"I turned it into a story, so I'm fine."
Update on the Ella situation: We've been in touch. She has filed for divorce and pressed charges against her husband. The police has also been in touch with me to get my side of the story. All is well in that part of the world, for now at least.
All right. Tonight, we're going to talk about something a little less pleasant. After this, there will be more fun entries, trust me. Until then, be patient and horrified.
Ever since having that nice trip back in Easter, I've been on the lookout for signs of trauma. Once it happened, I took two weeks off, and then I was back on track. During those two weeks, I was on the lookout for signs of trauma -nightmares, anxiety, mood swings, all that stuff- but aside from one dream of some crazy DJ with way too many knives, it seemed I had emerged from it unscathed. Then I went back to work.
The first hour of that shift felt really weird. I felt like I was being chased, or like I'd forgotten something. I couldn't concentrate on work. I drove my fares, I dropped people off, received payment and my mind was never in the moment. I called a friend of mine (who is both a shrink and a designer of logos for cab blogs) because what else could I have done?
I told her that I felt like I was being chased, and while I wasn't panicking just yet, I would if this intensified. She outlined a few options, told me to call her if I had to (the subtext being that she expected me to get my shit together), and I thanked her. And suddenly, all the fear, all the stress just melted off me. The very act of talking was apparently enough to put me straight in the zone. I got back on track, and that night I was a god among cab drivers.
Also known as 'shiny and chrome'.
Since then, I've been fine. No signs of trauma - nothing. Just life, rolling on as it should.
That being said, there have been some signs that I'm not entirelly out of the woods. I have become more sensetive to potentially threatening situations. And I'm not talking about the general tension that might come with having a bunch of badass motherfuckers in my cab, or for that member any member of any group that I am (however unwillingly) prejudiced against. Rather, there's something more real to it.
I used to be able to drive gangsters, junkies, and other creatures of the night without much trouble. Sure, I'd be tense and careful, but then I'd just keep rolling. But there's been a couple of incidents this summer that, for lack of better words, have given that tension and carefulness a cold sharpness. The fear has become specific and pointed, rather than nebulous and vague.
Does that make sense?
I mean, there was a time when I could witness horrible stuff and awful misery and keep on rolling. I've received threats, I've been slapped, I've witnessed robberies and I've had shit stolen out of my car. And every time, it's scared me, pissed me off, or saddened me. Often I've quit early, but the next night I'm back on track.
However, (and thank you for your patience, because now I'm getting to the point), a while back there was an incident that really messed me up mentally, leaving me in a really shitty mood well into the next day.
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Can I get a witness?
2nd Long Street, which one of several drags that surrounds Iron Square, used to be a wretched hive of scum and villainy. I'm talking seedy bars, sticky strip clubs and sex shops, drug dealers, drunken brawls, regular muggings... like a sliver of some nasty pulp noir inserted into the well manicured foot of the city. Of course, I shouldn't single out this particular street: this city has a history of class inequality and corruption - it is only in recent years that gentrification has forced most of the dark (and sadly, economically vulnerable) elements of society out of its heart and into the suburbs.
Case in point, where 2nd Long Street used to be like something out of a Scorcese movie, it has now become a trendy place for hipsters, bohemians, metalheads and pretty much anyone who is tickled by pretending that they don't truly belong to society. The beer is cheap (except where its not), the bars are chic (and often seedy in a way that is pleasant and cozy, rather than creepy), and where the sex shop once was all stainless steel, and easily wiped plastic, it is now more akin to a pharmacy filled with porn.
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| Ask your doctor if porn is right for you. |
Progress has tamed 2nd Long Street. The only truly seedy elements left are the strip clubs (though I've never been inside them, so for all I know they could be top class establishments) and the dudes that hang out by the 7-11 at point where the street opens up to Iron Square. These guys are a varied bunch; mostly, they are in the business of unliscensed transportation of people to where they want to go (what we around here call "dark taxi drivers", while muttering a curse under our breaths). A fair few of them, however, are in the business of dealing drugs and or mugging hapless drunken party people. Either way, they hang around there, reminding us all that humanity is forever a source of the best and the worst.
So, a few nights ago, I had stopped at 2nd Long, awaiting my next fare. It is a busy place and used to be a favourite fishing ground of mine. Next to me, right outside the passenger door, there was a gaggle of the aforementioned shady dudes (easily identified by the fact that they're drinking their own booze and constantly scanning the people around them like a bunch of homicidal meerkats).
I didn't spare them a thought, aside from confirming that they existed. I leant back in my seat and started playing with my phone, quietly awaiting the inevitable sqawk of the comm, or the knock at the window-
Suddenly, there was a thump on the passenger side. I looked up in time to see the shape of a man stumble past, leaving a streak of foam accross the windows of my car. The bad dudes were on their feet, yelling furiously at him. I rolled down the window a bit, curious about the commotion.
What I saw was this:
A guy in his early middle age, thick around the waist, dressed in khaki cargo shorts, with a half-empty glass of beer in his hand was standing there, wobbling, outraged. The bad dudes were shouting at him. I gathered that the guy had either bumped into them, spilled beer on them, or "sprayed" them with something (presumably beer).
A bunch of them approached him, while the others tried to hold him back. This happened a few times - back and forth. Hold my beer, man! Hold me back! The usual male bravado. By this time, Cargo Shorts was leaning against a doorway, shouting something about him not having done anything. The bad dudes were shouting back at him.
Suddenly they ganged up on him and pushed him into the doorway. I couldn't see what was going on; for all I knew, they were simply surrounding him in order to scare him. Even so, I felt that the situation was getting a little too hairy. In fact, I felt fear. An echo of the ice cold horror I felt when my insane passenger revealed to me just where we were heading. I decided that this shit had to end, before it went too far.
I called the cops, and explained the situation. By now, they probably have an entire profile on me, filed under the "morally uptight people who take up way too much phone-time" section. I suggested they send someone just to break up the situation. As I spoke, two of the thugs returned to their spot outside my window. So I rolled up the window and picked up a book.
"All right..." said the woman on the other end. "Can you describe them?"
I gave them as thorough a description as I could, which meant nothing. They were all dressed very blandly, all had buzzcuts. One guy had a well kempt beard.
Can you see the victim? Is he still there?"
"Not sure," I said. "The perps are right outside my window right now, so I don't really want to look up. I could circle the block and take a look."
"Do so."
So I started the engine, and rolled off. Up a along Linnaeus street. In on Third Long Street (which is a one way street, because I am a goddamn rebel!) and down Northhome Street back to Second Long. I saw a small black kid, all sinew and bone running at top speed past my car, and after him came lumbering a thickset fellow in early middle age, wearing cargo shorts.
"Hold on," I said. "I think I'm seeing the guy now."
I rolled down the window. Cargo Shorts stopped outside my car, gasping for breath.
"FOLLOW THAT GUY!" he wheezed. "He took my wallet!"
Now how's that for a shitty night? First get beaten up by one gang of thugs, and then have your wallet stolen by some random thief. And it was random. The kid had not been one of the bad dudes out side of my car. Race tends to matter in those circles.
"Are you the guy they jumped a moment ago?" I asked.
"Yes, they kicked the shit out of me! Follow him!"
By now, the thief had dashed down Third Long, and making his way into Pasture, an area neighbouring Linnaeus. It was way too late.
"Sorry man, but..."
"CALL THE COPS!"
"I got the cops on the phone right now," I said and turned my attention back to the lady in my ear. "All right, I got the guy."
"Good. There's two cars in your area right now."
I opened the door and let the guy inside. "You OK, man?"
"No, I'm not OK! They kicked my head in!"
Indeed. His face and neck were bruised, and his eye was swelling. The patrol car pulled up next too my car.
"I'm glad you're here," I said. "A bunch of guys beat this guy up, and then someone stole his wallet."
"All right, where is the thief?" said the head officer, all jawbone and ice cold eyes.
I stared at him.
"Are you fucking kidding me? The kid ran into Pasture, but that's beside the point. The people who beat this guy up are literally around the corner, and you want to follow some random pickpocket?"
"Can you describe them?"
"I just described them to your dispatch. Haven't they been in touch with you? Is this a joke?"
All the while, the lady in dispatch kept asking me questions. I was trying to comfort the dude in the car, answer questions professionally, as well as being morally indignant with the cops. I was in no fucking mood.
The lady on the phone said: "All right, calm down now. Can you see the number on the patrol car?"
This was a mess. The people at the cab dispatch can keep track of every single cab through GPS, but I had to inform this lady which of her cops were with me? At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me if a hundred capering clowns came tumbling out of the patrol car.
"Yes," I said, clenching my teeth. "Sorry. Its Patrol car KK-47."
"Good. I'll take it from here," she hung up. The cops spoke briefly on the phone. Then Officer Jawline looked at me. "Head back to 2nd Long Street and talk to our colleagues. See if you can point out the perpetrators."
Nevermind the fact that the thugs would've dispersed the moment the cops arrived. Again, that fear. That sinking, cold dread.
We're going to have a nice trip together.
If I went back there and pointed them out, they'd know my face. I wouldn't just be some random cabby that happened to be there when shit went down - I'd be a snitch. Someone to keep an eye out for. And while I don't look particularly remarkable for a cabby (most of us develop a softness of face and belly, and a deadness of eye in due course of our work), I did not need to be on the radar of anyone capable of jumping some random sap in front of witnesses.
"You want me to go back there?"
"Of course," said Officer Jawline.
"And what's going to stop them from fucking me up down the line?"
He looked at me like I was an idiot. "They won't. We'll be there."
Sure, officer. I hope you have the manpower to escort me evey night for the rest of the summer.
I was fucking terrified.
But fuck it, I thought. Fuck it. I opened this can of worms. I suppose I will have to eat it too. But I would maximize my chances.
First I put on my shades. Then I took the stupid cap that is an optional part of our uniform. Then I wrapped a bandana around my lower jaw. It is well established that snitches get stitches, but maybe looking like a complete tool might buck the trend.
So I returned to the mouth of 2nd Lond Street. The thugs were nowhere to be seen. There were cops there, so I pulled up next to them, kept my head low and muttered all the information they needed.
"Sir," they said. "if you could speak up and actually look at us, it would help."
I had been staring at the 7-11, looking fervently for the thugs. Again, that fear. That sense of insanity standing at the door. God fucking damn it.
It took an effort. But I raised my head, gave them the info they needed which (again) wasn't very useful.
When they were done with me, a drunken lout (and he's gonna get a story of his own) asked me if I was free.
"Yes," I said. "Get in. I need to get the hell out here."
So in conclusion, I wasn't very traumatised by my insane passenger. But the experience left me with an unpleasant rawness. I'm not quite as jaded as I used to be.
But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe all this means is that my survival instincts have gotten sharper.
Yeah! Let's go with that.
So, a few nights ago, I had stopped at 2nd Long, awaiting my next fare. It is a busy place and used to be a favourite fishing ground of mine. Next to me, right outside the passenger door, there was a gaggle of the aforementioned shady dudes (easily identified by the fact that they're drinking their own booze and constantly scanning the people around them like a bunch of homicidal meerkats).
I didn't spare them a thought, aside from confirming that they existed. I leant back in my seat and started playing with my phone, quietly awaiting the inevitable sqawk of the comm, or the knock at the window-
 |
| Pictured: "playing with my phone" |
Suddenly, there was a thump on the passenger side. I looked up in time to see the shape of a man stumble past, leaving a streak of foam accross the windows of my car. The bad dudes were on their feet, yelling furiously at him. I rolled down the window a bit, curious about the commotion.
What I saw was this:
A guy in his early middle age, thick around the waist, dressed in khaki cargo shorts, with a half-empty glass of beer in his hand was standing there, wobbling, outraged. The bad dudes were shouting at him. I gathered that the guy had either bumped into them, spilled beer on them, or "sprayed" them with something (presumably beer).
A bunch of them approached him, while the others tried to hold him back. This happened a few times - back and forth. Hold my beer, man! Hold me back! The usual male bravado. By this time, Cargo Shorts was leaning against a doorway, shouting something about him not having done anything. The bad dudes were shouting back at him.
Suddenly they ganged up on him and pushed him into the doorway. I couldn't see what was going on; for all I knew, they were simply surrounding him in order to scare him. Even so, I felt that the situation was getting a little too hairy. In fact, I felt fear. An echo of the ice cold horror I felt when my insane passenger revealed to me just where we were heading. I decided that this shit had to end, before it went too far.
I called the cops, and explained the situation. By now, they probably have an entire profile on me, filed under the "morally uptight people who take up way too much phone-time" section. I suggested they send someone just to break up the situation. As I spoke, two of the thugs returned to their spot outside my window. So I rolled up the window and picked up a book.
"All right..." said the woman on the other end. "Can you describe them?"
I gave them as thorough a description as I could, which meant nothing. They were all dressed very blandly, all had buzzcuts. One guy had a well kempt beard.
Can you see the victim? Is he still there?"
"Not sure," I said. "The perps are right outside my window right now, so I don't really want to look up. I could circle the block and take a look."
"Do so."
So I started the engine, and rolled off. Up a along Linnaeus street. In on Third Long Street (which is a one way street, because I am a goddamn rebel!) and down Northhome Street back to Second Long. I saw a small black kid, all sinew and bone running at top speed past my car, and after him came lumbering a thickset fellow in early middle age, wearing cargo shorts.
"Hold on," I said. "I think I'm seeing the guy now."
I rolled down the window. Cargo Shorts stopped outside my car, gasping for breath.
"FOLLOW THAT GUY!" he wheezed. "He took my wallet!"
Now how's that for a shitty night? First get beaten up by one gang of thugs, and then have your wallet stolen by some random thief. And it was random. The kid had not been one of the bad dudes out side of my car. Race tends to matter in those circles.
"Are you the guy they jumped a moment ago?" I asked.
"Yes, they kicked the shit out of me! Follow him!"
By now, the thief had dashed down Third Long, and making his way into Pasture, an area neighbouring Linnaeus. It was way too late.
"Sorry man, but..."
"CALL THE COPS!"
"I got the cops on the phone right now," I said and turned my attention back to the lady in my ear. "All right, I got the guy."
"Good. There's two cars in your area right now."
I opened the door and let the guy inside. "You OK, man?"
"No, I'm not OK! They kicked my head in!"
Indeed. His face and neck were bruised, and his eye was swelling. The patrol car pulled up next too my car.
"I'm glad you're here," I said. "A bunch of guys beat this guy up, and then someone stole his wallet."
"All right, where is the thief?" said the head officer, all jawbone and ice cold eyes.
I stared at him.
"Are you fucking kidding me? The kid ran into Pasture, but that's beside the point. The people who beat this guy up are literally around the corner, and you want to follow some random pickpocket?"
"Can you describe them?"
"I just described them to your dispatch. Haven't they been in touch with you? Is this a joke?"
All the while, the lady in dispatch kept asking me questions. I was trying to comfort the dude in the car, answer questions professionally, as well as being morally indignant with the cops. I was in no fucking mood.
The lady on the phone said: "All right, calm down now. Can you see the number on the patrol car?"
This was a mess. The people at the cab dispatch can keep track of every single cab through GPS, but I had to inform this lady which of her cops were with me? At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me if a hundred capering clowns came tumbling out of the patrol car.
"Yes," I said, clenching my teeth. "Sorry. Its Patrol car KK-47."
"Good. I'll take it from here," she hung up. The cops spoke briefly on the phone. Then Officer Jawline looked at me. "Head back to 2nd Long Street and talk to our colleagues. See if you can point out the perpetrators."
Nevermind the fact that the thugs would've dispersed the moment the cops arrived. Again, that fear. That sinking, cold dread.
We're going to have a nice trip together.
If I went back there and pointed them out, they'd know my face. I wouldn't just be some random cabby that happened to be there when shit went down - I'd be a snitch. Someone to keep an eye out for. And while I don't look particularly remarkable for a cabby (most of us develop a softness of face and belly, and a deadness of eye in due course of our work), I did not need to be on the radar of anyone capable of jumping some random sap in front of witnesses.
"You want me to go back there?"
"Of course," said Officer Jawline.
"And what's going to stop them from fucking me up down the line?"
He looked at me like I was an idiot. "They won't. We'll be there."
Sure, officer. I hope you have the manpower to escort me evey night for the rest of the summer.
I was fucking terrified.
But fuck it, I thought. Fuck it. I opened this can of worms. I suppose I will have to eat it too. But I would maximize my chances.
First I put on my shades. Then I took the stupid cap that is an optional part of our uniform. Then I wrapped a bandana around my lower jaw. It is well established that snitches get stitches, but maybe looking like a complete tool might buck the trend.
 |
| Pictured: my future uniform. |
So I returned to the mouth of 2nd Lond Street. The thugs were nowhere to be seen. There were cops there, so I pulled up next to them, kept my head low and muttered all the information they needed.
"Sir," they said. "if you could speak up and actually look at us, it would help."
I had been staring at the 7-11, looking fervently for the thugs. Again, that fear. That sense of insanity standing at the door. God fucking damn it.
It took an effort. But I raised my head, gave them the info they needed which (again) wasn't very useful.
When they were done with me, a drunken lout (and he's gonna get a story of his own) asked me if I was free.
"Yes," I said. "Get in. I need to get the hell out here."
So in conclusion, I wasn't very traumatised by my insane passenger. But the experience left me with an unpleasant rawness. I'm not quite as jaded as I used to be.
But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe all this means is that my survival instincts have gotten sharper.
Yeah! Let's go with that.
_______________________
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