La cage aux fools.

(Story after the jump)

I've made no secret about the fact that I regularly drive beasts around town. Some of the creatures that end up in my cab are slavering, savage animals whose only motivation is the satisfaction of instinctual needs, marking territory, and angrily snarling at anyone who would dare to question their dominance. In that way, there is no practical difference between certain homo sapiens and other animals. However, unlike wolves, tigers, buffalo or pigs, all homo sapiens who make use of a taxi have disposable income. Thus they end up in my cab, and I have to do my best to keep from being eaten.

"I want a fixed rate."

"Bite me."

On occasion, the more conventional beasts (IE. the ones who don't have money) end up in my cab. These are usually pets. Dogs and cats, and most are well behaved. Some of my colleagues refuse to transport pets, usually for the same reason some of us refuse to transport the very drunk; we don't want to clean up the mess if an accident would happen.

As for me, I don't care. If your dog is small, it can sit on the floor by your feet. If it's big, it can sit in the trunk. In fact, even if a puppy won't pay its way in cash, it can definitely get some mileage out of just being freaking adorable. 

However, sometimes it becomes very clear why some of my colleagues only drive human animals. This is a story I've been meaning to tell for a long time (in fact, I thought I already had). I'm going to tell it tonight, because frankly, the only other stories I have off the top of my head are stories about toxic relationships and abused women. While their stories are worth telling, and will be told, tonight I really feel like we need something light-hearted. 

-----------------------------

Story: Only Crabby found Grace in the eyes of the Lord.

Back when I was still doing this full time, I received a call from dispatch. I was needed at Oakland Street. Dispatch also told me that the fare had a dog with them. 

Some people don't inform dispatch that they have animals with them. This is kinda rude: as stated earlier, some cabbies aren't comfortable with driving zero-income beasts. This one had done us the courtesy. 

Not that I thought of it at the time. To me, it was just another fare. 

On the screen was a name and address. There was also the special blue tab that appears whenever there's extra information the cabby should know. I clicked it and read:

Cat and Bird. 

It seemed a little weird, but I concluded that the guy was probably waiting at a pet store of that name (we're not very good with titles in Sweden). So I arrived at the address and saw a man in his early forties. He was dressed in shoddy jeans and a leather jacket. His face was haggard and his hair a mess. He had a haunted, nervous look about him. Next to him was a huge suitcase and a creature that I can only assume was the result of breeding a dog with a horse. 

What I didn't see was a pet store called Cat and Bird. 

The man came up to my cab. 

"Are you my ride to Major Street?"

"I am, sir," I smiled and got out of the cab. "Is the dog OK with riding in the trunk?"

"Oh sure," said the man, glancing this way and that. I opened the trunk and the great lumbering mass of fur and limbs hauled itself in and sat down, looking very zen and collected about the whole situation. I took the suitcase and placed it next to the dog.

"All right," I said and got in the driver's seat. "Let's go."

"No, wait," said the man. "I gotta get the cat."

"All right..." I said, and a terrible suspicion began to form in the back of my head.

The man disappeared and came back with a pet carrier. Inside was a tabby cat that didn't look particularly pleased at all. He placed the cat in the back seat. Once more, I climbed into the cab.  

"All right, let's go-"

"No, wait!" the man cried. "I gotta get the bird."

The man disappeared again. The suspicion in the back of my head began to grow into a nagging worry. The man came out, carrying an absolutely gigantic birdcage, more than half the size of him. A three year old child could've sat comfortably in it. Sitting in the cage was a gigantic parrot, who regarded me with silent curiosity. Our nervous tried to push the cage into the back seat, almost upending the whole thing in the process. 

The cage was filthy. Every bar was covered in ratty old feathers and grime; its floor was filled with guano, with little bits of newspaper peeking out between the turds. The worry turned into horror and disgust. I threw myself out of the cab.

"No, wait, not there," I said, biting back a snarled "you idiot". "put it in the shotgun seat seat. It's roomier."

Now... if this had happened today, I would've denied him the moment he brought the cage out. Hell, if this were now, I would've turned on the meter the moment I saw him. But I was a young cabby then, and I had an idea that the fare begins when the car is rolling. I also hadn't yet realized when denial of service is warranted. These days, I know that the fare begins the moment you make contact with the customer. I also know that filthy bird cages filled with shit do not belong in a taxi. 

"And just where do we belong, asshole?"

So we managed to wrestle the bird cage into the car. The parrot was not amused and started angrily screeching some avian complaint about the quality of the service I offered. Filthy old feathers and a few grains of grime fell onto the seat and the floor. With grim resignation, I figured I could wipe it off quickly once the trip was over.

"All right... We off then?" I asked the man, secretly dreading the answer. The man was halfway to the door again. 

"No, I gotta get the guinea pigs."

I looked up to the sky, idly wondering if God was planning on sending another deluge and had mistaken my cab for an ark.

"Of course, sir.." I said and sat down in the seat for the third time. This time I didn't get out again. I did, however, turn on the meter. The man appeared with a plastic travel cage, with three guinea pigs. It kinda looked like a breadbox, with an open top. Its floor was filled with wood shavings, and (as my nostrils made it very clear) guinea pig piss. He stood there, looking confused as to what to do with it. I told him to place it on the floor in front of the shotgun seat.

"OK," I said through gritted teeth, barely containing my annoyance. "Are there any more animals you need to get?"

"I gotta get my mom too."

"Of course, sir. I'm not going anywhere."

The man hurried back inside. I looked at the menagerie that had assembled in my cab and I realized I was trapped. And I wasn't alone. None of the animals were happy about this. The parrot was nervously polishing its feathers and raised its crest whenever it caught my eye. The cat was wailing and the guinea pigs shuffled about in their gross wood shavings. The only passenger who seemed cool with the whole situation was the dog, who looked at me with friendly eyes over the back seat.

I was tempted to unload the car and drive off, but pity (and the risk of a reprimand from my boss) stayed my hand. Plus, where the hell would I put the dog? There wasn't a lamppost I could tie it to. 

"Your owner is an idiot," I told it, and it gave a patient grunt. 

Finally the door opened, and out came our nervous friend and and his mother, a tiny old lady who blinked confusedly at the outside world. They climbed into the back seat.

"All right," I said, turning on my most cheerful voice in order not to upset the old lady. "Let's go!"

Halfway up Oakland Street, the guy said: "So how much is going to cost?"

"Major Street is in Linnaeus, so I'm guessing two hundred at most."

"Oh but I only have 150."

You son of a bitch. You god damn flaky Beastmaster piece of shit. I will take this car, drive it out in the woods and feed your liver to these god damn animals, is exactly what I didn't say. What I did say was this:

"All right... Then I need to inform you that its considered very rude among cabbies to hail us and then tell us you can't afford the trip once we're on the road. I can think of several of my colleagues who would've easily thrown you out for wasting their time-"

"I'm sorry-"

"-however, I will take your 150. But keep that in mind the next time you call a cab, all right?"

"Oh, but I have a debit card!" said his mother cheerfully. "Maybe I can help."

I smiled. Finally! Someone taking some responsibility around here. "OK, so you'll pay for the trip?"

"No, but I can add my money to my son's."

Again, that dark suspicion. "And how much money would that be..?"

"20!" she seemed pleased as punch about this. I smiled and congratulated myself on not driving the cab straight into a building right then and there. 

The trip continued on in silence. Well, mostly silence. The animals were having their say about the situation, and they found it just as annoying as I did. The parrot squawked, the can yowled, the guinea pigs squeaked. Only the dog remained calm, occasionally smiling in the rear-view, as if to say It's all good, bro. 

Finally we arrived. The proverbial dove had returned with an olive branch and it was time to unload the animals and leave the ark. First the guy opened the trunk to get the suitcase. The dog lumbered out, shook out its fur, and began trotting about idly on Major street. Its owner seemed utterly unconcerned about the fact that his dog was walking around unbound in a residential area. When it came by me, I grabbed its leash and led it to a nearby lamp post and tied it. It waved its tail happily and watched the rest of the idiocy unfold. 

Next came his mother, carrying the cat. She stood by, watching me and her idiot son unloading the rest of the animals. Her idiot son opened the door to the shot gun seat, and lifted the guinea pig cage. Or rather, he lifted the top of it. The floor came loose, spilling wood shavings, guinea piss and confused rodents all over the cab floor. 

"Oh come on!" I cried out, as Doctor Doolittle's idiot brother frantically put the cage back together and collected the guinea pigs (who seemed oddly calm about the whole ordeal. I suspect this wasn't their first rodeo). I stared at the mess he had made.

"I'm sorry!" he said. "I'm so sorry!"

I groaned. "Is there a broom and a dustpan up in that apartment?"

"Yes, yes there is. Do you want me to get it?"

"Please do," I sighed. 

All the while, the mother stood by with the dog and the cat, looking at us happily. "You're so nice." she said. I smiled thinly and ignored her. I decided she was senile, or that idiocy ran in her family. Either way, I decided not to hold her responsible for any of this. I proceeded to get the bird cage out of the cab, all the while the parrot was angrily flapping its wings, squawking and adding more shit to its already impressive collection. Filthy feathers and grime fell onto the seat. I idly wondered what parrot tasted like.

Finally Doofus Doolittle returned, with a small broom and a dustpan. For the first time since I met him, he actually used his brain cells and went straight for the mess he had made. However, I suspect that his brain had just used up its daily allowance of bandwidth, because all he did was to ineffectively push the crap around, managing to get very little onto the dust pan. 

I realized I didn't have time for this. I had been patient. I had accepted each and every bizarre piece of cargo he had brought. I had even, out of the kindness of my heart, accepted that he'd be underpaying me. But this was just too much and I wanted to go.

"All right, stop," I said.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry-"

"Yeah yeah, stop. That's enough, OK? I don't have time for this. This was a ten minute trip that has taken over thirty minutes of my time. I get paid by the fare, so I literally can't afford to stand here while you 'clean' my cab."

"So what happens now?"

"Now you pay me."

His eyes brightened and he reached for his money.

"After that, I'm going to the gas station to vacuum the cab. Going there and doing this will take me about twenty minutes. So that will be almost a full hour of my time that you have wasted. So I'm going to have to ask that you compensate me."

"But I don't have any money."

"That's perfectly all right," I said coldly. "This is how it'll work. I could easily demand 500 for this whole mess and it wouldn't be unjustified. But I'll settle for two hundred, because you've obviously got money troubles and I really don't want to make this shit difficult. We'll exchange numbers and you will give me something of yours as a bond. Something valuable. This can be your ID or anything like that. Once you have money, give me a call and we'll make the exchange and put this behind us."

"What about my mother's debit card?"

"Doesn't she need it?"

"She doesn't know how to use it, and there won't be any money on it until the end of the month."

I felt nothing but contempt for him. Not only had he stiffed out of my fare; he had made a mess of my cab, wasted my time and now he was about to pawn off his mother's debit card.

His mother approached us. "That sounds like a great idea!" 

She gave me her card. I looked at her. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, of course!"

If I had been less infuriated, I may have refused, and simply left. But I took the card, gave the guy my number, and got the hell out.

Over the next week, I called him up to check in on the situation. He said he had the money, but any time I suggested we meet up and get this shit done with, he said he didn't have the time. One night, his mother called me, angrily saying that I had stolen her card and that she was going to report me to the police because I refused to give it to her son. I told her that I'd been in touch with him several times, and that he had always refused. I would give her her card back, but I'd appreciate it if she spoke to him about it.

The next day, he called me. We met up, made the exchange. He was thanking me and apologizing profusely. I told him politely that I was happy this thing was over and that he was now blacklisted from Taxi M.

The last part was a blatant lie. And lying is wrong. But at the time, it felt so right. 

Vaguely Important People

"So how do I go about getting a VIP-card with you guys?"
"That depends. Do you consider yourself very important?"

( Here's My Stop has a facebook page now! Join it here and tell your friends all about it!)

( There's a story underneath this wall of text. Jump to it, if you want to get straight to the action. )

I've mentioned before that I'm a firm believer in the equality between buyer and seller. Especially in a cab. After all, without your money I can't pay my bills and without my driving, you can't get home. We both have something that the other wants. Let's make a deal where we both go home happy.

Of course, not everyone shares this view. Anyone reading this who has ever worked in any part of the service industry knows this intimately well. Some people believe that the customer is a cut above the seller. And in a way, that's true. It is in the seller's interest to satisfy his customer, because they can take their business elsewhere. When it comes to the terms of that mutually beneficial deal, the customer does have a slight edge. That being said, some people feel that this slight edge entitles them. After all, the customer is always right, yes?

The company I work for services two kinds of customers. First and foremost, there's the mob. The peasants. The random strangers who call for a cab, or hail it on the street, travel to their destination, and pay. The other group are our VIP-customers.

I personally find the whole idea of VIP to be idiotic. Not, mind you, that you give certain customers special treatment. After all, not all customers are created equal when it comes to business and benefit, and so it might behoove a company to give a certain subset of them special treatment. The trouble I have with it is the phrasing. VIP. Very Important Person.

You all know my views of humanity; that I fundamentally (and mostly compassionately) view us as a bunch of frightened apes clinging to a messy pebble floating out in the cold vast nothingness of space. In the grand scheme of things, we mean absolutely nothing. So from that perspective, the very idea some of these terrified lonely chimps lost in the abyss would be more important than others is just ridiculous.

The VIP-system at Taxi M came about as a result of deals made between the company and various others, chiefly restaurants and bars. By giving their personnel VIP-status, we are guaranteed that when said customers need to get home after a long shift at work, the restaurants will call us.

As a VIP-customer at Taxi M, you get the following benefits:
1. A special phone number which allows you to skip ahead the other people waiting in line for dispatch to take your call (thus increasing your chances of getting a cab, theoretically at least)
2. No matter what time of day it is, or what time of year, you'll always ride on the cheapest tariff.

In return, you only have three obligations:
1. Provide us with consistent repeat business (less of an obligation and more of a decent thing to do)
2. Display your VIP card in the cab in order to reap the benefits of it.
3. Treat the driver with a certain amount of respect - after all, we know where you live.

Simple, right? Mutual benefit. But here's the nasty truth: Most of us don't really like driving VIP-customers. We make less money off of them, and many of them only take trips from one block to another, meaning that we (at least those of us on the night shift) make peanuts off of them. We have a professional expectation to drive them, and we have an economic incentive not to. Guess which one wins out when we're given a choice?

That being said, most VIPeople are like any other fare: pleasant enough. But then there are that small subset of people...

Gavrilo Princip: anarchist, assassin, 

and friend of cabbies everywhere.

The entitled assholes who think that the world was made for their benefit, only this is one step worse because now they have a card that actually confirms what they so desperately want other people to believe: that they are very important indeed.

A common problem I have with the VIPeople is when I ask them to show me their card. If they fail to produce it, I'm supposed to drive them on a regular tariff, rather than the cheapest one. The reason for this is simple:
1. Its part of the fucking deal.
2. It happens that some people give their friends the VIP phone number (or some enterprising people find out about it) in order to give them cheap cab rides. Displaying the card shows that you're a customer in good standing with us, and not some impostor. If you are the latter, that means you're a regular customer and are expected to pay the regular price.

Sounds simple, no?

Well some people don't think it is. Some people take umbrage when I ask them to display their card.
"But I've been a customer at Taxi M for fifteen years!"

And I've been driving full time for four years, and part time for three. That's a full ten years I've not driven your ass. You're not that fucking memorable, buddy!

Most people take it in stride. Others get a little huffy, but accept it. Especially after I politely tell them that if they're displeased, they should call HQ and ask them about it, and that I'm only doing what my boss told me to do.

For some people, that's not good enough. I usually kick them out and ask my boss to remove their VIP-status. That's usually the end of the story. But one man, one glorious man, with a level of self-righteous stubbornness that matches my own decided to buck the trend.

Let me tell you about him.
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Story: Viciously Impotent Pighead


This tale is one I've waited  a year to tell. Every midsummer's eve, I bust my ass to make as much money as I can. The goal is 6000 sek, which amounts to double pay. And last year, I was on a roll. I had reached the quota and then some, and I was ready to turn in. Then came the call from dispatch:

"VIP fare from Hill Bay within twenty minutes..."

Within a microsecond, the mike was in my hand and I called out: "Car 3 in 17."
"Car 3, 17"
"Acknowledged, Car 3."

Hill Bay is half an hour outside of town center, so even if it was a VIP fare, I'd still be making a nice sum. I headed off. Spurred on by my own greed, I set off. Seventeen minutes later, I arrived. The sun was rising, and I took a moment to enjoy the view as my customer arrived. He was a big fellow; red from sunburn and booze, with a great big bushy beard. He kinda looked like Santa Claus somewhat less successful cousin.

"3456 Jack?" he asked, looking at me through bleary eyes.

I really, really hate it when they introduce themselves with their VIP number and name. A simple "hello" will get you a lot more with me. I nodded to him and he said he was going to get his wife and two friends. "We'll be dropping them off in Highhome, and then we're going to Linnaeus."

"Sure."

After a while, his wife and friends arrived. He got into the cab and I turned on the meter. I turned it to the cheapest tariff .

"May I see your VIP card, sir?"

"What? Why?" he was clearly surprised and a little put out.

"Standard procedure, sir."

"Can't you see I'm VIP on your screen."

"Of course, but I need to see the card in order to confirm it."

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.
"Fine!" he showed me his card and I nodded.

"Thank you sir."

Off we went. In the back seat, his wife and friends were chatting amiably about how lovely the evening had been. I asked Mr Claus about his night and if he'd had a nice Midsummer.

"Sure... But I don't get it. Why did I have to show the card? I never show the card."

"As I said sir, standard procedure."

"But I never have to show my card to other drivers."

"Most likely those drivers know you, or they don't care. I'm just doing my job, sir."

"It's still really weird," it was clear by his tone that by 'weird' he meant 'insulting to my ego'. I sighed. I was in no mood. So I said: "Sir, I'm just following the instructions my boss has given me. This is how I do my job. I'm sorry if you feel I've insulted you. If you want, I can ask if one of my colleagues can take you, if you'd rather not ride in this cab."

"No no, don't be silly. Of course I'll ride with you."

"Good," I said, confident that the conversation was over and we could get on with more pleasant topics.

Of course, Cousin Claus didn't agree.

"I still think it's weird. I've been a loyal customer for thirteen years, but you must be new. After all, I am VIP-"

At this point, I had been working for twelve hours. Twelve solid hours, wearing a big happy smile every inch of the way. I'd been playing the part of the happy servant all night, and it had borne fruit. In a flash, I realized that I had no reason, economic or otherwise, to treat this guy as anything less than he was. So I slammed on the breaks and turned on him.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"What??" he stared at me like a deer in the headlight.

"You signed a deal with Taxi M. When you received your card, you also received a letter. In it, it says what the terms of the deal are. You know damn well what you're expected to do, and you step into my car and act like a spoiled little brat because I'm doing my fucking job? Get the fuck out of my cab, you entitled piece of shit."

"Is this any way to talk to VIP-customers?"

"You are one out of ten thousand. That goddamn card is more important than you."

His wife and friends now began hurling abuse over me. I don't blame them even slightly. They hadn't heard the exchange between us. For all they knew, I had flipped my lid out of nowhere. They called me things like "psycho" and "asshole", and again, I don't blame them.

"Fuck you," they said. "Come on, Jack, let's call a real cab company."

They stepped out. But Jack Claus was in no mood.

"No," he said and turned to me. "You're going to get on that radio, and get me another car."

"That's not going to happen, now get the hell out."

"Jack!" said his wife. "A car from Taxi G is on its way. Get out and let this idiot go away."

"No," he said, looking at me. "I'm staying until he gets me another cab. Until that happens, he's not making another cent."

I laughed. I laughed and laughed. "Buddy, I've made double salary this evening. I can afford to sit here literally all day."

This entry is long enough, so I won't give you the word for word conversation we had. Besides, this was a year ago. But he called dispatch and explained to them was a complete asshole I was. Dispatch called me and asked about the situation and I explained it to them and that he refused to leave the car. They took my side and called the police.

So. One of the girls in dispatch kept talking to him, telling him that they were looking for another car, while the other was assuring me that they wouldn't give him anything and that the cops were coming.

The cab from Taxi G arrived. I looked at him.

"Sir, how about you leave the cab? The cops are on their way and they will remove you. Stop wasting my time, stop wasting your wife's time and stop wasting the cops' time and just leave, hm?"

"No. Now it's a matter of fucking principle."

"Your loss, man. Let's just wait here."

His wife appeared by the door. "Come on Jack, let's go."

"No, I'm not leaving until he gets me another cab."

She got angry with him. "Fine, do that. But give me the keys."

He stared at her. "I thought you had them?"

So she had to take the Taxi G cab back to the party to pick up their keys. I heard her swearing all the way to the door.

"I suppose its just you and me, now," I said.
"Yeah?" he sneered. "But I know someone's going to be driving this car during the day shift. You sure you can keep him waiting?"

"If I tell him some stubborn asshole refused to leave the car, I'm sure he'll understand. You're not the first to ride with us, and you won't be the last."

"You're sick."

"And you're an idiot. Seems we're going to get along just fine."

It took the police almost an hour to get out there. It was a very long, very awkward hour. At one point he made jokes about my sex life, which amounted to explaining to me that there was no chance in hell I'd ever get laid. I pointed out that last night's activities suggested otherwise.

"I bet she was a fat fucking whale."

I looked at him. He was rather spherical and his wife had a similar shape. I decided not to point that out.

By the time the cops had arrived, I had cleaned the cab twice, and he had made damn near twenty calls to dispatch, angrily demanding another cab. Two stubborn idiots can only maintain steam for so long, however. A weirdly tense truce formed between us. By the end, I even offered him gum which he politely declined.

Finally the cops arrived, and I stepped out and met them. I asked them to kindly move him a foot or two away from my car, so I could leave, and to take him home to his waiting wife. They asked him to step out, and he began angrily telling them that I refused to drive them, to which they replied that unless he had paid in advance, I was under no obligation to him whatsoever.

I closed the doors and turned on the engine. I wrote down my ID number and gave it to him.

"Sir, call HQ tomorrow. Tell them it was Crabby Cabby who was really really mean to you. If you ask them nicely, I'm sure they'll fire me without a moment's hesitation."

Then I drove off, screaming with laughter all the way back to town.

He never did call HQ.

The sheriff round these here parts.

"Just run the red light. We're cool with you going straight through."

"You might be, but the cops might not."

"We are cops. And you have our permission."

"Nice try, officers. But you're not getting me this time."

Before I got into this business, I had made an emergency call only once. As a cabbie, I've found that calling emergency services is not only an option, it is a necessity. Whether it be a customer that threatens you or somebody who needs help, it is a good thing to know that there's a whole slew of people getting paid to take care of that shit. So far, I've called the cops around seven or ten times. Sometimes because of awful people in my cab, sometimes in order to help people outside my cab. And every time, they've done their job. 

Now, before I launch into tonight's discussion, I want to make a few things clear.

The police are citizens whom society has given the right to commit violent acts upon their fellow citizens, provided it is in the name of upholding the code of conduct that allows thousands (even millions!) of strangers to co-exist peacefully in a limited area. In a perfect society, they wouldn't be necessary, because people wouldn't be assholes to one another. I do not believe the police are by definition heroes, nor do I believe them to be the extended arm of an oppressive system. They are, first and foremost, people tasked with a job that is difficult as hell, both practically and morally. People who raise them to the heavens as paragons of humanity are just as deluded as those who dismiss them as mere oppressors. For choosing their profession, they deserve our respect. But this is also a democratic society: power comes from the consent of the governed. Thus, my attitude toward cops is that they are to be treated with respect, but they must also be kept on a tight leash.

The job of the police is to uphold the law. But the law is not absolute. Most of the most horrible things ever done in the world were (and are!) perfectly legal. So while cops are necessary, do not for  a moment think that their uniform by definition makes them right. They are human, prone to the same faults and virtues. But if we want to live in a civilized society, we need them. And if we want to live in a just society, we must scrutinize them.

I'm telling you this, because tonight I want to talk about how the cops impact my work. Cabbies and cops have a rather, shall we say, complicated relationship. On the one hand, they are on hand to help us out when we inevitably suffer our various work hazards. On the other hand, they're also there to pull us over and slap us around whenever we interpret the traffic laws a little too liberally. And we do, frequently and often (as anyone who's ever seen cabbies in action in pretty much any country can attest).

As shown in this excellent documentary.

Cops will stop us for all kinds of reasons. They will check if we've been drinking, if we've filled out the proper paper work, if we've been driving people off the meter... We are a shady bunch of people, and as I've said before, many of us are cheats and swindlers. The cops have every reason to keep an eye on us. In particular because of the way most of us relate to the laws that govern traffic. Or rather, how we don't relate to it at all.

All right. So why do cabbies have their own interpretation of traffic laws? Well, it comes down to how the work is structured.

I've spoken of the challenges of working on commission. A cabbie can only have a rough idea of how much he'll be getting by the end of the month; he can set some goals, sure. He can stick it out an hour or two extra for that extra handful of gold, but in the end we can never be sure of how much we'll be paid at any given time. All we can be sure of is this: the more fares per hour, the more money we get. So it is in our interest to cram as many fares as possible in any given hour. This doesn't mean we actually do, but the incentive is there. And in the way of that incentive are traffic laws. 

Now, let me make this perfectly clear: I do not advocate breaking traffic laws. Cars are big, hard and irresistible. Human bodies are small, squishy and very, very fragile. Those laws are there to maximize the survival and well-being of everyone who partakes in traffic. That being said, if breaking the traffic laws were a sin in the eyes of God, nobody with a driver's license would ever be able to cast the first stone. We've all driven a little too fast, accidentally run a red light, made a wrong turn, gotten distracted, rubbernecked, etc etc. We're chimps who every day reach velocities our bodies never evolved to truly deal with. Frankly, its a miracle Henry Ford didn't kill us all.

We're all sinners, and cabbies more than most. The job often demands it. I myself have had several brushes with the law, and I always feel anxious whenever I see a police cruiser driving toward or near me. It's kinda like swimming with sharks. Provided you don't look too tasty, and they're not hungry, you're probably fine. Probably.

Some of my colleagues have nothing but contempt for the cops. If they get hit with a speeding ticket, they will pull every trick in the book to get out of trouble. They've also given me several earfuls about "the fucking pigs" and "fascists" and "fucking assholes who need to push people around in order to get it up". This is, in my view, fucking stupid.

While there certainly are cops (far more than there should be) who are bullies, I can't help but roll my eyes at people who break the rules then whine about getting caught. At the risk of sounding flippant, 'thems the rules'. If you choose to break the rules and it doesn't hurt anyone, more power to you. The law is not absolute, and I am a firm believer in following the spirit of the law rather than the letter. However, if you do break the rules knowingly, you know the consequences if you're caught. To whine about it is ridiculous.

I have fought the law, and the law has usually been a good sport about winning. At these times, I've come to identify three types of cops.

1. The Buddy: This is usually an older member of the force. He's been around, seen his share of crimes and usually doesn't care unless you've done something serious. Will likely joke about whatever it is you did and let you off with a friendly warning. While I've never complained about this kind of treatment, I'd say that

2. The Power tripper: More often than not a young man. He is no mere cop; he is the law personified. His job is not only to catch you in the act, but to make you feel bad about it. He gets off on power and feeds on the delicious tears of his traumatized prey.

 I remember a meeting with one of them in Thor's Landing This was, for once an honest mistake. I was careful to keep the cab at 80 km/h, so that the blue and white car behind me wouldn't have a reason to start flashing those blue lights at me. As it turned out, it was a 70-road. Now, this isn't a major thing. It is very, very rare to get fined for going 10 over the limit. However, the lights started flashing and I pulled over. Within minutes, this young fellow in blue, with a gun on his hip, a full beard and a man-bun was yelling at me, questioning my sanity and calling me an idiot for daring to commit such a dastardly deed. When I pointed out that I acted in good faith, particularly because I didn't want to give him a reason to pull me over, he once again called me an idiot and lectured me on the stupidity of breaking traffic laws as a cabbie.

"Keep this up, and you'll lose your license, and your income. Do you want that?"
"Are you going to fine me?"
"No, I'm not. Get your shit together and use your head." 

Officer Hipster then stormed off to his car, and took off with screeching tires. Funny. In the time he spent humiliating a cabbie for driving what amounts to jogging speed over the limit on the highway, he could've arrested ten, or fifteen people who at that very moment were speeding three or four times more over the limit in the inner city. But I suppose that if you're going to be a successful hypocrite, you got to prioritize.

3. The Professional: This is my kind of cop. Brisk, harsh, no nonsense. They're not there to give you a bad time, nor are they there to pat you on the back. They are there to do their job, which is to uphold the law. They deliver slaps on the wrist and shoot you with the same, cool, detached demeanor. They don't make it personal: they give you what they're supposed to give you. The cop that took my license away early in my cabbing career (I was a complete idiot then. These days, I've managed to upgrade to being a partial one) was one of these. He made it clear what I'd done wrong, and that he would've simply levied a hefty fine if I'd only been doing a little slower. As it was, he had to take my license away. It was a bitter pill, and I was without income for three months, but not for one moment did I feel as if I'd been mistreated, or given anything less than I deserved. He made me pay for breaking the law. No more, no less. This I respect. So I handed the license over to him and shook his hand. Since then, you better believe I've learned my lesson.
'
I find that most of the male cops I've encountered fall within the first two categories. Interestingly enough, every single female cop I've encountered falls into the third. For this reason, I heartily endorse more women on the force. I don't know what factors into it, but for some reason they seem to get that they have an official role to play, as an extension of society. They are not there to lord over you. They are there to do a job, and they do it excellently. They are the ones who are keeping society safe.

-------

So what's the point of all this, you might ask.

I'm sure several of you are already sighing and wondering what kind of idiot I am. Again, I'm not trying to justify breaking rules or laws. The only time it can be justified, is when doing so prevents a greater wrong from being done. 90% of the time, I'm the very model of traffic safety. The other 10%, it is purely for my own (or my fare's) benefit. And even then, I mainly stretch the rules, rather than break them, and only if I can get away with it, and I'm guaranteed not to hurt or bother anyone. This severely limits my opportunity for criminal behaviour, though it does in no way justify it.

This entry was written, not as a justification, but merely an honest description. To summarize, my (and my peers') relationship to law enforcement is complicated. On the one hand, I use their services frequently to keep me and my fellows safe. On the other, they hold the power to make my evening miserable and make me effectively unemployed. The nature of my job (and my species) provides incentive to occasional take risks that sometimes are necessary (but often are not).

In a weird way, I view the whole thing as a game. And I am nothing, if not gracious in defeat. 

A decent fellow. (Raw and uncut).

Note: In preparation for writing entries, I use the recording function on my phone. Sometimes I record brief summaries of a fare, and on occasion (if I'm smooth enough) I actually record the conversation during the fare. Tonight, I don't feel like doing anything fancy, so I'm just going to give you the transcript of that final fare. 

Incidentally, the guy was a black American. Hence the dialect. I'm not trying to do anything culturally apropriative or write in a voice I am in no position to use. It's simply what he said, and how he said it, transcribed directly from the recording. The language we used is coarse, but if that's a problem for you, I suppose you wouldn't be reading my work. Some of his views are problematic to me, but in the end, but I still feel we had a good conversation. 
--------------------------------------------------
Crabby Cabby (CC)
Fare (F)

CC: ...sure. Forgive me, it's... been kind of a rough night.

F: Yeah, rough for me as well. She got naked as fuck, We were about to get it, and she said 'Noo, I don't wanna do it' at the last minute. I say: 'Ok, fine. Fuck it. All right, cool, we cool.'  And so she felt so bad she didn't want to fuck, you know, so she like: ' Why don't I pay for your cab?' I say: 'That's very fucking nice of you.'

CC: <laugh>

F: 'Even if you took me home, and got naked, you don't want to do it, that's your choice'.

CC: Of course.

F: I said: 'Aight, cool, I'll just put on my clothes, cause I don't wanna be in your house'. And she felt really bad so she said: 'Let me pay for your taxi' and I said OK. I'm not upset, shit., She gave me 400 for the taxi, so fuck it, you know?

CC: Bless her. ... Oh man... You know, I just came from the opposite situation, actually.

F: Yeah?

CC: Yeah... I picked up this girl in this area somewhere and she was crying. I gave her a napkin, and asked her if she was OK, and she told me that she had just been raped.

F: Oh shit...

CC: She didn't use the word, but what she told me... She wasn't sure she had been, she kept blaming herself... What had happened was that the day before yesterday, she'd been out with a friend and...  They had gotten drunk and ended up at his place. They had a history- they had made out like once before... Anyway, so he offered her a pill and told her it was ecstasy. He said 'I'll take half, you'll take half, it'll feel great, fucking on ecstasy'. She said: 'No, I don't want to have sex with you', and he had been all like: 'Aw come on, come on, just try it. ' So she takes the pill, because she was drunk and curious. And then... I mean, I don't do drugs, but as far as I know, ecstasy doesn't cause you to black out-

F: No, he gave her a roofie.

CC: He gave her a fucking roofie, because she... she didn't feel any pleasure. Just very heavy. And she blacked out and he had to slap her to wake her up. And you know... He fucked her. And the day after... today, she contacted him and she met with him and asked him like 'What the fuck?' and he was really cold to her and said: 'Oh come on, you chose to take the pill, you wanted it', whatever. And she felt so dirty. And so cheap and stupid for taking the pill. She kept blaming herself. And you know.. she didn't know what to do, and I couldn't do shit. All I could say was again and again: He used you. What you're telling me sounds like fucking rape. You're not dirty and not cheap. He wronged you. Call the police. Call a lawyer. Get in touch with a support group.

F: Well you know, even though there's drugs involved, he got away with rape.

CC: Yeah!

F: Cause in Sweden is like... if you been drinking or been taking drugs, then that shits not gonna go nowhere.

CC: There is a law against it, but its hard to prove.

F: Right.

CC: It's so sickening! And she kept blaming herself...

F: No, its not her fault. And what he did, he knew what the fuck he was doing. So like I said before, in that case... I mean, if this was in America, he'd be looking at motherfucking 15 years .. and then on top of that, where the fuck is her Father? Cause if I was her brother, or father, I'd be pounding his ass to the ground. Oh you gonna slip my sister, a roofer, my daughter? I'd be pounding to the motherfucking pavement.

CC: Damn straight! I had to tell her: 'He couldn't seduce you while he was sober, so he had to use drugs. He's scum, he's a low piece of shit.  Ah, god damn it..."

F: My sister dated this dude... He was a police officer. Man, I said 'Oh, you gonna hit my sister? OK.' He didn't know I was visiting her that time, so I grabbed his fucking ass by the throat and was gonna drop him off the fire escape, six stories. I said: I'll fucking kill you. I don't give a fuck, you don't put your hands on my sister. I came to find out that he was the inside man for drug dealers, letting them know when the police would come around...

CC: Oh really?

F: but they didn't know he was a cop, until one of them got arrested and saw him at the station in his uniform. Go figure... And I was like 'Get the fuck out of here'. He said: 'Your brother's crazy' and I said: 'Damn right. You don't hit my fucking relatives. And that's what I'm saying.. the girl you talked about, I understand. She's confused, she might not tell nobody. This is gonna be her secret, she probably won't tell nobody shit, unless she has a fucking mental breakdown.

CC; I asked her: Do you have any friends, anyone who can support you in this? She couldn't answer, she didn't know, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure if she'd been wronged! She just felt stupid... Fucking disgusting.

F: I tell you right now.. I have a son, and I told him: You ever do some shit like that, what I would do is take you over to her man's house and let him skin you alive and sit there and just watch. After she skinned your ass alive, I'd ask 'Did you learn your lesson?' and I'd call the police, say 'This motherfucker did it' and lock his ass up. I told him, don't ever do shit like that.

I mean, take this girl right here. She was butt-ass naked. Everything off. At the last minute, she said no. I said fine. She started apologizing and shit, and I said: 'Why the fuck are you apologizing? You said no.' - 'Oh, but I feel bad-' No, you said no. It's OK! I'm fine with it. - Oh, you can take the little shortcut...

CC: Through Hook Square?

F: Yeah, its a small road, blink and you'll miss it.... She kept apologizing, and I said: Stop. Don't apologize. Its OK.

CC: That's the thing, consent! It can be withdrawn at any time and that should be respected.

F: I think a lot of women when they have sex with guys, especially here, they have sex with guys and they feel guilty as shit afterwards, because they did something they didn't want to do. But no is no. So I'm glad I don't have a daughter, cause I'd flip my lid if she told me 'this dude did this' - 'Oh yeah? Where the fuck he live at?'. I'd dress in all black, and jump in and club the shit out of him. Hey motherfucker, you fucked with the wrong family. Its just crazy, I never understood why a man would get down like that.

CC: They think women owe them something. I read this thing by Margaret Cho... Basically what she said is that we teach our children that sex is something women have and men are supposed to get it. Instead of seeing it as something two people do together. I think that's very true, women are expected to guard it, and when some men can't get it, they'll try to take it. They feel owed. It's so fucked up...

F: Yeah, especially in my circumstances. But its bullshit. She just kept apologizing for something that she did that wasn't even wrong. Don't fell bad about that, you know?

CC: Also, its just fucking sex. You can have it at any time.

F: I tell women all the time... men.. we're willing to throw our bodies to women. We'll give up our bodies for anything, we say 'Oh I'll fucking take it!' I told my friend: 'If you want to know if a man cares for you, he'll give you more of his time than his body'. Cause men... we'll put the dick on you in a heartbeat! It don't mean shit, you know? But when we give up our time, we like you, you know?

CC: That's what we've been taught to do, how we've leaned to approach sex and women... I don't know, man, it's... <sigh> I see this shit all the time, I've driven so many battered women. I've driven assholes who will talk about women like fucking toys, playthings. They have such hate for women, and yet they want to fuck them.

F: That's misogyny.

CC: Yeah. If you have that level of disrespect and disdain for women, why the hell are you fucking them? Why not just go gay and be done with it?

F: It's about pleasure. Domination. It's not even about sex. It's about power. I mean... And women can have fucked up views on it to, you know? Women are always surprised when I say: OK, I gotta go home now. This girl last Friday, was like.. 'You don't wanna fuck?' 'No, I got laundry and I gotta clean my house'. 'You telling me that you'd rather clean your house than have sex with me?' 'Yeah. I'm down to my last pair of underwear and socks! And my house gotta get clean'. And she looked at me... I guess she got offended because I said that getting my shit together was more important than fucking her.

CC: So she had the wrong idea about sex as well. She had this great gift to give you, and you wouldn't accept it.

F: That's right. I remember one time, I was delivering newspapers, and this girl, she wanted to fuck in my car and I said no, and she started crying, saying 'You don't respect me', and I said: 'No, you got it wrong, cause the men you're fucking with, don't feel responsibility. I gotta get this money! And she just got upset!' And the girl last Friday... I said: 'I need to get shit done, we can fuck another day', and now she ain't returning my calls.

CC: <laugh> Not worth it, man... That's 165, please.

F: <Laugh> Sure.

CC: Well, I'm glad I got to get this off my chest, cause driving that girl... hearing her story really fucked me up.

F: Sex is important, but its not everything. That's the thing... If I didn't give a fuck about that, I'd fuck all day every day. And I'd cum and I'll leave you there I be like 'Oh you didn't cum?'

CC: 'Your loss, baby!'

F: My friend told his girl: 'You either come when I come, or you come when I come back'. And that's his girlfriend! Ain't that some shit? ... Well, I'm glad to have this conversation with you, cause I just know for a fact... he did her wrong.

CC: He fucking did. It was good meeting you.

F: Definitely, brother man. Take care.

CC: I'll see you around.
-----

EDIT: I realize that it might seem like I made this all about myself. That it was such a sad thing for me to experience meeting a rape victim and this nice guy came along and made me feel better. That's not the intention. Rather, I couldn't really come up with any decent way to write about the subject. I can only write about so many tragic meetings with rape culture before it starts looking like I'm just a passive observer ('but I'm such a nice guy! Look how much I care!'). I wanted it published, and this impromptu (and problematically male) discussion of the experience seemed the only decent way to make the point.

Because no matter how many nice Americans I might drive, it doesn't change the fact that out there is a woman who's trust and body were violated. I hope she has people who will support her. I hope she'll dare to take action. I hope to God this experience hasn't broken her and whatever support I offered her did her some good. 

A fellow nightworker.

"Oh God... It feels so wrong, seeing the sunrise... I should be in bed, not be out..."
"Welcome to my world. For your sake, don't stay too long."


It is not uncommon for the world of the cabbie to brush up against the world of the pimp, the prostitute and the stripper. In fact, one could argue we're all just different kinds of fish, swimming in the same seedy ocean. I've spoken of this before, more than once. So get your swimsuits on kids, because we're going  to take a dip in that well again.

It was about a year ago. I'd been working without a break all night. I was ready to pack it in, when dispatch offered me a fare from Millers Luck to Mountain Lake. This suited me perfectly, because the guy who drives the car during the day lived in Mountain Lake. So that was at least 350 sek, then I could dump the car and crawl back into the hole I tentatively call home. So I accepted.

The name on the screen was "Tarzan", and immediately an image of a certain kind of man at a certain kind of age leaped into my head.

I arrived at an apartment building at the edge of Miller's Luck. And out came this guy. He was dressed in shorts, flip flops and a ragged wife beater.  He was in his mid forties, and was probably quite handsome and well built during the 80's. Now he was potbellied, had his thinning hair pulled back in a ponytail. In essence, he looked like a male porn star past his prime, oozing with slightly rancid machismo. The kind of dude that would call himself "Tarzan".

Kinda like this, but somehow less tastefully dressed. 

There was a woman at his side, who was significantly younger than him and small, dark and pretty. Way out of his league. Where he was dressed in laundry day clothes, she was dressed as someone who has somewhere to go. Jeans, shirt, jacket, white pumps.

From this I formulated the following hypotheses:
1. She was going to Mountain Lake, and he was staying here.
2. She was not his girlfriend- not only did they look deeply incompatible, but if she were, she'd likely be staying at his place.
3. His entire vibe suggested that he was not a respectful-long-term-relationship kinda guy.

From this, I drew the following conclusion: He had paid her well for her time with him, and now it was time to send her away.

Like the old sexist joke says: "What do you call a woman in the morning? A cab!"

She got into the cab, and he leaned in through the window.

"Hey Mr Cabman. I want to make a deal with you."

"All right."

"A fixed rate to Mountain Lake."

"No can do, sir. Meter or nothing."

"See the thing is, I'm not the one going on the trip. She's going to Mountain Lake. So I want to pay in advance."
Hypothesis 1 confirmed.

"All right..." I made a quick mental calculation. "400 all right with you?"
"Perfect!" he paid and then turned to her. "Thanks so much for tonight. Same time next week?"
Hypothesis 3 confirmed.
She nodded and blew him a kiss. I shifted the car into drive and away we went.

Customers don't always like it when a cabbie talks to them. Some just want to get through the trip, pay and be done with it. I usually probe them with this line: "So, how are we doing tonight?"
Depending on what they say, and how they say it, I can usually gauge whether or not they want me to keep my mouth shut.

"Oh, I'm tired," she said in accented English. "I've been working all night. How are you?"
"Oh the same... Been working all night. Sucks, don't it?"
"Yeah. But you gotta make that money."
"Amen, sister. What do you work with?"
"You sure you want to know?" she said with a somewhat skeptical smile.
"Sure."
"I work in Rose Grove."
Well. Imagine that. It's not often every single one of my prejudices turn out to be completely correct. So we started chatting.

Her name was Miriam and she was Roma, from Romania. She talked about her work and about the girls down at Rose Grove and how she had become, to use her own words "an old girl". She was basically running things down there. "Maybe you recognize me?"

"Perhaps," I said. "I remember a man who had a heart attack down there, and a bunch of the girls helping him while the ambulance was on its way.

"Yes, yes, I remember you," she smiled.  "You stepped out of the cab and asked if everything was all right."

We chatted a bit and she started talking about how a couple of years ago there had been a big bust down there, and the police had arrested six men down there, for pimping. Apparently, she was the one who had blown the whistle on that one (in Sweden, it is perfectly legal to be a prostitute, but it is illegal to buy sex or to the purveyor of prostitutes. The idea is to de-stigmatize the sex-workers and shift responsibility to the johns and pimps - the result has been to drive prostitution further underground).

Anyway, she had blown the whistle on them after they had come to her and told her that she couldn't work there unless she gave her money to them.

"I said, 'Of course I can, it's a free country. of course I can work here'. They said 'No you can't'. But I know the police, and I know everyone around. So I called them, and the police had come and that was that."

Before she had come to Sweden, she had worked in various places in Europe. In particularly Spain. She spoke of Spain with a certain wistfulness, talking about how pretty the men were there. I asked her which country she preferred working in; Spain or Sweden.

"Spain, definitely."

"Why?"

"Because it's legal. You don't have to work on the street. You just go into a night club, or a brothel, and approach customers. It's a lot more relaxed, a lot safer. The people are more beautiful, it's warmer. Lovely."

"Why are you in Sweden?"

"Because the economic crisis. People in Spain don't have money to spend on sex. So I came here, where the money is. I have a life here now. I have an apartment, I have friends and neighbours in Mountain Lake. My son is going to start school next year."

I asked her if she thought sex-work should be completely legalized in Sweden, to which she shook her head emphatically. She preferred Sweden's laws to stay as they were, because if it were completely decriminalized, every single prostitute in Europe would make their way here, saturating the market. The competition would be too high. I couldn't help but smile at that. Whatever her life choices, I found myself enjoying her business sense.

She told me she refused to service Arabs. Apparently, of all her customers, Arabic men tended to treat her like shit because of her Roma heritage. I decided against preaching a message of tolerance and moral gray areas. After all, I wasn't the one who had to get into bed with them.

 I asked her if she worked for someone, and she snorted.

"Of course I don't," she said. "I'm not that stupid. That's my money. I put in the time, I do the work, I should have the money. I don't share that money with anyone, I use that money to live my life. If you were my boyfriend, if you lived with me, I'm not gonna give you any money. I'd give you food, I'd feed you. I'll pay for your food, but beyond that, no. It's my money."

So she was an independent contractor. I do not presume to know anything about her life, or any of her struggles. I'm saying that she was a bona fide "happy hooker", and a true hero of the free market. As I said, I didn't know anything about her beyond what she chose to say. That being said, she seemed to be in charge. She seemed to have taken this, let's be honest, pretty shitty opportunity and made it her own. She owned it. There's something admirable about that.

It could have been a brave face, it could have been swagger. But what I sensed in her was this intense pride. She did her thing and she would not anyone else tell her how to live her life. She had a good relationship with the various social and charitable services that were available to help the sex workers in the city. Some of you may remember the saint of Rose Grove - Miriam knew her. Apparently, because of the prostitutes' legal status, she was fairly happy that the Police didn't crack down too hard on the Johns, since that would be bad for business.

I asked her: "Well, if you don't want to work on the street, why not do it online? Like, put out an ad or set up a page."

She said no, because the only people who'd contact her would be the aforementioned Arabs. She wouldn't be able to screen any potential customers.

Sometimes I drive customers that I take a liking to. People who treat me with respect and are interesting. I usually give my calling card to them, since I'd rather be driving people I've screened and deemed worthy than getting random ones assigned to me (not unlike Miriam herself). However, I decided against it for the simple reason that I didn't want to impose on her. I didn't want her to feel like I'd gotten a direct link to her. Her business is a high-risk one, and her privacy, such as it is, also serves as protection.


I do hope to drive her again though. It's rare to meet someone with that level of self-respect.

A young man with prospects.

"Cabbing is a pretty sweet gig, huh?"
"Its a great job, but an awful profession."

Let's preface this: Teenagers are idiots. They could be bright and amazing and insightful to a degree an adult will never be again, but at bottom they are idiots. There are parts of their brain that are still in the prototype-stage and not even close to ready for use. At least according to science.

So. When it comes to life decisions, teenagers might not be the leading authority on the subject.

-------
Tonight I had the pleasure of driving a customer I drove the night before. Thursday night, I received a fare from Maytown to Buena Vista, with a stop at Kingsgate Avenue. In jumped this young fellow, and told me that we were picking up a lady at the Avenue. He was bristling with excitement, and bragged about he had never met her before, but got connected to her randomly through twitter just this night. He was a cocky little bastard in his early twenties, I reckoned. We chatted, things seemed good. He had a need to brag about all the rappers he had hung out with (UK rappers, that is. The Swedish hip hop scene is a little less impressive).

Once we reach the Avenue, his lady love enters the cab and he proceeds to seduce her. I don't know much about pickup artists, but I think this guy did. He asked her lots of questions, paid her a lot of attention, while all the while being slightly condescending. She seemed charmed by it though; she took him home. He had asked me not to run the meter higher than 300 hundred since that was all he had. As luck would have it, the meter stopped at 290.

So I saw off the lovely couple and forgot all about them. Until 24 hours later, when I got a fare from Victoria Street to the same address in Buena Vista. And lo and behold; it was the same guy.

"All right man, you know the drill. Gonna go back there. Man she was hot!"
He then proceeded to tell me in great detail of all the nasty stuff she had done to him the night before. I'm no prude by any means, but even I started to feel the urge to beat him over the head with a Bible and then smack him with a Koran. Then during the trip he said: "All I got with me is 200. My backup plan in case plan A, B and C didn't work out."

"A, B and C?"

"Yeah, I was out with some hot chicks. And if I could get them home with me, I'd call a cab and spend 200 to get back to Buena Vista for plan D."

"Running on the meter."

"Shit, just turn it off and pocket it."

"Not gonna do that."

"Why not?"

"Principles."

"Fuck that, man. You think I'd make 100k a month if I paid taxes?"

"Depends on your line of work."

"Hah! You know how old I am?"

"You told that woman you were 19."

"Nah, man," he grinned. "I'm seventeen. And she's 21."

"Well check out the pimping skills on you, young man."

"Yeah, seventeen. And I make 100k a year."

"For a guy who's rolling in dough, you sure are stingy when it comes to paying your fare."

"I brought 5000 with me tonight, and spent it all. Making connections, buying drinks. All part of the business, man."

"Your 100k business."

"Yeah."

"I'm guessing you're a dealer?"

"Damn straight. Cocaine. Don't use it myself."

According to Scarface Jr. here, working honestly and paying your taxes was a fool's game. He had a plan, a solid ambition. He'd sling coke, fly under the radar, and once he had made that cool million sek, he'd get into the shipping business (it was unclear if he wanted to get into shipping, or actually become a sea-captain) and smuggle his literal boatload of cash to South America, to Chile, where the corruption is so high that money don't ever smell. Once there, he was going to open a hotel and live the good life. He figured it would take about ten years to execute the plan and enjoy the fruits of his labours.

Pictured: the good life.

"They take it all, and they don't give you shit."
Very true, aside from... you know... roads and hospitals and streetlights.

"Its a hard life, though. Its already gotten three of my friends killed."

"Is it worth it?" I asked.

"Not for me, no..." he said gravelly. "Its for my family. I support them. I pay their rent, their food. My parents live on a measly 18k on welfare [paid for by my tax money, incidentally]. My mom can't work since she got cancer."

The night before, he had talked about his parents rent (10 000 sek) as if it were small potatoes.

Here was this fucking teenager, who had a plan and an ambition. Imagine that kind of thinking in a legitimate field. And he wasted it away for what seemed like easy money. He talked a big game, but he is seventeen. he's small fucking fry. Whoever he reports to is a shark. He was hoping to retire at 27- frankly, I think he should've been hoping that he'd live until then.

Jesus Christ, this poor kid... Seventeen years old, he doesn't know shit about the world. Not, mind you, the world he's moving through. I'm sure he's quite adept at navigating the nasty underbelly of society. But rather, he doesn't know shit about what's in store for him, what he could have been. A part of me wants to dismiss him as a scumbag coke-dealer whose business will harm and potentially kill many many people. But at the same time, even though I want to, I can't condemn him. Maybe I'm too soft-hearted, but for whatever reason (legitimate or no), this kid, this child  felt that civilized society had nothing to offer him but thankless labour.

It took me a long while to figure out how I was supposed to write this. This guy didn't fit easily in my morality; on the one hand, he was driven by noble motivations. On the other hand, his methods are fucking abhorrent. Somewhere down the line, the adult world, the responsible world failed him. Oh sure, we could argue that every individual is completely and solely responsible for their own actions, but legally and (as seen in the preface) scientifically, that's not entirely true.

So in summary: In some sick way, I understand his choices, and they're fucking regrettable. He's at an age where he doesn't understand the consequences of his choices. Like all teenagers, he will be in for a reality check. But while most get shocked out of their immaturity, to him this reality check might come in the form of a bullet to the brain.

Meeting him, hearing him brag about how actively he was fucking up his life broke my heart. I hope to God he receives a wakeup call, and I hope to God that wakeup call doesn't come in the form of   that shark that he's swimming with opening its may to chow down on him.

"Before you cast me as the dunce, I'm well aware I was a child once."

"I don't understand young people any more."
"If its any consolation, your grandparents probably thought the same thing about you."

So I drove an little ancient lady from King's Barn to the airport. She was a sweet little lady from Germany.  Her Swedish was perfect, so I asked her if she was going back to visit family.

"No no, I live there! But I lived in Sweden in the 1950s, when I worked at the general consulate.  That's when I learned the language."

The conversation went on, and it turned toward (as it inevitably does when speaking to Germans) the topic of Nazis. She told me that Germany was filled with Nazis these days (which nastier people than I might consider a truism); a reflection of the current political climate in Europe, where old ideas like fascism, xenophobia and populism is rearing its dickish head all over the continent. Germany was no exception. Even though Nazism is outlawed there, its hard to police people's thoughts, feelings and chimpish instincts. She also said that anti-semitism was on the rise, especially among Germany's youth. This due to the conflict in Israel and Palestine and that jews were being portrayed as the bad guys. Of course there's a distinction between Israelis and jews in general, but try telling that to the wannabe members of the Master Race.

Then it shifted. The conversation took a nasty turn. She started talking about how the Arabs were the real villains in all this and that Islam and Christianity were completely incompatible. She described it as Judaism and Christianity going well together, because Christianity is the little brother of Judaism. I suppose that makes Islam the creepy cousin nobody is really related to who overstays his welcome, eats all the food and makes weird advances toward your hamster.

"Its a simple fact. Islam and Christianity has nothing in common and Muslims and Christians are totally incompatible."

The irony of course is that if you look at the doctrine, the view of humanity and the view of the divine, you'll find that Islam and Christianity have far more things in common than either one of them has with Judaism. Not that it matters - most Christians and aren't compatible with most Christians. And even if Christianity is the little brother of Judaism, well... consistent attempted fratricide should suggest that bonds of blood aren't quite so secure as they might seem.

In summary, she had just spent a sizable amount of time talking about how horribly easy it is to demonize the Other, and then gone on to do the exact same thing. She simply didn't see the parallel, and I didn't want to turn this into a debate. She was a sweet old lady, and wasn't really speaking out of hate, but out of ignorance. So we simply talked. I listened. We had a good discussion, and finally agreed to disagree.

When we arrived at the airport, I got out and brought her her bags. She got out of the car and said: "You're a very nice boy and you're very young. You have a lot to experience" -which is true, though my male pattern baldness disagrees- "You're very young and I'm old. I've seen so much."

I said to her: "Well, the next time I drive you, hopefully you can tell me about that."
She smiled and grabbed me gently by the arm. "Before I go, I want you to know something. I was one of the Jews that fled to Sweden through Denmark during the Holocaust."

I smiled and squeezed her hand gently. "In that case, I'm very happy to have met you."

_________

There are some that say that age is not an excuse. That old age cannot excuse racism, homophobia, and intolerance. I don't completely agree. Old age does not excuse cruelty. But it does excuse ignorance. When you're old, you've lived an entire lifetime. You've had your entire life to discover the world, realize what a strange and chaotic place it is, and create order in it by finding values and views that make sense to you. This is what we call 'getting set in your ways', this process of formulating a functioning view of the world. A functioning system. Whether or not that system is in line with reality is not relevant - to keep your mind open is hard enough for most people. For someone who's had a functioning view of the world for the past century, its not merely about going that extra step of seeing beyond your prejudices - its about not having to spend another century rebuilding your understanding of reality.

That stereotype of the old man, shaking his cane and saying: "Damn kids, you have it too easy! Back in my day, we dragged ourselves by the nipples ten miles down a frozen road covered in badgers to write a letter! We didn't have your fancy iPhones! If we wanted to send a message, we had to write it in our nipple blood, gadnabbit!"

Never mind progress. The importance of scouring off your nipples as a part of correspondence remains, and whatever happens in the modern world is stupid and irrelevant, because it is not a part of the old timer's reality. And here's the thing: You and me? We'll be just the same. One day, I'll be snarling and hawing about  "damn kids who spend all their time in the Matrix and beat up dark skinned people for fun, while back in our day we used our smart phones and were tolerant and we liked it, gadnabbit!"

The kids of the future will consider me crazy, because in that time and place, My views will seem old fashioned at best and offensive at worst.

I know where I my values lie and I maintain them, I believe in them. That doesn't mean that the rest of the world agrees, or that I must be right.

So I cannot blame the old lady. This woman had seen so much. She had experienced that oppression first hand. She had managed to survive and avoid one of the worst experiences in modern history. She had lived with this. I cannot blame her for her views. I can't hold them against her. I do believe she's wrong. I believe her views are narrow minded and based on false assumptions, but even so I cannot blame her for them.

Perhaps that's a point of view I need to bring with me. In the end, the old generation has a lot to teach us, but there's a reason why you don't ask Albert Einstein about the best way to handle your social media (another such reason is that necromancy is generally considered a bad thing). It's a concept that doesn't exist for him, so its pointless to ask, regardless of how brilliant he was in life.

As a part of the "damn kids" (and I've recently left my twenties behind, so I'm only an honorary member of that group) I see so much more than the elderly see, but they have seen so much more than I have seen. And the thing about old ways, is that they die with the people who believe in them. And the narrow minded elderly don't have much time left on earth. They won't be heavy voices shifting the balance of the world in or out of your favour. They won't be rallying people to their cause (although there is an elderly Nazi blogger in Sweden who is adored by the nationalist fuckheads in this country, so I could be very wrong there).

Perhaps the we should forgive our parents and grandparents . Applaud them for whatever wisdom they can give us, ignore whatever foolishness life has given them, and understand that there's already an even younger generation who will look at our views and our understanding and find it absolutely idiotic.

Swift justice.

"Sadly, the troubles of the world won't be resolved in this cab."

I was going to write some convoluted shit about how time flies the older you get, hence the lack of updates.

I won't. Suffice it to say; last year, I worked my ass off behind the wheel and didn't write a line about it. This year, I'm doing the same. But I'll do better. Besides, I've got enough material to cover three summers if I should choose. And to start things off, here's a story from my very first shift this year.
-----------------------------------------------------

I knew he was trouble the moment I saw the rappers chain printed on his t-shirt.

It was my first shift in a year. Things had been going smoothly. I had had two fares, nothing special. People going from A to B and paying me for it. Couldn't ask for anything more. I figured it would be a smooth, if uninteresting shift. Good lord, was I in for a surprise.

Dispatch called out a fare from Charles-Andrew Place, going out to Hoof Ridge. Charles-Andrew is right smack in the middle of things, the kind of area where you'll find old apartments filled with old people who have old money. Fares from this area usually aren't anything special - mostly its trips to the local supermarket or liquer store and back. But this one, ladies and gentlemen... oh boy, this one went to Hoof Ridge, which is a very affluent area outside of town, not too far from Isthmus. It was  damn fine fare. And since it was a big holiday (one where we, the most secular country in the world, commemorate the ascension of Christ into heaven. Personally, I think we celebrate it because we're happy to be rid of him), that meant that the tariff was at its highest. This trip would cost 500 sek easily, which is delicious for a greedy cabby such as myself.

"GTFO, Lord!"

I told dispatch I'd be at Charles-Andrew in five minutes - standard time. We try not to spend more than five or ten minutes driving to a fare, unless we know that it will be worth our while driving back. Dispatch confirmed, and the timer showed I had five minutes. All was kosher. I arrived at Charles-Andrew, ready to make some money. 

Of course, things are rarely quite so easy as one would like.

All right, so... I arrived a few minutes early, so I kicked back, listening to a podcast and waited patiently. The door opened and out came a woman.

She was in her mid thirties. Tanned, with Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses and dressed all in white. Your typical affluent lady of Summer. She knocked on the window.

"Hi!" she said, sounding a bit stressed. "You're so early!"

"Only three minutes or so."

"But they said you'd be here in fifteen minutes!"

"Ah, well then there's been a mistake. You either heard wrong, or they said wrong. Cause I told them five minutes, and as you can see" - I pointed at the screen - "five minutes is what they gave me."

"All right," she said. "But you'll wait?"

"Sure," I said. "But once the waiting period is over [ie: five minutes after deadline] I'm turning on the meter."

"No problem!" she said and hurried back inside. I kicked back again, smiling at the slight, harmless mistake that had been made.

Then her husband appeared. He tore open the door, roaring:

"They said fifteen minutes! They said fifteen minutes, and you're here in five! This is the fourth time that fucking Taxi M has done this! This is totally unacceptable."

He was big. He had that bloated, spherical look of  the kind of dude that would've been the very image of wealth and health in the 18th century. who achieved obesity by eating way too much foies gras and drinking way too much champagne, rather than pizza and soda like the rest of us sinners. 

"Ladies...."

Far be it from me to bodyshame the guy. Lord knows I'm not one to judge (obesity is not just a work hazard for a cabby - its a part of the experience). He was dressed in white shorts and a t-shirt that was just a size or two too small. And printed around the neckline was, I shit you not, a thick chain with a dollar sign pendant. Printed. If God cared about fashion (and, according to certain denominations, he does), then this man was bound straight for hell.

Still, I wouldn't have noticed any of this, if my first impression of him hadn't been him barging into my place at work, throwing a hissy fit.

"This is totally unacceptable!"

I was in no mood for conflict, so I picked up a business card and handed it to him. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir. I suggest you call headquarters during business hours and tell them about it."

"Oh no!" he said, patting me on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not laying it on you. It's not your fault, its the idiots in dispatch. I know the number. I know the people." 

I nodded. They got into the car and off we went. In a downward spiral, I might add.

Behind me, I could hear him snarling to his wife. "Do you have Pauls number?"

"No."

"HOW THE FUCK DON'T YOU HAVE HIS NUMBER! WHy the hell haven't you added it? God damn, I fucking hate this! You never do as I say, you never have your shit together!"

I almost threw him out then and there. But I kept my cool, mostly because it had been a long time since last I was behind the wheel and my wallet was howling for his sweet sweet money. Of course, even greed has its limits. 

Because it wasn't long before he started threatning her. Whenever she tried to spoke, he jabbed his finger right up in her face, hissing "Watch that. Do fucking watch that. You don't want to piss me off right now."

Longtime readers know EXACTLY how I feel about that. I realized that it no longer was a matter of if I was going to throw him out, but rather a matter of when. 

By now we were out on the highway, and I had to make a decision. There wasn't a convenient sidewalk for me to pull up to, so my best bet would be to take the exit into Mill Valley, and drop him there. Luckily, his wife made the decision for me. Kinda.

"I'm not going to take this," she said. "Cabby, can you take me to my sister? She lives in Yards."

Yards was only a couple of kilometers from the starting point of the fare. It would be a small thing to turn the car around, drop off the douchey husband near (but not too near) Charles-Andrew and then take her to her sister.

"Of course, m'am." 

I drove into Mill Valley, and made my turn and headed back on the highway in the opposite direction. 

Mr Chainz was none too pleased with that.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm turning the cab around, sir."

"Why?"

"Because your wife ordered the cab and so she decides on the destination. Also, because you're a fucking asshole."

"WHAT?!"

"You've been acting like a fucking pig the moment you stepped into my car. You have no respect for me, for the company I work for, and most importantly, your wife. I'm not having it, so I'm taking you back to Cross Road, and then I'm taking your wife to Yards."

"How the hell is it any of your business what I say to my wife???"

"None, sir. Which I why I don't want you dragging your personal shit into my place of work."

"You're insane!" It's funny how when the people are crossed, they never call you stupid, or an asshole, or mean. They call you insane, as if the very idea of denying them something is crazy. "Your place of work, bullshit."

"That's the way of it, sir."

He leaned in behind me and very condescendling patted/slapped my cheek. Not violently, mind. More like how you affectionately slap the flanks of a dog or a horse.

"You better work hard tonight, little buddy," he said, grinning. "Because tomorrow, you'll be out of a job. I know the guy who owns your fucking company."

Two options: murder or laughter. As usual, I chose laughter. Because I was genuinely amused. 

He wasn't. "The fuck are you laughing at."

"You! I'm laughing at you! Have you any idea of how many times I've heard that threat? 'I'm gonna get you fired'. I'm sorry for not wetting my pants. If I do get fired, I'll send you a nice card where it says 'you win', but until then, I'm going to fucking laugh."

At this point, he had his phone out and was probably about to call headquarters. I myself began grabbing for my phone, because I figured that I might need the cops to help me out on this. And while God does have a habit of putting a cabby in shitty situations, sometimes the Lord will smile upon us too. 

A police cruiser drove up next to me, angrily signallying for me to slow down. I was doing 90 kph on a 70 road. While I have done, and do, my fair share of speeding, this time it was purely motivated from anger. So I slowed down, but I also signalled to them with my hands: Drive infront of me and stop. I want to pull over behind you.

Artists impression

The cops took the message. Within seconds, I had pulled over behind them, not too far away from a bus stop. I stepped out of the car and said: "The man sitting behind me has been very rude, threatning and also slapped me in the face. I'd like you to remove him from my vehicle, if that's all right with you. Go easy on his wife - she's been decent all the way.

The cops nodded and acted. While cabbies and cops enjoy a rather tenuous relationship at best, they do recognize us as professionals with all the rights and protections that entails. So they asked mr Chainz to leave the car. I closed the window and leaned back in my seat. In the corner of my eye, I could se him flailing and snarling, probably explaining to them what a meanie I was.

"I'm sorry about this," I said to his wife. "This is embarrassing for both of us."

"I'm sorry too," she said. "I understand why you did as you did."

"No need to apologise. Do you still want to go to you sister?"

"No! I need to get to the party in Hoof Ridge."

"All right... I'll take you there."

"Not without him!"

Ho Jesus...

"I'm sorry, m'am. I'm not going to drive him."

"I know, I know. It was totally unacceptable. But he's had a really stressful day - his daughter is sick-"
"I appreciate that, but I have a few lines. He managed to cross them all. So I can take you to your sister, or take you back home. I'll even do it free of charge. But I'm not driving him under any circumstances."

"I can sit up front, and he can sit in the back! I promise he'll behave!"

"I'm sorry, no. I think the best you can do is call Taxi G, because I'm going to tell headquarters not to accept fares from him. I'm really sorry about this, but his business is not welcome."

"All right... But I'll pay you for the trouble."

"No need," I said. "I'd rather just leave this behidn me."

"No, no, of course you should be paid up until now," she began rumaging through her bag. Then she said. "Oh shit, he has the card."

Not his card. or her card. But the card. It chilled me.

"Its fine, ma'm. Despite all this, I hope you'll have a nice evening."

"Thank you. And I'm so sorry."

She left the cab and I left them by the road. 

My assessment of this is simple: an abuse relationship. A man who does not like to be contradicted, who has no trouble insulting, humiliating and threatning his wife. Who controls the money in the household. Who is so high and mighty that he can do this in front of strangers. It is my sincere hope he keeps up his lifestyle. Given enough time and buttered lobster, maybe his heart will realize what a complete douchebag its keeping alive and decide to quit. If there was a way to actually have the police arrest him for being an abusise shitbag, I would have taken it without a second's hesitation.

----

It felt good writing this. And there's a lot more to come. So far, the summer has been blessedly free from these kinds of swine, and there's been a fair few decent people too. I look forward to telling you all about it.