"How did you end up driving a cab?"
Read Part 1 Here
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1. What is the biggest prejudice/label that you feel that people attribute to you as a cabbie? And do you feel there is some truth to that label. The good old "no smoke without fire" or are they way off?
The biggest prejudice, I'd say, is that we are cheats. And it makes sense, no? After all, we get paid by the kilometer and by the minute. On a very basic level, it is in our interests to take very long and slow detours. The company I work for is blessedly free of this. With our fares being so low, there's really no profit in cheating people. I make far more money getting you to where you need to go, and then picking up another fare.
Is there truth to the prejudice? Sadly, yes. This is a very real problem in the Swedish taxi business, and it all comes back to de-regulation. I've discussed this before. It is also a matter of supply far outstripping the demand; there are far more cabbies than fares, because driving a cab is in essence unskilled labour. It is a business that holds a large amount of people from the bottom rungs of the pecking order.
There's an unpleasant political aspect to this. Sweden is known for a very liberal immigration policy. And one of the chief questions a society asks itself when it takes in immigrants/asylum-seekers is this: Now they are here. What do we do with them?
A civilised society will attempt to make the integration process smooth; get the immigrants working, and within a generation or two they will have made for themselves a place in society. The trouble is that there is a scarcity of work in this country. Add to the fact that if you come here as a refugee, or from a non-european country, you're doubly screwed because you lack a lot of the skills and knowledge necessary for smooth operation within Swedish society.
You're also in a position where any job seems like a good job. And so, this has given a rise to certain predatory practices among the competition. Representatives for the group that owns, among other companies, Taxi K will go to the local employment office, offer a job which pays "up to 20 000 sek a month, where you can set your own schedule, and then take a vacation to Hawaii if you want" (paraphrase of an actual quote), even giving you the opportunity to take a course and get a license. This is all fine and dandy, right?
Well, what they fail to mention is this: 20 000 sek is possible, if you work 12 hour shifts, six to seven nights a week. Sure, you can set your own schedule, but you won't get paid for any free time you allot yourself. In fact, there will be shifts where you barely will get paid at all. And you will be in constant competition with 300 other people who are in the exact same boat as you.
So what's a socially disadvantaged cabby to do when he manages to get a customer? Why, he must make it count. And the simplest way to make it count is to make sure that you make as much money as possible from the trip. Thus, cheating and off-meter payment become not only an option, but even a necessity.
Furthermore, deregulation has allowed countless of people to register their own cars as independent cabs. And there's no cap on the prices you can set for your own car. In fact, if there was a cap, you'd probably be out of luck, because it is expensive to own a cab and its expensive to drive one. So again, cheating becomes a necessity. In fact, things have gotten so bad that the authorities in Stockholm have laid down the law in order to deal with the problem. That's a step, I suppose, but it's only treating a symptom. The deeper disease remains uncured.
2. My question is how much extra do you charge someone if they soil your taxi?
I've not yet had anyone truly soil my cab (except a demented old woman I found bleeding in the street. I helped her into my cab, where she peed all over the seat. Since I wasn't raised by wolves, I simply waited with her until the ambulance came and took her away). However, if they do, I demand that they clean up, and then I demand that they pay me at least an entire night's wages, as my shift will effectively be over (you don't clean up vomit or shit or the like: you return the car to HQ for sanitation and then go home). People are usually willing to pay, if my colleagues are to be believed. If they refuse, there's not a lot I can do unless I'm ready to take them to court on vandalism charges.
3. And has there ever been a customer that has tried to rob you?
Once. Picked up a bunch of rough Yugoslavian bastards out in Seed Grove. They were going to Mount Agnes. During the trip, they demanded that I turn up the music. I realized that they wanted me to turn up the music so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Bad vibes all around. I decided I was being a racist and pushed my bigotted fears aside. As we approached Mount Agnes, the guy next to me started to moan and complain about feeling sick. I asked him if I should stop the car.
"Stop at the parking lot..." he gasped. So I stopped the car.
With a swiftness and coordination that was downright impressive, Sicko grabbed the smartphone we use as an onboard computer, and then dashed out of the car, followed by his three friends. By the time I realized what had happened, they were far far away.
Looking back, I am equal parts impressed, pissed off, and scornful. Impressed, because of how perfectly coordinated they were. They had clearly done this before, and had developed some skill. Pissed off because I was mildly traumatized and without the smartphone I was unable to continue working that night. And scornful, because that smartphone is worthless. The app we use has burned its image into the screen, and it is bound to the company. So off they went with a practically worthless piece of technology. I say they can keep it. Most likely they will never achieve anything greater than that.
4. What's the stupidest thing you've ever been asked?
"What tickles your fine crotch?"
5. What is the kindest thing you've witnessed as a cabbie ? (To balance out all the bad stuff)
I don't really witness a lot of kindness. But as far as kind people go, the saint ranks pretty damn high. Oh, also... There was this one time I was driving through Rose Grove, and a small crowd was gathered around this fallen old guy. I stepped out to see if I could offer any assistance He had gotten a heart attack and fallen over. One the prostitutes had had wrapped a sanitary towel over the gash in his head, and cracked dirty jokes in order to keep him conscious until the ambulance came. Considering what misery she lives in, I find her actions pretty damn noble.
My life as a cabbie, what I saw, and how I escaped.
Wednesday 5 August 2015
Answer time 1.
"What's the worst thing you've ever encountered?"
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1) How do you avoid the urge to run these people down where they stand?
Short answer: My parents raised me well.
As a matter of fact, I did give in to that urge once. I was down on Warehouse Street, which is a small stretch right in the center of town. It's got a couple of very popular bars and restaurants, frequented by locals. Rarely do you pick up people there that are from out of town.
Anyway, Warehouse Street is an original street from back when the city was founded. It is narrow, and it is paved with cobblestones. Add to the fact that the local joints like to put tables and chairs outside their doors so as to accommodate people during the summer, and you have yourself a nightmare from an automobile-perspective.
So I had just picked up a bunch of merry revelers, and we were about to drive to the nearest intersection. Sadly, there was a crowd gathered in front of the car. I did the usual crowd-dispersal routine:
1. Flash the headlights.
No response.
2. Rev the engine.
No response.
3. Emit a series of short, insistent honks through the horn.
Response.
The crowd dispersed, giving me sour looks all the way. I returned the looks with a huge grin and a waving hand. A couple of people gave me the finger, which I took as a sign that I was doing the right thing.
However, one girl refused to move. She was this tiny pixie, with a flowery dress and a sweet smile. I repeated the routine, but she would not budge.
So I edged the car closer and closer to her, showing her that I meant business. I was saying, in the limited language of a driver, that she should get out of the way, because I was not stopping. She replied, in the limited language of pedestrians, that I could keep on coming, because she wasn't moving.
Very well, I thought. The car closed in, centimeter by centimeter. It was the slowest game of chicken ever played. But just as I was about to hit the breaks and admit defeat, she bent forward, and lay down on the hood.
My customers gasped. I smiled. She had upped the stakes. I was happy to continue playing. So with this adorable faerie clinging to the hood, I slowly rolled all the way to Warehouse Street. Coming to the intersection I stopped. She let go of the hood, blew me a kiss, and wandered happily back to her friends on Warehouse Street.
I fell in love with her right then and there and I never saw her again.
2) What's the grossest thing you've ever had to clean off the inside of your cabs roof?
I've never had to clean anything off the inside of the roof. God help me the day I will have to.
3) How do you know Mama Crustaceaus?
Mama Crustaceous is a fine woman, a mean poker player, and has no tolerance for your bullshit. Leave it at that.
Read Part 2 Here
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1) How do you avoid the urge to run these people down where they stand?
Short answer: My parents raised me well.
As a matter of fact, I did give in to that urge once. I was down on Warehouse Street, which is a small stretch right in the center of town. It's got a couple of very popular bars and restaurants, frequented by locals. Rarely do you pick up people there that are from out of town.
Anyway, Warehouse Street is an original street from back when the city was founded. It is narrow, and it is paved with cobblestones. Add to the fact that the local joints like to put tables and chairs outside their doors so as to accommodate people during the summer, and you have yourself a nightmare from an automobile-perspective.
So I had just picked up a bunch of merry revelers, and we were about to drive to the nearest intersection. Sadly, there was a crowd gathered in front of the car. I did the usual crowd-dispersal routine:
1. Flash the headlights.
No response.
2. Rev the engine.
No response.
3. Emit a series of short, insistent honks through the horn.
Response.
The crowd dispersed, giving me sour looks all the way. I returned the looks with a huge grin and a waving hand. A couple of people gave me the finger, which I took as a sign that I was doing the right thing.
However, one girl refused to move. She was this tiny pixie, with a flowery dress and a sweet smile. I repeated the routine, but she would not budge.
So I edged the car closer and closer to her, showing her that I meant business. I was saying, in the limited language of a driver, that she should get out of the way, because I was not stopping. She replied, in the limited language of pedestrians, that I could keep on coming, because she wasn't moving.
Very well, I thought. The car closed in, centimeter by centimeter. It was the slowest game of chicken ever played. But just as I was about to hit the breaks and admit defeat, she bent forward, and lay down on the hood.
My customers gasped. I smiled. She had upped the stakes. I was happy to continue playing. So with this adorable faerie clinging to the hood, I slowly rolled all the way to Warehouse Street. Coming to the intersection I stopped. She let go of the hood, blew me a kiss, and wandered happily back to her friends on Warehouse Street.
I fell in love with her right then and there and I never saw her again.
2) What's the grossest thing you've ever had to clean off the inside of your cabs roof?
I've never had to clean anything off the inside of the roof. God help me the day I will have to.
3) How do you know Mama Crustaceaus?
Mama Crustaceous is a fine woman, a mean poker player, and has no tolerance for your bullshit. Leave it at that.
Read Part 2 Here
Tuesday 4 August 2015
Filling a hole.
"Man, all those crazy people you meet..."
"More tragic than crazy, really..."
As some of you know, I'm guilty of aiding and abetting criminal activities. I am also guilty of enabling self destructive behaviour. Whether intended or not, sooner or later a cabby will play a part in making the world just a tiny bit darker. Hell, follow the proper chain of cause and effect, and it is entirely possible that I bear some responsibility for some current or future atrocity.
Tonight's story happened a couple of years ago. Christmas and New Years had come and gone, and the people had woken up to the fact that they didn't have any money left. Consequently, they remained indoors in the evenings, and pickings were very slim indeed for those of us who live off others' disposable income. I had just dropped off a customer in May Town, and had begun rolling off to Iron Square. The plan was to park by the 711, and quietly hope that some weekday drunk would stumble by and ask for a ride. Hope is the keyword here, because what I expected was another forty minutes of sitting on my ass, reading a book, and not getting paid.
I was in luck, however. The com hissed, and dispatch hailed me:
"Car 3, May Town, Saw Street."
I try to avoid May Town. It is an area infested with dingy bars and the broken down people who frequent them. I don't have anything against those people, but the fact is that they usually call cabs when they're too drunk to walk two blocks home. Economically speaking, May Town sucks. These days it's a bit different, of course, thanks to gentrification. Still, it was one of those nights where one will take whatever horse is available, and avoid looking it in the mouth.
"Car 3, five minutes."
"Car 3 five, confirm."
"Confirmed, Car 3."
So off I went to Saw street. And as the fare appeared on the display, I smiled. It was going to Shamrock Street, way on the other side of the river. Not a great fare, but decent none the less. So I arrived at Saw Street, and my fare was already waiting for me.
He was well built; muscular, with long curly hair. However, that's all you can say for his appearance; his skin was almost grey in its pallor, and his eyes had that tense, trembling look of the truly desperate.
"How much will it cost? I don't have a lot of money."
Fuck you, mister. Fuck you to death. "How much do you have?"
"About 150," he showed me two crumpled bills. I nodded.
"That should about cover it."
"Thanks, you're a life-saver."
"Don't mention it."
So off we went. During the trip, his phone rang. He was very quick to answer it.
"Hey baby... yeah I'm in the cab. It'll be about ten minutes. Yeah, I can't wait.... all right. Bye."
The hand holding the phone dropped to his lap and he drew a long, miserable sigh.
"I'm a fucking idiot."
"Girlfriend problems?"
He barked a bitter laugh.
"I don't even know her name."
Since it was more of a monologue than a dialogue, I'll attempt to recreate it for you. All that I brought to the table was mostly nods, expected questions, and liberal applications of "Aha?" and "Go on".
"I don't know her. I didn't even know she existed until about half an hour ago. I got in touch with her through <some hookup-site>. The fucked up thing is that I have a fiancé and a son. He's only four. Anyway... yeah. I guess I'm a sex-addict. I'm fine for a night or two, but the moment I'm alone I head back to the computer. I get laid maybe two or three times a week, and never with the same person.
"Every time I do it, I promise it will be the last. I don't even enjoy it. When I cum, I feel nothing. It's just spasms, you know? Afterward, I feel sick and I go back home. I even have a fake number I can give them. I don't want them calling me, I don't want to remember them. Most of them are as fucked up as I am.
"Hey, at least it's not heroin, right? I mean, there are worse things to be addicted to, right? That's crap, buddy. I've been addicted to all kinds of shit. It's all the same. It's all just bullshit. I stay off it for a while, and things go fine, and then... Christ, the anxiety... It's like... It's like something is chasing you. Something horrible, and you don't give a fuck about who you trample. You just want to get away. But you don't.
"It started with drugs. I was a musician. Played in a rock band. Did the whole rock'n'roll lifestyle. Whatever there was to snort, I snorted. Pills too. Weed. Even tried junk once, but thank god I never got stuck on that. Anyway, I managed to leave that all behind. Started taking care of myself. Started eating right, and working out. I worked out a lot. I looked great. I felt great. And as long as I kept working out, I felt great.
"At some point, I realized that I was fuckable. Like, chiselled fucking adonis fuckable. I mean, what's the point of having a great body if you don't get to use it, right? So I started hitting bars to pick up chicks. Like, constantly. And that made me feel great. Then it made me feel good. Then it made me feel... not bad."
"I don't know what I'm so fucking scared of. I have a good life. Steady income, a girl who loves me, the greatest son ever. But... drugs, or working out, or fucking... there's always something I need not to feel like complete shit. I don't know how to break it. I know I'm destroying everything, but I ... I don't know what to do."
By now we had arrived at Shamrock Street. He gave me the money.
"Look," I said. "I can take you back home. Free of charge. Go back to your family, and tomorrow, get help."
And he hung his head for a second, then shook his head. "I appreciate it, buddy. But if you do, in an hour I'll be right back here."
A girl appeared in the door. She was wearing sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt and no makeup. Her face looked just as grim as his. Somehow I doubted she was looking forward to this.
"Your change, sir." I said.
"Keep it."
He left the car, and walked up to her. They embraced, and kissed with a level of passion I can only describe as "adequate".
"More tragic than crazy, really..."
As some of you know, I'm guilty of aiding and abetting criminal activities. I am also guilty of enabling self destructive behaviour. Whether intended or not, sooner or later a cabby will play a part in making the world just a tiny bit darker. Hell, follow the proper chain of cause and effect, and it is entirely possible that I bear some responsibility for some current or future atrocity.
Oh Crabby, if only you hadn't thrown out that guy...
Tonight's story happened a couple of years ago. Christmas and New Years had come and gone, and the people had woken up to the fact that they didn't have any money left. Consequently, they remained indoors in the evenings, and pickings were very slim indeed for those of us who live off others' disposable income. I had just dropped off a customer in May Town, and had begun rolling off to Iron Square. The plan was to park by the 711, and quietly hope that some weekday drunk would stumble by and ask for a ride. Hope is the keyword here, because what I expected was another forty minutes of sitting on my ass, reading a book, and not getting paid.
I was in luck, however. The com hissed, and dispatch hailed me:
"Car 3, May Town, Saw Street."
I try to avoid May Town. It is an area infested with dingy bars and the broken down people who frequent them. I don't have anything against those people, but the fact is that they usually call cabs when they're too drunk to walk two blocks home. Economically speaking, May Town sucks. These days it's a bit different, of course, thanks to gentrification. Still, it was one of those nights where one will take whatever horse is available, and avoid looking it in the mouth.
"Car 3, five minutes."
"Car 3 five, confirm."
"Confirmed, Car 3."
So off I went to Saw street. And as the fare appeared on the display, I smiled. It was going to Shamrock Street, way on the other side of the river. Not a great fare, but decent none the less. So I arrived at Saw Street, and my fare was already waiting for me.
He was well built; muscular, with long curly hair. However, that's all you can say for his appearance; his skin was almost grey in its pallor, and his eyes had that tense, trembling look of the truly desperate.
"How much will it cost? I don't have a lot of money."
Fuck you, mister. Fuck you to death. "How much do you have?"
"About 150," he showed me two crumpled bills. I nodded.
"That should about cover it."
"Thanks, you're a life-saver."
"Don't mention it."
So off we went. During the trip, his phone rang. He was very quick to answer it.
"Hey baby... yeah I'm in the cab. It'll be about ten minutes. Yeah, I can't wait.... all right. Bye."
The hand holding the phone dropped to his lap and he drew a long, miserable sigh.
"I'm a fucking idiot."
"Girlfriend problems?"
He barked a bitter laugh.
"I don't even know her name."
Since it was more of a monologue than a dialogue, I'll attempt to recreate it for you. All that I brought to the table was mostly nods, expected questions, and liberal applications of "Aha?" and "Go on".
"I don't know her. I didn't even know she existed until about half an hour ago. I got in touch with her through <some hookup-site>. The fucked up thing is that I have a fiancé and a son. He's only four. Anyway... yeah. I guess I'm a sex-addict. I'm fine for a night or two, but the moment I'm alone I head back to the computer. I get laid maybe two or three times a week, and never with the same person.
"Every time I do it, I promise it will be the last. I don't even enjoy it. When I cum, I feel nothing. It's just spasms, you know? Afterward, I feel sick and I go back home. I even have a fake number I can give them. I don't want them calling me, I don't want to remember them. Most of them are as fucked up as I am.
"Hey, at least it's not heroin, right? I mean, there are worse things to be addicted to, right? That's crap, buddy. I've been addicted to all kinds of shit. It's all the same. It's all just bullshit. I stay off it for a while, and things go fine, and then... Christ, the anxiety... It's like... It's like something is chasing you. Something horrible, and you don't give a fuck about who you trample. You just want to get away. But you don't.
"It started with drugs. I was a musician. Played in a rock band. Did the whole rock'n'roll lifestyle. Whatever there was to snort, I snorted. Pills too. Weed. Even tried junk once, but thank god I never got stuck on that. Anyway, I managed to leave that all behind. Started taking care of myself. Started eating right, and working out. I worked out a lot. I looked great. I felt great. And as long as I kept working out, I felt great.
"At some point, I realized that I was fuckable. Like, chiselled fucking adonis fuckable. I mean, what's the point of having a great body if you don't get to use it, right? So I started hitting bars to pick up chicks. Like, constantly. And that made me feel great. Then it made me feel good. Then it made me feel... not bad."
"I don't know what I'm so fucking scared of. I have a good life. Steady income, a girl who loves me, the greatest son ever. But... drugs, or working out, or fucking... there's always something I need not to feel like complete shit. I don't know how to break it. I know I'm destroying everything, but I ... I don't know what to do."
By now we had arrived at Shamrock Street. He gave me the money.
"Look," I said. "I can take you back home. Free of charge. Go back to your family, and tomorrow, get help."
And he hung his head for a second, then shook his head. "I appreciate it, buddy. But if you do, in an hour I'll be right back here."
A girl appeared in the door. She was wearing sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt and no makeup. Her face looked just as grim as his. Somehow I doubted she was looking forward to this.
"Your change, sir." I said.
"Keep it."
He left the car, and walked up to her. They embraced, and kissed with a level of passion I can only describe as "adequate".
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