail to understand what I'm trying to do. And that's where I skirt dangerously close to dishonesty.
I got two stories. One in which I did something borderline illegal, but morally acceptable. The other where I did something totally legal, but morally debatable.
This happened last summer. I had just dropped off a flock of drunken 20somethings at a club on Grand Street. I leaned back in my seat and took a deep breath. Business was booming tonight. I could afford a short break.
Suddenly there was a knock on my window and a couple were looking at me. The girl was dressed in some sort of gaudy sequinned top and hot pants, wobbling like a tree in a storm. The guy was, like so many guys, dressed in clothing so bland that it either meant he had no fashion sense, or counted on his own manly charisma to ooze through his sweatpants and hoodie, rather than copious alcohol fumes. Whether or not he succeeded, I leave a mystery.
"Heeeeeey," said the girl when I had rolled down the window. "How much for Victoria street?"
"Victoria street? You mean, Victoria street that's barely a five minute walk down the block?"
"Yeah! How much! A fixed rate!"
I decided not to fight the urge to roll my eyes (I did, however, fight the urge to call her out for being a lazy ass). "Look, miss. I'm not going to drive you. I'm sorry."
"Oh come ooon! How much!"
I sighed. "If I'd drive you there, while running the meter, it'll cost you barely 40 sek, if that."
"40 sek! We'll take it!"
"However, if I decide to drive you, I'd want cash up front. And I wouldn't accept any less than 100. So just to be clear, if I drove you, I'd be overcharging you by 100%. So I suggest you save that 100, and walk the three minutes it takes to get there."
"Noooo! 100 it is!"
And 100 it was. I'd like to say I'm not proud of that moment, but really... I made the premises clear. She accepted them. In the end, to make it legal, I typed in 5 sek on the meter. 95 went into my pocket, officially as a tip.
Second story happened about two years ago. I was way out in Short Valley, a low-income suburb in the eastern part of town. THey were headed to the south, a bunch of kids barely into their 20s. Young, pretty and kings of the world. Sadly, they have yet to learn that the world is a republic.
"Hey man, can we do a fixed rate?"
"Sure! Six hundred sek!" (this for a trip that would cost around 200)
"Oh man, that's a bit too much. How about 500?"
"Five hundred?" I asked, not really believing what I was hearing.
"Five hundred?" I asked, not really believing what I was hearing.
Suddenly one of his friends pushed him aside and climbed into the cab. "Get out of here, you idiot. Motherfucker's trying to overcharge you."
He then looked at me and gestured. "you and me, we both know how this works."
"Oh do we now?" I said, smiling thinly.
"Yeah. I know that you're trying to gyp us. So we won't pay any more than 450."
"Yeah. I know that you're trying to gyp us. So we won't pay any more than 450."
This is where I could've informed him of what I was doing and why. But by now, I had decided that I despised his drunken arrogance.
"Wow... you got me, sir. You drive a hard bargain. 450 it is."
Down the line, I'm going to write a survival guide on how to avoid getting scammed by taxi drivers. But until then, I leave you with this: The meter is your friend. The meter is there to assure that the driver doesn't overcharge, and that you don't underpay. This is the age of smartphones. It's a minority that doesn't have a fully functioning GPS navigator in their pockets. If you don't 100% trust your cabbie (and again, there are often good reasons not to), trust google maps, and make sure your driver stays on the right path. Fixed rates are only for when company policy prescribes it, the driver offers, or if you in no way, shape or form trust your driver.
Because in the end, we get paid by the fare. We have every reason to make it as expensive as possible.
Wednesday 22 January 2014
The Code
"I'm going to give you a simple choice: Either you shut the hell up, or walk the rest of the way home."
My boss is a decent fellow. The rule of thumb is, play straight by him and he'll play straight by you. He is a good guy, and while I don't always enjoy working, I do enjoy that its him I'm working for. I do. Let that be a disclaimer, because at times, it becomes very clear that he hasn't been behind the wheel for a long time.
After a shift where I had thrown out and called the cops on two separate fares (a story I will share at a later date), he took me aside to check up on me, and berate me. I told him my side of things, and he grudgingly approved. But then he said:
"Crabby, I've been in this business for years. Not once have I thrown someone out or denied someone service."
"I find that hard to believe."
"No, seriously. If it comes to actually throwing somebody out of the car, you should consider that a failure."
I consider it a victory, I thought. Then I said: "Isn't that my right? To deny service if I see fit?"
"Yes, that is your right, but it should be a last resort, like if you're actually under threat."
"So I can't throw someone out for being an asshole?"
"You can, but you shouldn't. If you do your job right, they won't be assholes. And even if they are, all you have to do is grin and bear it until they pay you."
"... You're saying I have to grovel, in order to get paid."
"I'm saying that you've got principles, and I respect that. I do too. But when you're wearing that uniform, those principles have to take a back-seat. You've worked for me for two years now. By know you should know that you can't avoid shitty people. As a cabbie, you can't afford principles."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can't afford principles?"
"Look, I've driven people who I would've knocked right the fuck out in my free time. But behind the wheel, its not my place. My place is to take them to their destination, take their money and forget about them. unless they actually threaten me or try to hinder me in my work. I mean, hell, twice you've refused to drive Mickey (one of our VIP customers), handing the fare over to someone else."
"Mickey is scum. That's my opinion. I'd also rather avoid servicing him and people like him if I can."
"But see, that's the thing. You can't refuse service because you don't like someone."
"And I don't. I only refuse service if I can help it, which I most often can't. If he ends up in my cab, its not as if I will throw him out, or try to pick a fight with him. But that doesn't mean I am prepared to smile and bow to him either."
"Driving a cab is like running a hospital. You can't refuse service because someone is acting like an idiot, or is homeless, or whatever."
"I get that, boss. And as long as the person doesn't mess with me or anyone else in the cab, I don't have an issue. But if I know the customer and I know what that person is capable of, and we have a sour history, wouldn't it be better for everyone involved if he ended up with a cabbie who hasn't flipped him off?"
"You flipped him off???"
"Figure of speech, boss."
I conceded finally. Not just for the sake of peace, but also because he has a point. A great amount of my customers are awful people, and if I refused them all, I'd be well below the poverty line. But I also pointed out that though I'm a sucker for principle, my principles have been stretched and modified extensively since I started working as a cabbie. Today, I will turn a blind eye to shit if it doens't concern me or anyone else in the car directly, whereas back in the day I would leap at any chance of righteousness. Its a survival strategy.
However, I do have a code. Put simply is this:
Do not attempt to humiliate me.
Do not attempt to humiliate anybody else.
Do not touch any of my instruments, or otherwise interfere with my work.
All of these offenses will be met with a warning, or getting thrown out of the cab. If I'm feeling charitable, I might drop you off at the nearest bus stop.
Back in the day, the code was simply: "do not be an asshole toward me," and everything else I let fly. The third rule was instituted after I got sick of people playing with the heating and the stereo (a topic that will get its own entry).
The second rule is one of my most important ones. Following it allows me to look myself in the mirror after the shift is over. And it was instituted when I was about nine months into my cabbing career.
I was in place called Isthmus, on the outskirts of town. Isthmus is one of the rural-area-turned-to-suburb places full of fancy buildings and affluent people. Kinda like the Hollywood Hills. Here I hit the jackpot. A fare from Isthmus to King's Hill, a neighbouring town. Easily 450 sek, maybe more. So I arrived at the address and awaited my customer.
It was in the summer and they had been to a barbecue. I saw them, a man and a woman in their late thirties, both handsome and stylish. Successful, career driven people. If they had kids, it was recently. I watched them hug their friends goodbye and get into the cab.
"Grand Street, King's Hill please."
"Right you are, sir."
They didn't seem to be the chatty type of customers, and I wasn't really in a sociable mood so I decided to just keep my mouth shut and drive, content to simply listen to their conversation.
"That was a great party, wasn't it honey?" he said with that gregarious, energetic voice I associate with anyone who views the world in terms of business.
"Mhm," she responded, sounding thoughtful. "It was lovely. But I don't really like what you said back there..."
"What? What's the problem?"
I can't remember what she said. Something about a joke he had made had bothered her, but she had kept silent in order to not ruin the mood. The conversation got progressively darker. Sensing where this was heading, she tried to back out, but he wouldn't have it. He grew increasingly aggressive until the whole thing just exploded.
"Shut up! I don't want to hear another word out of you, you stupid fucking cunt!"
This is not where the abuse began or ended. It only sums up the content of it. For the rest of the trip, she was weeping, trying to keep quiet, while he kept growling and grunting, occasionally throwing in an insult or a cruel word, maybe just to get a rise out of her, settling back into grumbling to himself when she didn't do anything but try to keep her tears under control.
Throughout all of this, I kept silent. In my head I was screaming: "DO SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT! THROW HIM OUT! BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM! DRAG HIM BEHIND THE CAR BY HIS DICK! ANYTHING, JUST DON'T SIT THERE LIKE AN IDIOT!"
But I said nothing. And the remaining twenty minutes of the ride stretched into eternity. Him grumbling, her crying, me self-loathing.
After I dropped them off, I heard him say: "Wipe those tears. Don't let the kids see what a mess you are."
I sat silently for a long time, boiling with fury and shame. By the time I returned to the city, I had resolved to never let shit like that fly in my cab again. Bullies would be given no quarter if I could help it. And so, my code expanded. If you humiliate or otherwise make anyone else in my car feel like shit, you will hear it.
For all I know, she was an awful person. A terrible wife, who made his life a living hell, and what I saw was the culmination of months of frustration. I doubt it, but its possible. Even so, the moment you humiliate someone before a stranger, the moment you invite a stranger to pass judgment over that person, YOU are the bad guy. If you are not strong enough to stand on your own, but need an audience so you can shame someone, you are an asshole.
I can't save the men and women who get routinely bullied by their spouses and friends. But I'll be damned if I will tolerate being party to it. And I'll be damned if I will ever accept their money.
Bullies can only bully others as long as they get away with it.
In my cab, they don't.
My boss is a decent fellow. The rule of thumb is, play straight by him and he'll play straight by you. He is a good guy, and while I don't always enjoy working, I do enjoy that its him I'm working for. I do. Let that be a disclaimer, because at times, it becomes very clear that he hasn't been behind the wheel for a long time.
After a shift where I had thrown out and called the cops on two separate fares (a story I will share at a later date), he took me aside to check up on me, and berate me. I told him my side of things, and he grudgingly approved. But then he said:
"Crabby, I've been in this business for years. Not once have I thrown someone out or denied someone service."
"I find that hard to believe."
"No, seriously. If it comes to actually throwing somebody out of the car, you should consider that a failure."
I consider it a victory, I thought. Then I said: "Isn't that my right? To deny service if I see fit?"
"Yes, that is your right, but it should be a last resort, like if you're actually under threat."
"So I can't throw someone out for being an asshole?"
"You can, but you shouldn't. If you do your job right, they won't be assholes. And even if they are, all you have to do is grin and bear it until they pay you."
"... You're saying I have to grovel, in order to get paid."
"I'm saying that you've got principles, and I respect that. I do too. But when you're wearing that uniform, those principles have to take a back-seat. You've worked for me for two years now. By know you should know that you can't avoid shitty people. As a cabbie, you can't afford principles."
I raised an eyebrow. "Can't afford principles?"
"Look, I've driven people who I would've knocked right the fuck out in my free time. But behind the wheel, its not my place. My place is to take them to their destination, take their money and forget about them. unless they actually threaten me or try to hinder me in my work. I mean, hell, twice you've refused to drive Mickey (one of our VIP customers), handing the fare over to someone else."
"Mickey is scum. That's my opinion. I'd also rather avoid servicing him and people like him if I can."
"But see, that's the thing. You can't refuse service because you don't like someone."
"And I don't. I only refuse service if I can help it, which I most often can't. If he ends up in my cab, its not as if I will throw him out, or try to pick a fight with him. But that doesn't mean I am prepared to smile and bow to him either."
"Driving a cab is like running a hospital. You can't refuse service because someone is acting like an idiot, or is homeless, or whatever."
"I get that, boss. And as long as the person doesn't mess with me or anyone else in the cab, I don't have an issue. But if I know the customer and I know what that person is capable of, and we have a sour history, wouldn't it be better for everyone involved if he ended up with a cabbie who hasn't flipped him off?"
"You flipped him off???"
"Figure of speech, boss."
I conceded finally. Not just for the sake of peace, but also because he has a point. A great amount of my customers are awful people, and if I refused them all, I'd be well below the poverty line. But I also pointed out that though I'm a sucker for principle, my principles have been stretched and modified extensively since I started working as a cabbie. Today, I will turn a blind eye to shit if it doens't concern me or anyone else in the car directly, whereas back in the day I would leap at any chance of righteousness. Its a survival strategy.
However, I do have a code. Put simply is this:
Do not attempt to humiliate me.
Do not attempt to humiliate anybody else.
Do not touch any of my instruments, or otherwise interfere with my work.
All of these offenses will be met with a warning, or getting thrown out of the cab. If I'm feeling charitable, I might drop you off at the nearest bus stop.
Back in the day, the code was simply: "do not be an asshole toward me," and everything else I let fly. The third rule was instituted after I got sick of people playing with the heating and the stereo (a topic that will get its own entry).
The second rule is one of my most important ones. Following it allows me to look myself in the mirror after the shift is over. And it was instituted when I was about nine months into my cabbing career.
I was in place called Isthmus, on the outskirts of town. Isthmus is one of the rural-area-turned-to-suburb places full of fancy buildings and affluent people. Kinda like the Hollywood Hills. Here I hit the jackpot. A fare from Isthmus to King's Hill, a neighbouring town. Easily 450 sek, maybe more. So I arrived at the address and awaited my customer.
It was in the summer and they had been to a barbecue. I saw them, a man and a woman in their late thirties, both handsome and stylish. Successful, career driven people. If they had kids, it was recently. I watched them hug their friends goodbye and get into the cab.
"Grand Street, King's Hill please."
"Right you are, sir."
They didn't seem to be the chatty type of customers, and I wasn't really in a sociable mood so I decided to just keep my mouth shut and drive, content to simply listen to their conversation.
"That was a great party, wasn't it honey?" he said with that gregarious, energetic voice I associate with anyone who views the world in terms of business.
"Mhm," she responded, sounding thoughtful. "It was lovely. But I don't really like what you said back there..."
"What? What's the problem?"
I can't remember what she said. Something about a joke he had made had bothered her, but she had kept silent in order to not ruin the mood. The conversation got progressively darker. Sensing where this was heading, she tried to back out, but he wouldn't have it. He grew increasingly aggressive until the whole thing just exploded.
"Shut up! I don't want to hear another word out of you, you stupid fucking cunt!"
This is not where the abuse began or ended. It only sums up the content of it. For the rest of the trip, she was weeping, trying to keep quiet, while he kept growling and grunting, occasionally throwing in an insult or a cruel word, maybe just to get a rise out of her, settling back into grumbling to himself when she didn't do anything but try to keep her tears under control.
Throughout all of this, I kept silent. In my head I was screaming: "DO SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT! THROW HIM OUT! BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM! DRAG HIM BEHIND THE CAR BY HIS DICK! ANYTHING, JUST DON'T SIT THERE LIKE AN IDIOT!"
But I said nothing. And the remaining twenty minutes of the ride stretched into eternity. Him grumbling, her crying, me self-loathing.
After I dropped them off, I heard him say: "Wipe those tears. Don't let the kids see what a mess you are."
I sat silently for a long time, boiling with fury and shame. By the time I returned to the city, I had resolved to never let shit like that fly in my cab again. Bullies would be given no quarter if I could help it. And so, my code expanded. If you humiliate or otherwise make anyone else in my car feel like shit, you will hear it.
For all I know, she was an awful person. A terrible wife, who made his life a living hell, and what I saw was the culmination of months of frustration. I doubt it, but its possible. Even so, the moment you humiliate someone before a stranger, the moment you invite a stranger to pass judgment over that person, YOU are the bad guy. If you are not strong enough to stand on your own, but need an audience so you can shame someone, you are an asshole.
I can't save the men and women who get routinely bullied by their spouses and friends. But I'll be damned if I will tolerate being party to it. And I'll be damned if I will ever accept their money.
Bullies can only bully others as long as they get away with it.
In my cab, they don't.
Tuesday 21 January 2014
Pushing pills.
"If you really want this job, I need to know; are you prepared to drive liars, killers, thieves and drug dealers?"
"Yes, provided I get to drive a few normal people too."
I have a confession. I am guilty of aiding and abetting criminal activity. And I'm not alone. While I doubt that any cabbie in his right mind (which is an oxymoron, but that's for a later entry) would ever drive, say, a getaway car, we do service all kinds of scum and villainy. After all, pecunia non olet. If we were to apply a rigid legal code and only drive people with clean records, we'd lose a significant amount of customers. And I've driven people to their dealers, from their dealers, and even been given the proposition to help a bunch of scoundrels smuggle stolen copper out of town (I declined). Hell, I'm also quite sure I picked up a goon who had just finished beating someone who owed him money, judging from the conversation we had.
I've mentioned the importance of integrity, and I do my best to maintain mine. However, as a cabbie you are quite exposed and sometimes, the most sensible course of action is to turn a blind eye to some of the customers activities. At other times, calling the police and/or getting the hell away is just as sensible. This is not to say that I'd continue to serve someone I knew had just comitted murder or burglary. But like anyone in the service business knows, some of your customers will be pretty nasty, and making sure they keep that nasty directed away from you is par for the course.
However, this story is from my first year of cabbing. At that point, I was still fresh and innocent, with a twinkle in my eye, and with no real understanding of where I stood in the cabbie/cabbee relationship. I had not yet developed the strict code of Shit I Won't Tolerate In My Vehicle that I adhere to these days. Hell, I had only recently made the transition from the day-shift to night, and had only begun to discover wretched hive that all cities turn into once the sun goes down..
So, I picked up this youngish guy at Fortification Square, which is at the edge of town center. He wasn't going far; only down to Dyke Street, to a bar known for its low age limit and excessive brawling (can't have one without the other). I silently cursed him for the short fare, but I remained professional.
The guy was in his early twenties, dressed like the bastard offspring of a gangsta rapper and a douche bro, sideways cap and all. His manners suggested that he was large and in charge, kind of like a dog whose owners have failed to establish dominance. I'm sure you know the kind. If not, I sincerely hope you continue to live your astoundingly peaceful life without interruption.
"So, Dyke Street, eh?"
"Yeah, but we gotta make a stop first. A couple."
"All right", I said, inwardly cheering. Stops = more time = more money.
"Yeah, take me to Grand Street."
What followed was small-talk so inconsequential I can't remember a word of it. Most likely it was about the weather, about how many cars Taxi M has in its fleet, how business was, etc etc. We arrived at Grand Street, and Gangsta Bro stepped out of the car. I leaned back and waited foir his return. Outside the car was another guy cut from the same cloth as he. They greeted each other with one of those manhugs that start out as a handshake and turn into an embrace. They chatted, I zoned out. Another hugshake, and then Gangsta Bro returned.
"All right, man. Next stop Green Square."
Green Square was barely two minutes from Grand Street, and barely three from Dyke Street. Still, no complaints. Already I had made the amount that I would've made, had I taken him straight to his final destination. At Green square another guy was waiting for us. This one with the slicked back hair and expensive jeans of the upper class brats (I say that without malice. Brat is the colloquial term, used both by the brats themselves and the people around them). Gangsta Bro exited the cab, and repeated the procedure, hugshake and all. But I noticed something. Something changed hands, and suddenly Gangsta Bro had a wad of cash he stuffed into his front pockets.
In my paranoid, unjaded mind, I immediately wondered if Gangsta Bro was a drug dealer.
"Allright, take me to King's Square."
King's Square was barely a block away from Green Square, and Dyke Street was right next to it. Awaiting us were a gaggle of other Gangsta Bros. This time I kept a close eye on them. Hugshakes all around. And then I saw it. A packet of pills, exchanged for another wad of cash.
Well... Fuck me.
I immediately decided to keep my mouth shut. Not my problem, out of sight, out of mind, etc.
"All right, dude. Let's go."
Maybe he sensed something in me. Perhaps I was too quiet. Whatever the case, he pulled out a packet of blue pills and said: "Wanna buy some?"
Weighing my words carefully, I said: "Depends... What are they?"
"Viagra, man. The real stuff."
I noted that all his customers were men in their twenties. He waved that away. Apparently there's a huge market in this town for Viagra. The young men of this country enjoy getting shitfaced, much like the young women, as well as everybody. But the young men also enjoy getting laid. And so, whiskey dick is a very real problem. A predicament. How can are we to drink ourselves back to the ape-ages and still maintain the ability to perform sexually? Viagra, my friends.
And Gangsta Bro had a great connection. He had a friend in australia who bought the stuff over the counter, and sent it over here for a fee. Then Gangsta Bro would sell it on the streets, using some of the proceeds to pay for the cab that would take him to his clients.
The free market in its purest form, ladies and gentlemen.
I looked at the pills, and bit back laughter. "Nah, man. I don't need it."
"You sure, man? This will keep you hard for hours."
"How about this? If ever a lady complains, I'll look you up."
He laughed. "You do that, man! You know where to find me."
We arrived at Dyke street, where he paid and walked off into the night, safe in the knowledge that thanks to him, there would be a few less whispered "It's ok, it happens to everyone".
So, if any of my readers have trouble performing, drop me an email. I know a guy.
"Yes, provided I get to drive a few normal people too."
I have a confession. I am guilty of aiding and abetting criminal activity. And I'm not alone. While I doubt that any cabbie in his right mind (which is an oxymoron, but that's for a later entry) would ever drive, say, a getaway car, we do service all kinds of scum and villainy. After all, pecunia non olet. If we were to apply a rigid legal code and only drive people with clean records, we'd lose a significant amount of customers. And I've driven people to their dealers, from their dealers, and even been given the proposition to help a bunch of scoundrels smuggle stolen copper out of town (I declined). Hell, I'm also quite sure I picked up a goon who had just finished beating someone who owed him money, judging from the conversation we had.
I've mentioned the importance of integrity, and I do my best to maintain mine. However, as a cabbie you are quite exposed and sometimes, the most sensible course of action is to turn a blind eye to some of the customers activities. At other times, calling the police and/or getting the hell away is just as sensible. This is not to say that I'd continue to serve someone I knew had just comitted murder or burglary. But like anyone in the service business knows, some of your customers will be pretty nasty, and making sure they keep that nasty directed away from you is par for the course.
However, this story is from my first year of cabbing. At that point, I was still fresh and innocent, with a twinkle in my eye, and with no real understanding of where I stood in the cabbie/cabbee relationship. I had not yet developed the strict code of Shit I Won't Tolerate In My Vehicle that I adhere to these days. Hell, I had only recently made the transition from the day-shift to night, and had only begun to discover wretched hive that all cities turn into once the sun goes down..
So, I picked up this youngish guy at Fortification Square, which is at the edge of town center. He wasn't going far; only down to Dyke Street, to a bar known for its low age limit and excessive brawling (can't have one without the other). I silently cursed him for the short fare, but I remained professional.
The guy was in his early twenties, dressed like the bastard offspring of a gangsta rapper and a douche bro, sideways cap and all. His manners suggested that he was large and in charge, kind of like a dog whose owners have failed to establish dominance. I'm sure you know the kind. If not, I sincerely hope you continue to live your astoundingly peaceful life without interruption.
"So, Dyke Street, eh?"
"Yeah, but we gotta make a stop first. A couple."
"All right", I said, inwardly cheering. Stops = more time = more money.
"Yeah, take me to Grand Street."
What followed was small-talk so inconsequential I can't remember a word of it. Most likely it was about the weather, about how many cars Taxi M has in its fleet, how business was, etc etc. We arrived at Grand Street, and Gangsta Bro stepped out of the car. I leaned back and waited foir his return. Outside the car was another guy cut from the same cloth as he. They greeted each other with one of those manhugs that start out as a handshake and turn into an embrace. They chatted, I zoned out. Another hugshake, and then Gangsta Bro returned.
"All right, man. Next stop Green Square."
Green Square was barely two minutes from Grand Street, and barely three from Dyke Street. Still, no complaints. Already I had made the amount that I would've made, had I taken him straight to his final destination. At Green square another guy was waiting for us. This one with the slicked back hair and expensive jeans of the upper class brats (I say that without malice. Brat is the colloquial term, used both by the brats themselves and the people around them). Gangsta Bro exited the cab, and repeated the procedure, hugshake and all. But I noticed something. Something changed hands, and suddenly Gangsta Bro had a wad of cash he stuffed into his front pockets.
In my paranoid, unjaded mind, I immediately wondered if Gangsta Bro was a drug dealer.
"Allright, take me to King's Square."
King's Square was barely a block away from Green Square, and Dyke Street was right next to it. Awaiting us were a gaggle of other Gangsta Bros. This time I kept a close eye on them. Hugshakes all around. And then I saw it. A packet of pills, exchanged for another wad of cash.
Well... Fuck me.
I immediately decided to keep my mouth shut. Not my problem, out of sight, out of mind, etc.
"All right, dude. Let's go."
Maybe he sensed something in me. Perhaps I was too quiet. Whatever the case, he pulled out a packet of blue pills and said: "Wanna buy some?"
Weighing my words carefully, I said: "Depends... What are they?"
"Viagra, man. The real stuff."
I noted that all his customers were men in their twenties. He waved that away. Apparently there's a huge market in this town for Viagra. The young men of this country enjoy getting shitfaced, much like the young women, as well as everybody. But the young men also enjoy getting laid. And so, whiskey dick is a very real problem. A predicament. How can are we to drink ourselves back to the ape-ages and still maintain the ability to perform sexually? Viagra, my friends.
And Gangsta Bro had a great connection. He had a friend in australia who bought the stuff over the counter, and sent it over here for a fee. Then Gangsta Bro would sell it on the streets, using some of the proceeds to pay for the cab that would take him to his clients.
The free market in its purest form, ladies and gentlemen.
I looked at the pills, and bit back laughter. "Nah, man. I don't need it."
"You sure, man? This will keep you hard for hours."
"How about this? If ever a lady complains, I'll look you up."
He laughed. "You do that, man! You know where to find me."
We arrived at Dyke street, where he paid and walked off into the night, safe in the knowledge that thanks to him, there would be a few less whispered "It's ok, it happens to everyone".
So, if any of my readers have trouble performing, drop me an email. I know a guy.
Monday 20 January 2014
Darwin Cab inc.
"How about a fixed rate?"
"Sir, this is the cheapest cab company in town. Just how stingy are you?"
I live in a country where the cab business has become de-regulated. Back in the day, before my time, regulations were heavy. Each city could only have so many cabs, and so many drivers to steer them. Prices were stable, income was good, and cabbies were seen as legitimate workers, (and not penny-pinching villains, who will either overcharge you, or accept payments in "goods", ie. a piece of ass. Yours.). However, if you wanted to start a cab company with your own spin on how the service was to be rendered, well... Tough luck, buddy. No can do. Take your vile capitalist schemes elsewhere.
Then some time ago, it was de-regulated. Anyone with the right resources and connections could buy a car, register it as a taxi (getting a meter, price-tag, and various other required doodads installed), and then literally go to town, raking in that sweet free-market gold. A new breed of cabbie emerged: the Independents. Free-lancing automobile ronin, competing with other likeminded free men, living off the voluntary exchange between free men, while the established cab companies adjusted their business model in order to keep up and remain relevant.
And now that I've placated Ayn Rand's hungry ghost, let's take a closer look at the situation.
Both systems had their perks. Both have their drawbacks. Since I'm too young to remember what it was like back in the day, and don't know nearly enough about the London cabbies to make a comparison (except that they are the Mister Miyagi to our Ralph Macchio), today we're going to talk about the particular environment in which I work, and where my company fits into the food chain.
So. In my town, there are three major cab companies. There's Taxi G, which is the oldest and most well established company in town. If this were new york, these would be the yellow cabs. THen there's Taxi K, which is a company with a presence in every major city in this country. And finally theres us, Taxi M, which started out 20 years ago with two cars and covered in ads, but carved out a niche as the most dependable, popular, unavailable and (beyond everything else) cheapest company in town.
How do we stay cheap? The reason is as brilliant as it is infuriating: we barely have any cars. While Taxi G and Taxi K each have more than 300 cars associated with them, Taxi M has barely 55. With so few cars, it means that we are a busy bunch. On an average night, a cabbie at Taxi G might have around ten to fifteen fares, whereas I will have between 18 and 23. This means that each fare can cost less, yet the drivers go home with an acceptable pay. It also means, much to the chagrin of anyone who calls us, that we're almost impossible to book the first time you call.
Don't quote me on this, but in conversations with cabbies from other companies, I've learned that I make on average as much as any of them, sometimes even more. We are popular, and even if we weren't, we'd still be busy. You won't find us standing at the central station or at the airport waiting in line for people. No, we are spread out all over the city as we please. We get our fares through ham radio. HQ will either call out the address, and then follows a short free for all where the loudest cabbie will get the fare, or HQ will give the fare directly to whichever cabbie is closest with the longest time since his last fare. This way you're guaranteed at least a couple of fares even on slow nights.
I like this particular business model. I like the reputation it has given us, and the pride we take in maintaining that reputation. Aside from some of the people who end up in your car, there's nothing so suicide-inducing as the time between fares. And we can exist thanks to de-regulation. Had somebody come up with the idea of a low-price cab company thirty years ago, he would've been given the beaurocratic finger. So, thanks to the free-market, I'm able to work in a pretty sweet niche, serving people who are in general very pleased with the service/price ratio we offer. We get a lot of love, is what I'm saying.
Of course, for every nuggest of gold found in the free market, one has to sift through ten nuggets of grade A shit. The competition, while giving us the opportunity to drive down prices, has also made the cab business very harsh for the individual driver. We make less, because if we're not driving you, somebody else is. Many of us resort to dirty tactics to make ends meet. Many cabbies will demand up-front, cash payment which they put in their pockets rather than on the meter (a problem found in pretty much every company, but particularly among the independents). Some companies will hire any idiot with a cab licence (sometimes without checking if the guy on the licence is the same guy holding it, see here), not caring as long as the driver rakes in the cash (Taxi K. in particular is a major offender).
And that brings us to the independents. Without the right resources, such as a HQ, radio service, or an operator to organise and deliver fares, the indies have to resort to extortionate pricing and a business model that is as clever as it is rotten: plagiarism.
If you ever come to my home town, you will notice a lot of Taxi G cars buzzing around. They are white, with yellow signs in which it says Taxi G, with a black and yellow checkered stripe lining each side of the vehicle. You will notice a picture of a grinning cabbie in a blue cap plastered on the back of the car. But you will also notice that a lot of the cars look a bit off. Some of them say G Taxi, some say Royal Taxi G, others say Taxi with the G randomly distributed somewhere else. Sometimes the checkered stripes are nothing more than barricade tape. And the little blue cabbie is curiously absent from all of them.
These are the majority of the independent cabbies. They know they are disadvantaged. Nobody in their right mind would get into a cab driven by a fellow who most likely doesn't know his way around town, service mindedness, or even the local language, and on top of that pay up to three times the amount other companies charge. So what do the indies do? Like a goat in sheep's clothing, they dress up their cabs to look like Taxi G, and concentrate on picking up fares from the street; chiefly tourists and people too drunk to tell the difference. They do what they do to survive. I can understand that.
But christ, you will not find a more hated lot. The customers hate them, because they are often incompetent and practiced extortionists. The other cab drivers hate them because they are in the way, holding up traffic in order to swoop down on all and any potential fares that might come their way. We hate them, because their shady dealings destroy our credibility, teaching our customers that cab drivers can and will happily be bought. Every time some drunken douche hangs drooling at my window, waving a fistful of cash in my face and demanding that I fit him and his seven friends into a car built for four (an offense that could easily cost me my licence), I blame the bastard cabbie (indie or otherwise) who set the precedent. Every time a customer tells me about this creepy cabbie who started to feel her up during the trip, I curse the unregulated indie cab drivers who have no company standards to uphold.
Our customers are being told, through the greed/desperation of the cabbie underdogs, that the cabbie can be bought. That he will dance for nickels. That he will beg for scraps. And above all, that he can't be trusted. And many customers are shocked and often furious to discover that a handful of us try to maintain some kind of integrity (none of us fully succeed, but we try).
So. What has the de-regulation of the business given us?
It has given the customers a greater variety of product, and it has given independent actors the opportunity to create and maintain their own enterprise. It has made the exchange between the cabbie and the cabbee more honest and direct. It has allowed me to work for the most popular company in town, with a customer base that will often express their gratitude and pleasure at the service I provide, motivating me to take pride in my work.
But on the flip side, it has created an environment where tricking the customers, selling your dignity, and breaking the law are all sensible survival strategies. It has created actors that cannot be trusted to see to the customer's security. It has lowered the status of the cab driver to the point where only strippers and possibly meter-maids are held in lower regard, as far as legitimate professions go.
Where do I stand with all this? Honestly, I have no really strong comittment either way. I, like most of my peers, despise the indie cabbies. This is my own, god-given bigotry, driven by instinct and justified by my own observations. It is not a rational, or a particularly pleasant trait of mine.
But I am also aware that this is only a symptom of a greater issue (I won't call it a problem), the natural consequence of de-regulation. And so, while I do curse them out and feel that twinge of contempt every time I'm late to a fare because some indie asshole decided to stop in the middle of the road to pick up a gaggle of drunken hipsters, I don't wish them harm. Nor do I wish for their removal. They do what they do, because they can do. I can't blame them for it, but I do not approve of it. I tolerate them, because the same circumstances that created them also allows me to work in the unique way that my company operates.
In addition, they motivate me to do my best. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I figure that if my customers know that there are cabbies out there who are professionals and deserve to be treated as such, they will shun those who don't. And if enough of us do the same, the forces of the free market will transform the dodgy shit so rampant in the business from a viable survival strategy to a weak one at best.
Of course, it could be that its simply a matter of the house slaves despising the field slaves, and vice versa.
"Sir, this is the cheapest cab company in town. Just how stingy are you?"
I live in a country where the cab business has become de-regulated. Back in the day, before my time, regulations were heavy. Each city could only have so many cabs, and so many drivers to steer them. Prices were stable, income was good, and cabbies were seen as legitimate workers, (and not penny-pinching villains, who will either overcharge you, or accept payments in "goods", ie. a piece of ass. Yours.). However, if you wanted to start a cab company with your own spin on how the service was to be rendered, well... Tough luck, buddy. No can do. Take your vile capitalist schemes elsewhere.
Then some time ago, it was de-regulated. Anyone with the right resources and connections could buy a car, register it as a taxi (getting a meter, price-tag, and various other required doodads installed), and then literally go to town, raking in that sweet free-market gold. A new breed of cabbie emerged: the Independents. Free-lancing automobile ronin, competing with other likeminded free men, living off the voluntary exchange between free men, while the established cab companies adjusted their business model in order to keep up and remain relevant.
And now that I've placated Ayn Rand's hungry ghost, let's take a closer look at the situation.
Both systems had their perks. Both have their drawbacks. Since I'm too young to remember what it was like back in the day, and don't know nearly enough about the London cabbies to make a comparison (except that they are the Mister Miyagi to our Ralph Macchio), today we're going to talk about the particular environment in which I work, and where my company fits into the food chain.
So. In my town, there are three major cab companies. There's Taxi G, which is the oldest and most well established company in town. If this were new york, these would be the yellow cabs. THen there's Taxi K, which is a company with a presence in every major city in this country. And finally theres us, Taxi M, which started out 20 years ago with two cars and covered in ads, but carved out a niche as the most dependable, popular, unavailable and (beyond everything else) cheapest company in town.
How do we stay cheap? The reason is as brilliant as it is infuriating: we barely have any cars. While Taxi G and Taxi K each have more than 300 cars associated with them, Taxi M has barely 55. With so few cars, it means that we are a busy bunch. On an average night, a cabbie at Taxi G might have around ten to fifteen fares, whereas I will have between 18 and 23. This means that each fare can cost less, yet the drivers go home with an acceptable pay. It also means, much to the chagrin of anyone who calls us, that we're almost impossible to book the first time you call.
Don't quote me on this, but in conversations with cabbies from other companies, I've learned that I make on average as much as any of them, sometimes even more. We are popular, and even if we weren't, we'd still be busy. You won't find us standing at the central station or at the airport waiting in line for people. No, we are spread out all over the city as we please. We get our fares through ham radio. HQ will either call out the address, and then follows a short free for all where the loudest cabbie will get the fare, or HQ will give the fare directly to whichever cabbie is closest with the longest time since his last fare. This way you're guaranteed at least a couple of fares even on slow nights.
I like this particular business model. I like the reputation it has given us, and the pride we take in maintaining that reputation. Aside from some of the people who end up in your car, there's nothing so suicide-inducing as the time between fares. And we can exist thanks to de-regulation. Had somebody come up with the idea of a low-price cab company thirty years ago, he would've been given the beaurocratic finger. So, thanks to the free-market, I'm able to work in a pretty sweet niche, serving people who are in general very pleased with the service/price ratio we offer. We get a lot of love, is what I'm saying.
Of course, for every nuggest of gold found in the free market, one has to sift through ten nuggets of grade A shit. The competition, while giving us the opportunity to drive down prices, has also made the cab business very harsh for the individual driver. We make less, because if we're not driving you, somebody else is. Many of us resort to dirty tactics to make ends meet. Many cabbies will demand up-front, cash payment which they put in their pockets rather than on the meter (a problem found in pretty much every company, but particularly among the independents). Some companies will hire any idiot with a cab licence (sometimes without checking if the guy on the licence is the same guy holding it, see here), not caring as long as the driver rakes in the cash (Taxi K. in particular is a major offender).
And that brings us to the independents. Without the right resources, such as a HQ, radio service, or an operator to organise and deliver fares, the indies have to resort to extortionate pricing and a business model that is as clever as it is rotten: plagiarism.
If you ever come to my home town, you will notice a lot of Taxi G cars buzzing around. They are white, with yellow signs in which it says Taxi G, with a black and yellow checkered stripe lining each side of the vehicle. You will notice a picture of a grinning cabbie in a blue cap plastered on the back of the car. But you will also notice that a lot of the cars look a bit off. Some of them say G Taxi, some say Royal Taxi G, others say Taxi with the G randomly distributed somewhere else. Sometimes the checkered stripes are nothing more than barricade tape. And the little blue cabbie is curiously absent from all of them.
These are the majority of the independent cabbies. They know they are disadvantaged. Nobody in their right mind would get into a cab driven by a fellow who most likely doesn't know his way around town, service mindedness, or even the local language, and on top of that pay up to three times the amount other companies charge. So what do the indies do? Like a goat in sheep's clothing, they dress up their cabs to look like Taxi G, and concentrate on picking up fares from the street; chiefly tourists and people too drunk to tell the difference. They do what they do to survive. I can understand that.
But christ, you will not find a more hated lot. The customers hate them, because they are often incompetent and practiced extortionists. The other cab drivers hate them because they are in the way, holding up traffic in order to swoop down on all and any potential fares that might come their way. We hate them, because their shady dealings destroy our credibility, teaching our customers that cab drivers can and will happily be bought. Every time some drunken douche hangs drooling at my window, waving a fistful of cash in my face and demanding that I fit him and his seven friends into a car built for four (an offense that could easily cost me my licence), I blame the bastard cabbie (indie or otherwise) who set the precedent. Every time a customer tells me about this creepy cabbie who started to feel her up during the trip, I curse the unregulated indie cab drivers who have no company standards to uphold.
Our customers are being told, through the greed/desperation of the cabbie underdogs, that the cabbie can be bought. That he will dance for nickels. That he will beg for scraps. And above all, that he can't be trusted. And many customers are shocked and often furious to discover that a handful of us try to maintain some kind of integrity (none of us fully succeed, but we try).
So. What has the de-regulation of the business given us?
It has given the customers a greater variety of product, and it has given independent actors the opportunity to create and maintain their own enterprise. It has made the exchange between the cabbie and the cabbee more honest and direct. It has allowed me to work for the most popular company in town, with a customer base that will often express their gratitude and pleasure at the service I provide, motivating me to take pride in my work.
But on the flip side, it has created an environment where tricking the customers, selling your dignity, and breaking the law are all sensible survival strategies. It has created actors that cannot be trusted to see to the customer's security. It has lowered the status of the cab driver to the point where only strippers and possibly meter-maids are held in lower regard, as far as legitimate professions go.
Where do I stand with all this? Honestly, I have no really strong comittment either way. I, like most of my peers, despise the indie cabbies. This is my own, god-given bigotry, driven by instinct and justified by my own observations. It is not a rational, or a particularly pleasant trait of mine.
But I am also aware that this is only a symptom of a greater issue (I won't call it a problem), the natural consequence of de-regulation. And so, while I do curse them out and feel that twinge of contempt every time I'm late to a fare because some indie asshole decided to stop in the middle of the road to pick up a gaggle of drunken hipsters, I don't wish them harm. Nor do I wish for their removal. They do what they do, because they can do. I can't blame them for it, but I do not approve of it. I tolerate them, because the same circumstances that created them also allows me to work in the unique way that my company operates.
In addition, they motivate me to do my best. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I figure that if my customers know that there are cabbies out there who are professionals and deserve to be treated as such, they will shun those who don't. And if enough of us do the same, the forces of the free market will transform the dodgy shit so rampant in the business from a viable survival strategy to a weak one at best.
Of course, it could be that its simply a matter of the house slaves despising the field slaves, and vice versa.
Ego te absolvo.
"I'm basically a bartender on wheels."
I don't know why, but the five to fifteen minutes the average person spends in a cab are often spent in confession. There's something about this job that compels people to open their hearts. Either that, or I've vastly underestimated people's need to keep things to themselves.
These confessions tend to come in two forms.
1. Out of the blue, triggered by small-talk (like a discussion about the weather leading to a fully fledged conversation about the horror of finding amphetamines in your daughter's bedroom).
2. A conversation between two customers, who will either ignore the fact that the cabbie is a human being and can hear every word of their conversation (be it about drugs, taxes, or STDs), or suddenly decide that the cabbie's opinion on the subject is needed.
1. Out of the blue, triggered by small-talk (like a discussion about the weather leading to a fully fledged conversation about the horror of finding amphetamines in your daughter's bedroom).
2. A conversation between two customers, who will either ignore the fact that the cabbie is a human being and can hear every word of their conversation (be it about drugs, taxes, or STDs), or suddenly decide that the cabbie's opinion on the subject is needed.
This brings me to a fare I had about a year ago. What started out as a pretty normal fare may have ended in me inadvertently ending a relationship. And I can't say I'm not proud of it.
It began like any other fare. I had just dropped off a customer on the east side of town when the radio burbled. What followed was standard (at least for my company) radio procedure:
HQ: "Seeking a car for Almond Street. Car Three to Almond Street."
Me: "Car Three, in five minutes."
HQ: "Car three, five."
Me: "Confirmed, Car Three."
The information for the fare -name, location, destination, remaining ETA- appeared on the screen and I headed out. With a minute to spare, I arrived at Almond street, turned off my engine and awaited my customers. And waited. The ETA came and went, and the waiting time started ticking down. Just about when I was about to request permission to drop the fare, two guys appeared by the open window.
"Hi, I'm Roger. I booked this cab."
"Welcome in, Roger," I said and unlocked the door, biting back various creative curse words reserved for late customers. Roger and his friend (let's call him Fred) got into the back seat and off we went.
It took me barely a minute to fully assess these guys. They were in their late thirties/early forties. Their address and manners suggested that they were moderately successful, ambitious guys. Their drunkeness, combined with their destination (a popular night club at the city's main drag) suggested that they were trying weren't entirelly comfortable with the fact that they were approaching middle age. Their conversation not only confirmed this; it shouted it to the high heavens.
See, Roger had gotten himself a girlfriend near fifteen years his junior. And he was pissed off at her, because she had spent the night with one of her male friends. This, he felt, was grossly disrespectful. Fred concurred. At this point, I zoned out. Overt displays of indignant masculinity bore me at best and at worst infuriate me.
"But let's hear what the cabbie has to say about it!" said Fred. "Hey cabbie!"
"Yeah?"
"We'd like your opinion on something."
"Let's hear it," I said.
"Well, I got a girlfriend. And she's such a great girl, you know? But she's younger than me and so she's pretty immature."
"Immature?"
"Yeah, well here's the thing. She has this friend, a guy, who she hangs with a lot and the other night she had been hanging out at his place and she ended up sleeping there. And that pisses me off. I mean, it ain't right. I'm her boyfriend, and she should know better than to disrespect me like that."
"She cheated on you?"
"No, no, nothing like that. They're like brother and sister."
"So what's the problem?"
"It's disrespectful, is what it is."
"That she crashes at her friend's place?"
"He's a guy!"
"Would you say the same if her friend was a woman?"
"Bah," he snarled. "Don't give me that. You know as well as I that its not the same thing."
"So what you're saying is that you don't trust her?"
"Of course I trust her!"
"Really?"
The conversation went on. Roger, losing ground and fast, kept hammering home the point that 'it ain't right', while I suggested that trust might be a good ingredient to have in a relationship. Fred kept quiet. I glanced behind me at one point, caught him grinning. He was enjoying the hell out of this.
"But let's hear what the cabbie has to say about it!" said Fred. "Hey cabbie!"
"Yeah?"
"We'd like your opinion on something."
"Let's hear it," I said.
"Well, I got a girlfriend. And she's such a great girl, you know? But she's younger than me and so she's pretty immature."
"Immature?"
"Yeah, well here's the thing. She has this friend, a guy, who she hangs with a lot and the other night she had been hanging out at his place and she ended up sleeping there. And that pisses me off. I mean, it ain't right. I'm her boyfriend, and she should know better than to disrespect me like that."
"She cheated on you?"
"No, no, nothing like that. They're like brother and sister."
"So what's the problem?"
"It's disrespectful, is what it is."
"That she crashes at her friend's place?"
"He's a guy!"
"Would you say the same if her friend was a woman?"
"Bah," he snarled. "Don't give me that. You know as well as I that its not the same thing."
"So what you're saying is that you don't trust her?"
"Of course I trust her!"
"Really?"
The conversation went on. Roger, losing ground and fast, kept hammering home the point that 'it ain't right', while I suggested that trust might be a good ingredient to have in a relationship. Fred kept quiet. I glanced behind me at one point, caught him grinning. He was enjoying the hell out of this.
We were nearing our destination. Roger had by now dropped the indignant-primate-male routine and was revealing what I can only describe as vulnerability, bordering on despair.
"She has told me how much her friend means to her and how much he has supported her since they were kids. I mean, what the hell can I offer her, when she has him?"
"Well," I said gently. "You're forgetting an important fact."
"She has told me how much her friend means to her and how much he has supported her since they were kids. I mean, what the hell can I offer her, when she has him?"
"Well," I said gently. "You're forgetting an important fact."
"What?" he said (I like to think he was on the verge of tears, but let's try to be honest here).
"You're the guy she's chosen to fuck on a regular and exclusive basis. For some reason, despite her friend always being there, always having her back and being such an important part of her life, she has chosen you to be the guy she snuggles up to at night. You're the guy she says she loves. So I have no clue what you have to offer her, but she obviously does."
"You're the guy she's chosen to fuck on a regular and exclusive basis. For some reason, despite her friend always being there, always having her back and being such an important part of her life, she has chosen you to be the guy she snuggles up to at night. You're the guy she says she loves. So I have no clue what you have to offer her, but she obviously does."
"Damn straight!" cried Fred.
Roger was silent for a long while. While I kept my face professional, inside I was horrified. I had crossed a line, I had gone too far. I had poked my nose where it didn't belong. We arrived at the night club, and while the streets were full of loud drunken party people, the silence inside the cab was deafening.
"Look," I said, turning around. "I don't know you and I don't know your girlfriend. Wanted my opinion, and you got a lecture on things I essentially can't know. So, I'd like to apologise."
"No, no..." said Roger, very quietly. He was looking very intently at his hands. Then he looked at me.
"You're right. I... I should trust her, I should. But I don't know... Maybe I'm not ready for this relationship."
I was quiet for a while too, looking for the right words to say. Not just out of the goodness of my heart (though that was a factor), but also because sometimes when having confessed something like this, customers can take a very long time leaving the cab. As I get paid by the fare, rather than by the hour, I literally can't afford that.
Finally I said: "I don't know. But the fact that you realized this suggests that you're wrong."
In addition to paying the fare, he tipped well over 50%.
I have not driven him since. And I don't think I saved his relationship (though sometimes I wonder if I put it out of its misery), but I like to think that our conversation planted some kind of seed in his head, which down the line served to make him into a better person.
Either that, or I basically bullied a guy whose emotions were soaked with booze and testosterone into submission.
"Look," I said, turning around. "I don't know you and I don't know your girlfriend. Wanted my opinion, and you got a lecture on things I essentially can't know. So, I'd like to apologise."
"No, no..." said Roger, very quietly. He was looking very intently at his hands. Then he looked at me.
"You're right. I... I should trust her, I should. But I don't know... Maybe I'm not ready for this relationship."
I was quiet for a while too, looking for the right words to say. Not just out of the goodness of my heart (though that was a factor), but also because sometimes when having confessed something like this, customers can take a very long time leaving the cab. As I get paid by the fare, rather than by the hour, I literally can't afford that.
Finally I said: "I don't know. But the fact that you realized this suggests that you're wrong."
In addition to paying the fare, he tipped well over 50%.
I have not driven him since. And I don't think I saved his relationship (though sometimes I wonder if I put it out of its misery), but I like to think that our conversation planted some kind of seed in his head, which down the line served to make him into a better person.
Either that, or I basically bullied a guy whose emotions were soaked with booze and testosterone into submission.
Take the next exit on the left.
"So how do you like being a cabby? I bet it's hard work."
"Are you kidding? I set my own hours, I meet all kinds of people, and every day I have new stories to tell. What's not to love?"
"Well, that's great!"
"However, ask me again in three years time, and I'll probably have a far more bitter and resentful answer for you."
When I started out in this business, I had a notebook. In it, I wrote down all and any interesting and weird encounters I had during the course of my work. The idea was to collect the stories for posterity. Perhaps get them published, or at least blog about them. And though I wrote diligently in that notebook for over a year, I never got around to doing anything with it. As time went on, I wrote less and less. After a while, the encounters began to run together into a jaded slurry of drunken idiots, human wrecks, and the eternally infuriating question "So, lots to do tonight?"
So I stopped writing and got to work.
Now it's been three years. And my answer has indeed become far more bitter and resentful. I've come to a point where I've realized I have two alternatives:
a) remain behind the wheel and slowly transform into a bitter, doughy creature with no discernable goals other than the next big tip,
b) start making preparations for my escape and get back to my original goals.
And so, starting now, I choose the second alternative. This blog is in a way my letter of resignation. In it, you will find most of the stories I collected in that notebook. You will find my thoughts and feelings about the everyday madness that is being a cabbie (and trust me, madness is a very, VERY conservative term). You will also, to a lesser extent, find the chronicle of my process out of the business and into the teaching programme at my local university.
Being a cabbie has its perks, and all that I loved about it three years ago still holds true today. But that does not nearly outweigh the bad. The time has come for me to start preparing for my last fare, park my car and walk away.
However, its still a long ride until that day. You're welcome to join me. I'll be happy for your company.
CC
"Are you kidding? I set my own hours, I meet all kinds of people, and every day I have new stories to tell. What's not to love?"
"Well, that's great!"
"However, ask me again in three years time, and I'll probably have a far more bitter and resentful answer for you."
When I started out in this business, I had a notebook. In it, I wrote down all and any interesting and weird encounters I had during the course of my work. The idea was to collect the stories for posterity. Perhaps get them published, or at least blog about them. And though I wrote diligently in that notebook for over a year, I never got around to doing anything with it. As time went on, I wrote less and less. After a while, the encounters began to run together into a jaded slurry of drunken idiots, human wrecks, and the eternally infuriating question "So, lots to do tonight?"
So I stopped writing and got to work.
Now it's been three years. And my answer has indeed become far more bitter and resentful. I've come to a point where I've realized I have two alternatives:
a) remain behind the wheel and slowly transform into a bitter, doughy creature with no discernable goals other than the next big tip,
b) start making preparations for my escape and get back to my original goals.
And so, starting now, I choose the second alternative. This blog is in a way my letter of resignation. In it, you will find most of the stories I collected in that notebook. You will find my thoughts and feelings about the everyday madness that is being a cabbie (and trust me, madness is a very, VERY conservative term). You will also, to a lesser extent, find the chronicle of my process out of the business and into the teaching programme at my local university.
Being a cabbie has its perks, and all that I loved about it three years ago still holds true today. But that does not nearly outweigh the bad. The time has come for me to start preparing for my last fare, park my car and walk away.
However, its still a long ride until that day. You're welcome to join me. I'll be happy for your company.
CC
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)