Question time.

"What's it like driving a cab?"
"A great job. A terrible profession."

I'm going to try something new here. In the spirit of Reddit's Ask Me Anything, I'm giving you people the opportunity here to ask me anything. It can be anything from clarifying a previous entry to general things you'd like to know about. I've noted that I have not a few readers spread across the world, and it would be cool to see just what kind of people, if any, read this.

So leave a question in the comments below and I'll get to answering.

The future of this country.

"All the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. I go all over. I take people to the Bronx, Brooklyn, I take 'em to Harlem. I don't care. Don't make no difference to me." -Taxi Driver

(story after the jump)

A friend of mine will regularly point out that I'm corny as all hell. I happily admit it. Growing up, I was one of those kids who regularly identified tropes and clichés in popular culture and sought to actively apply them on my surroundings. I am still that kid. One-liners, catch-phrases, quotes, nicknames, I love it all. I will occasionally try to put a lid on it, as the habit at best will make my friends chuckle, but most commonly will make them groan.

With my customers it is different. There's a stereotype about the bitter, world-weary cabby who's seen it all through the yellow windows of the evening train; a shell of a man who nightly delves into the shit of the world with nothing more than grim, scornful patience. I am quite happy to occasionally play into that stereotype. It amuses me, and it often amuses my customers. Hell, I do it all the time in my writing.

Playing with this, there's a catch-phrase that keeps coming back. It can be used pretty much anywhere, but most often it comes up when some young maniac(s) run straight out into the street in front of the car, or fight in an alleyway, or throw up on the sidewalk. With a tired, doomed voice I intone: "There he/she/they goes - the future of this country".

It amuses me. And it amuses my customers; they often laugh far more than the line is worth. Mostly because they have their own disdain for young people. I don't really have disdain for young people. Impatience, yes. Irritation over lack of experience/maturity, sure. But not really disdain. After all, I was once just as stupid as they are, and their kids will be. It's a natural part of the human experience.
____________________________________________________________________________

On occasion, I will meet someone who merits every cruel and spiteful thing ever hurled by the irrelevant generation toward their young. Last Wednesday, I'd been keeping very busy. For a solid seven and a half hours, I'd been flying all over town and beyond, stopping only to get coffee and gum. It was time for a break, and it had just rained. So I pulled up on one of the side streets near Iron Square and left the car, in order to take in some fresh, rain-laden air and do some stretching.

It was very peaceful. The air was cool and damp, smelling of wet grass, asphalt, and salt from the sea. Down the street, I saw a group of about four very drunk guys waving down a car from Taxi G. The cab stopped by them, and their Botticelli-faced leader leaned in through the window. I couldn't hear the exchange, but within a minute, the cab rolled away, leaving Botticelli and his cohorts screaming abuse at it on the sidewalk. Obviously, the cabby hadn't wanted to drive them, no matter how angelic they looked.

Why you gotta be like that, bro?

 I knew what would happen next. Botticelli and his friends would see me, and they would say: "Lo, tis Taxi M! Let us approach and thus save our feet and our purse!"

And I would be in the delightful position of deciding whether my time and dignity was worth whatever cash they would pay for my services. Now these kids had the look of fine young brats, and fine young brats tend to get very drunk, tend to live far away, and tend to have no trouble at all spending their parents money on cab trips to their faraway homes. They also tend to be rotten to the core. So I waited. And indeed, they saw me.

"Hey!" cried Botticelli and ran toward me with his arms open, as if I was his long lost brother. "Bring it in, big guy! You can't deny a hug!"

"I can," I replied and stuck out my hand. "But I can offer you a handshake."

He stood for a moment with his arms out, clearly taken aback. This kid was young. He couldn't have been more than 20, most likely 18. I got the sense that he had had his first shave last year. When I made no move to embrace him, he grabbed my hand in both of his and shook it vigorously.

"Good to see you, dude! You gotta help us."
"What's up?" I asked.
"Lola's!"

Lola's is one of this city's three strip clubs. The strippers often employ our services. Often, they are rude and stingy to a fault, but that's an entirely different story. I smiled and jerked my thumb.

"Lola's is one block over. You're not far at all."
"Naw, man! You gotta drive us! We need us some whores!"
"Oh," I said, all my preconceptions about Botticelli completely confirmed. "Well, then you're in the wrong place. Rose Grove is in that direction." I pointed.

He shook his head. "No, we want the whores at Lola's."

It is amazing how much a smile can hide quiet, seething hatred. "But they're not whores. They're strippers."

"Look, man," he said and launched into his own catch phrase, one he had clearly been working on all night: "A whore on stage so sweet, better than one on the street."

I raised an eyebrow. "But they're strippers. Not whores."
"There's no difference."

"Oh but there is", I said. "Try to make the girls at Lola's do anything but dance... well, at best you'll be thrown out. At worst, you'll get your arms broken."

"Come on," said his friends, as they walked past. "He's not going to drive us."
"Are you a gamer?" said Botticelli, with a predatory look in his swimming eyes. I have seen that look before, in high-school bullies. "Cause you kinda look like a nerd."

"I'm not." I said sweetly, though I couldn't fault his observation.

"No shame, dude! I play videogames all the time. I play it so much, I got fired from my last job. But seriously dude, what do you do?"

"I drive a cab," i said, nodding toward the car.

"You don't do that for fun," he scoffed. "Come on man. What tickles your fine crotch?"

"Why don't you ask your parents?" I said, grinning right back at him. I started moving toward the cab. He of course followed me into it.
"No, seriously," I could tell he was furious, but he was fighting to keep the banter light-hearted. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what you do."

"Don't you have strippers waiting for you?" I asked.
"They can wait. This is important. What do you do!"

"I drive a cab. And my break is over. If you want to continue this conversation, I'm turning on the meter."

He stared at me, and stared at my hand hovering over the meter. "Tell me, or I'll wreck your shit." He was still smiling.

"No," I said, staring him straight into his eyes. "You will not."

Artist's impression.

Before the silence between us could become uncomfortable, he clapped me on the shoulder and said:

"You're a good dude, mr Cabman. Catch you later."

This kid will one day grow up to be an important person in business, law, or politics. Let's hope he tries something untowards at Lola's before that happens.

Grand Theft Ice-cream.

"Drunk people think they're the kings of the world. What they don't understand is that the service industry is a republic."

(This is a long one. There are two separate stories here, divided for your convenience.)

One of my colleagues gave me a ride home. He's a rookie; three weeks into the business. Already he works five nights a week, fighting for every coin. I remember being that guy, back when I still had the energy and the innocence to believe that this was a fine way to make a living. He'll learn though. We all do.

However, he did call me an "old veteran" and asked me for advice, which pleased me far more than I am comfortable admitting.

Tonight, I was on fire. Fare after fare after fare, with nary a break. Everything went smoothly, except for one notable fare. It was a mother and a daughter, both of them middle aged. The daughter clearly was not happy with the oncoming decay of her mortal flesh, and so had sought to prevent it by working out and copious injections of all manner of neurotoxins to her face. She looked like a particularly beautiful cadaver. My initial suspicion was that the amount of polish on her surface directly correlated to her complete lack of depth. This was soon confirmed.

The trip started out fairly standard; talk about the weather. Such a cold summer. Such a rainy summer. This isn't really summer, is it? You can't trust the weather-report. Its never warm during the summer. Its probably going to rain again. On. And on. And on. Etc, etc, world without end, amen.

God, I hate talking about the weather. Especially in this country, where summer is literally front-page news. And it doesn't matter how lovely the summer is, because the moment there's even a hint of rain or chill in the air, people will break down and whine. Dear reader, if you ever end up in my cab, please understand that I would rather discuss my hemorrhoids with you than the weather. Those, at least, can be treated.

Anyway, what set this particular lecture on amateur metereology apart were the many references to Spain, where she lived, and how hot it was there, and how different it was.

I get it, lady. You moved to better climes. Good on you. No need to rub it in.

A reckless asshole passed us by, attempting to break the sound barrier while angrily honking at anyone who had the audacity not to risk other people's lives on the road. I swore softly at him.

"See, this is what I'm talking about!" she snarled. "The police never go after these assholes!"

"Well," said I, unsure of how the police related to preceding climate discussion. "The police are kinda tied up in Bishop's Yard, what with the gang war."

"This country is too soft," she scoffed. "Look at america. No nonsense there. They shoot the bad guys, and their punishments are much harsher."

"Yes," I said, "And despite this, their crime rate is much higher than ours."

"You can't say that! Its a much bigger country than ours! Besides, do you know how many Mexicans illegally enter the US every night? A thousand? Ten thousand? Give me your best guess."

"100 000?" I asked, hating myself and hating her, for now I knew where this conversation was going.

"Exactly! And we're in the exact same situation!"

Of course we are. Because one of our neighbouring countries is a corrupt place overrun by drug lords, with zero opportunities for the population. Don't believe the hype; Finland is a shithole. I sighed, and listened while she went off on an increasingly erratic and racist rant about Syria, Afghanistan and "all them arab people".

"I don't follow you," I said honestly. She was literally making no sense, jumping from one part of the topic to another, with only ignorance as a common thread.

"Oh," she sneered. "So are you saying that you want three million Syrians to enter our country, and live on money that should go to our elderly?"

This was the level of stupid I was dealing with. I chose to remain silent, as she continued ranting. What really offended me by all of this was not the xenophobia. Aside from it being a fairly natural reaction to the unknown, there are valid points to make when criticizing this country's immigration policy. There are valid criticisms to level against our justice system. Immigration and refuge-seeking is fraught with all kinds of problems that need to be addressed. My problem was her ignorance. Her utter, selfish pride in her reasoning. She was so sure of her own idiocy that she could laugh at those who disagreed with her.

Xenophobia I can understand. Having a contrary view to the dominant political climate I can understand too. But the rejoicing in one's own ignorance to the point of laughing at people who can and regularly do prove you wrong is a fucking crime. This is NOT what we gained sentience for, damn it.

I finally cut the conversation short by saying: "Look, you're obviously very upset and perhaps we should drop the subject."

We did. And the world was new.

Later she stormed out of the cab before we arrived at the location, ostensibly to "pick up a few things" at the nearby supermarket. However, the way she slammed the door told me she was furious. It was up to her mortified mother to pay the fare.

"Ma'm, please speak to your daughter about this. Because if I drive her again, and she maintains that attitude, I can guarantee it will be a very short trip for her."

*

By the end of the shift, I was exhausted. Quietly I prayed for one final fare, one final fare that would take me above quota and allow me to go home with a measure of peace. The Lord God of Cabs was merciful and did just that. The fellow was going to Bishops Yard, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from HQ, meaning I could drop him off first, and then drop off the cab and crawl back home. Bingo.

How to describe these fellows... One was very small. In his early twenties, with a thick dark beard and stylish hairdo, and a foxish face. The other... well...

I hear he has a posse

So, off we went. 

"Would you mind if we go to the drive-through at McDonalds on the way?" asked Mr Fox. "We need to pick up some breakfast."

"Sure," said I. And why not? Time spent in the drive-through is time I get paid for. Then the BDG in the back seat opened his mouth, and out came a steady stream of words. He had that thick, scanian-swedish accent that I will forever equate with manure, sheepfucking, and tooth decay. Words can't do justice to the insanity that spouted from the man's mouth, but I will attempt a paraphrase.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was an ice-cream man? Man this was back when I ran with the other albanians down in Oaktown. And you know us albanians, right? Crazy as shit. We will shoot first, ask questions later and shoot again. So one summer we met this colombian guy, Diego. Great guy. Honest as fuck. And he offered us the purest, whitest coke you can imagine. Said he had a cousin back in Bogotá who was with the cartels. We did a line, and it had us screaming, man.  So I turned to him and I said; 'Diego, give me fifty grams'. He told me 'fuck you, you broke fuck'. But this is the kind of guy Diego was, you know? He let us do a few more lines, because he was just that great.

"But it was a hot day, remember? Summer down in Oaktown. And so we heard the jingle from the ice-cream van. So I said to Agron: Fuck man, lets get some ice-cream. Ten minutes later, BAM! The ice-cream man was lying on the side of the road, tied up with duct tape, and we were off in his van, blaring the jingle all accross town."

"Well," said I, trying not to laugh. "Aim for the stars, and you'll land in the treetops."

"Exactly, man! We wanted ice-cream, so we took the entire van. That's fucking ambition right there. And whenever we saw a bunch of kids, we stopped. They came running to buy ice-cream. And we sold to to them. 200 a pop, we said. And they said: we don't have 200. So we said: Shut up, little shits. Give us what you got!

"Man, we were fucked up! Finally we pulled over on the side of the road, by this huge field. Full of flowers, shit was beautiful. So we sat down by the van, each of us with a box of ice-cream cones in our laps and stuffed our faces. Then the cops came, because we were fucking stupid and didn't realize that there was a GPS tracker in the van."

"Jesus, dude," I said. "How the hell did you get away with it?"

"Oh it was close," he said. "But I got lucky. The van was returned after all, and Agron decided to take the blame. Great guy, Agron. Six months he did for me, while I got a slap on the wrist. I owe that guy so much."

After that, for a solid 25 minutes, André the severely criminal Giant kept babbling about cars he had stolen, how he had lost his virginity to a "land-whale" in a truckbed filled with recently harvested beans, and about his friend Agron who had once taken on twenty cops, laughing all the way.

"But these days, I'm as white as newly fallen snow on lilies. The straight and narrow for me. But not too narrow, cause  I'm kind of a fat bastard."

There were so many stories, too wild, too detailed, and too many to be put down here. Most, if not all, were probably bullshit. And if they are true, then this guy was a very special breed of scumbag indeed. Still, as he and Mr Fox wandered off and I started making my way back to HQ, I was reminded of a line by Hunter S. Thompson (because I'm trite as fuck):

"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die."

"Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.”

"That's my sister. Don't you dare fuck with her."
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

Another night, another shift ended. I'm beginning to feel the old weariness creep up on me. To be fair, I've signed myself up for slavery. Throughout the month of July, I will be working five nights a week. With any luck, I'll make double my usual monthly wage.

So far it has gone well. Summer really is the right time to be a cabby. Its warm, its lucrative, and more than anything else, people are nice. That does a lot to keep a man going. But you didn't come here for the tired reflections of a weary cabby, hm? You came here for something entertaining, or at least thought provoking. Let's see if I can deliver.

*

As the proverbial Chinese curse goes, it has been interesting times. Tonight was Thursday, and Thursday is usually a decent night. In fact, I was goddamn cheerful. The money had been rolling in, and things were peachy. Of course, even the clearest sky must make room for a cloud of two. The first was a half-hour trip from the airport to Sheriff's Yard. The fare was a woman who worked at a commercial "research company" who specialized in skin products and dietary supplements. What followed was essentially a half hour lecture, riddled with pseudo-science. A few samples from the conversation, complete with the things I wish I had retorted with:

"Because of acid rain, there are no nutrients in the soil. Plants can't absorb minerals and vitamins from the soil, making them essentially empty leaves."
Retort: plants, like all living organisms, need minerals and vitamins too. If what you're saying is true, then we'd see massive extinctions plants and of herbivores all over the world, as nobody is giving them any dietary supplements.

"Well, we are all made of energy, so of course it is important that a Healer actually knows how to balance it."
Retort: The very fact that you say 'we are all made of energy' suggests that you (like so many of your peers) have no fucking clue what energy is, much less how it is part of our makeup.

"Well, its all a matter of interpretation. After all, in science you get the answers you pay for."
Retort: Big words, coming from someone who works for a commercial research company.

"Yes, there's so many fraudulent healers. Which is a shame, because those with genuine healing powers often get grouped in with them."
Retort: Fuck you. Our ancestors fought and starved and died, for millennia, going through an existence where everything could and would kill you. Throughout the ages, they stood screaming at the cold, uncaring void that they would survive and they would thrive. They would understand the world and they would master it. About a century ago, that struggle paid off. Finally, after untold aeons of strife, mankind got their collective shit together and could finally strike back at the shit that has been plaguing the world's animals since for ever: famine, predators and pestilence are now, if not defeated then at the very least held at bay. YOU, my dear fare, have no right to take pride in your ignorance and make a living out of it. You spit on the graves of all our ancestors, all the way back to the pre-cambrian soup out of which life crawled. You, and all those who believe as you do, are a big black mark in humanity's record of achievements. Fuck. You.

I of course said not a word. How could I? If I had been even slightly honest with her, I would have lost a significant chunk of income.

*

Still, I would not let this keep me down. I soldiered on with a cheery smile, and as the night wore on, drunk people started to feel the urge to return back home. And so, I got the call to head to Iron Square to pick up some dude named Jack. As I arrived, I settled back into my seat and waited. I noticed with grim amusement a couple; the guy was this massive bull of a man. All muscles, no neck. Hanging from his arm, flopping about like a ragdoll, was this tiny girl. I noted that there was a handbag not far from them, its contents spilled out all over the wet side-walk.

Poor bastards, I thought. I don't envy the cabby that'll have to take them home.

Suddenly there was a trembling in the air, as if in a celestial realm far beyond human understanding, a great omnipotent Creator was trying His damnedest not to laugh at the poor cabby. For behold, here the great man-bull turned his gaze toward me. Literally dragging the limp creature along, he approached the cab.

"I'm Jack. This is my cousin."

Here I was presented with a choice: I could exercise my right to deny them service. It is my experience that even tiny people can hold a surprising amount of alcohol-laced bile and gastric fluids. Had I been a smarter man, I may have done just that. Instead, I turned to a waiter who had stepped outside the bar for a breath of air. He was watching the spectacle with amused sympathy. I told him to help me out and get some plastic bags. If Raggedy Ann here decided to throw up, I wanted to be at least nominally prepared.

"My bag!" she growled as he carefully folded her and placed her in the back seat. "Gimme my bag."

"Sure sure, I'll get it. But you have to sit up, okay?"

"Whatever, gimme bag!" she collapsed, looking more like a deflated balloon than anything resembling a human.

As Jack trundled away to get her bag, I turned to face her, if only to assess the situation and be prepared to act.

She smiled at me in that lazy, droopy way reserved for the very drunk or very dead.
"Wanna see....?"

"Excuse me?"

Without bothering with a response, she pulled down the front of her dress. Dangling from her nipple was a piercing the size of a padlock. I turned away immediately; the heavenly tittering I had heard before started to become a rumbling guffaw.

"I've got another one too," she said. "Wanna see?"
"No, no that's fine-" I closed my eyes and bowed my head, while the LORD was screaming with laughter.

"Keep your fucking panties on!" Jack had returned to save the day. "I told you before, nobody wants to see that shit."

She murmured something rude. He got into the cab and said: "I am so sorry for my cousin. She's very drunk."

"No no..." I said. "It's fine."

"If she throws up, I'll compensate you all the way. No questions asked, nothing. We just want to go home."

So I took them home. And while she whimpered throughout the trip, she did not throw up. Once we arrived at the destination, I helped Jack untangle her from the safety belt and carry her to the door. He was very grateful.

Once the trip was over, I realized I'd been holding my breath. Every second with Jack and his intimately be-jewelled cousin had been a struggle for sanity. With them gone, the tension released, taking all my energy with me.

The next couple of hours, I drove around in a fog of exhaustion and disinterest. I don't envy her the headache she'll have when she awakes. But I do hope she'll find someone to show off her piercings to. I'm sure they're all quite lovely.

Born to lose.

"So you work at the casino?"
"You call it work. I call it destroying people."

Luck is a key part of my work. It doesn't matter how hard you try, how many people in need of a cab, or how far you go. Without a sizable dollop of luck, you'll go home a poor and miserable bastard. The next night, you come back, hoping, no, certain that tonight's the night. Tonight is when it all turns around and you hit the jackpot. Or at least break even.

Which leads us to tonight's topic: gamblers.

Much like drinking, or doing drugs, gambling has a special niche in the human experience; you spend money on something that is thrilling, addictive, and ultimately very destructive. And much like alcohol, gambling is a legal (if extremely heavily regulated) way for an adult person to exchange money for a few hours of blissful escape into endorphin-laced joy. Of course, the more likely result is that you end up with a massive headache and empty pockets.

Thus, the local casino (owned and operated by the State) is a common destination for us cabbies. Every night, a sizable amount of the city's population head over to spread their money around. And of course we're happy to help. Gamblers tend to fall in a few categories; there's the Big Man, who is usually accompanied by his girlfriend/date. He will insist on paying for the cab and tipping big, whether or not he can afford it. His plan is to roll high and spend big; win or lose, he's gonna take home the jackpot.

Triple entendre.

Then there's the Young Rollers. Not much to say about them; they're young, they're drunk, they're stupid, and want to party like the Big People. Much like the poor saps who will spend half the evening standing in line to get into a club, they're only doing it because they don't know better.

But by far, the most common are the chronic cases. The people who don't indulge, partake, or dabble: they're not in it for the fun. They're in it, because they can't stand the idea of being out of it. Mostly those trips are silent, and grim. They know they're going to be losing a lot of money. Despite this, they cling to that tiny sliver of hope; Tonight it's my turn. Tonight it's my number. Tonight is the last time.

I remember a particular chronic case. A woman in her early fifties; thin and unkempt. The kind you'd probably find living in a trailer park, if Sweden had trailer parks.

"So," I said. "what do you play?"
"Poker."
"Well that's good," I said. "Takes skill for that."
"I also play the slots."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, but I'm thinking about quitting."
"How come?"
"I think they've rigged the game," she said in a low, confidential tone.

I was at a loss. "Well... that's..."
"You see," she said. "the slots in the room I play pay out a lot less than the slots in the next room."

Rather than suggest that she changed rooms, I said: "Well... it's a casino. Isn't the whole point of a casino to take more money than they give?"

"But its not fair," she insisted.

No shit lady, I thought. It's a goddamn casino, not a social services.

Another chronic case I remembered straddled the line between chronic case and Young Roller.
I picked him up outside the casino. We were heading toward Sheriff's Yard, and back.

"I need to pick up more cash," he explained.

He was young. Like has-just-recently-started-shaving young. Feeling just a little catty, I asked him:
"If you're out of cash, maybe that's a sign."
"Nah, man," he laughed. "I'm rolling in it. What's another 5000, huh?"

What indeed? That's five nights work for me. But fine.

A silence settled over the cab.

"Oh man," he said with a laugh that seemed a bit too pleased to be genuine. "I'm gonna have to get a job soon."

Well fucking duh. "Really?" I said. "Even if you're rolling in cash?"

"Nah, its for tax reasons. I make my living playing poker. 15 000 a night. All cash. But if I don't get a job, the government might wonder where all my money comes from."

I encounter a lot of stupid people. I can bitch about them. I can bitch at them. Sometimes I even yell. But rarely do I actually feel the need to punish such stupidity with unrelenting and excessive violence.

See, this kid wasn't just being snotty. He was being an utter idiot. Let's break it down:

1. Doing your taxes means the government can see how much money you're making. It means that either you declare the money you make gambling (which will NOT jell with the amount you make at your job). So either you make your minimum wage, and hide your winnings in the mattress (meaning that your job is meaningless, since that's what you're doing anyway).

2. This is the most important. And it is this: the casino is OWNED AND OPERATED BY THE STATE. This means that they know the money that flows in and out of it. They know who has been there. There's nothing problematic about your winnings. The government has already taken their chunk out of it.

Finally, "professional poker player" is a really shitty thing to put down on your resumé. Granted, if you can maintain that edge and keep living off of it for the rest of your life, more power to you. Money is money and however you earn it is your business. But what's offensive about this is that this guy (and those like him) prance through life, making their money by playing a game. A game that isn't (as is the case of sports) entertaining for anyone except the fellow players. You think need to get a job in order to avoid government scrutiny? Well lucky you; the rest of us need to get jobs in order to avoid starvation.

I said nothing, of course. This guy may have offended all my sensibilities, but his stupidity was ultimately beneficial: (stupid kid with no respect for money) + (long trip to sheriff's yard) + (return trip) = $$$

When the trip was over, I had enough money to quit early.

Jackpot.