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.
My life as a cabbie, what I saw, and how I escaped.
Wednesday, 12 July 2017
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
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".
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.
"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.
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.
Saturday, 8 July 2017
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.
"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.
"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.
Friday, 7 July 2017
"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.
"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.
Thursday, 6 July 2017
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.
"None, sir. Which I why I don't want you dragging your personal shit into my place of work."
"No need," I said. "I'd rather just leave this behidn me."
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 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.
Wednesday, 5 August 2015
Answer time 2
"How did you end up driving a cab?"
Read Part 1 Here
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1. What is the biggest prejudice/label that you feel that people attribute to you as a cabbie? And do you feel there is some truth to that label. The good old "no smoke without fire" or are they way off?
The biggest prejudice, I'd say, is that we are cheats. And it makes sense, no? After all, we get paid by the kilometer and by the minute. On a very basic level, it is in our interests to take very long and slow detours. The company I work for is blessedly free of this. With our fares being so low, there's really no profit in cheating people. I make far more money getting you to where you need to go, and then picking up another fare.
Is there truth to the prejudice? Sadly, yes. This is a very real problem in the Swedish taxi business, and it all comes back to de-regulation. I've discussed this before. It is also a matter of supply far outstripping the demand; there are far more cabbies than fares, because driving a cab is in essence unskilled labour. It is a business that holds a large amount of people from the bottom rungs of the pecking order.
There's an unpleasant political aspect to this. Sweden is known for a very liberal immigration policy. And one of the chief questions a society asks itself when it takes in immigrants/asylum-seekers is this: Now they are here. What do we do with them?
A civilised society will attempt to make the integration process smooth; get the immigrants working, and within a generation or two they will have made for themselves a place in society. The trouble is that there is a scarcity of work in this country. Add to the fact that if you come here as a refugee, or from a non-european country, you're doubly screwed because you lack a lot of the skills and knowledge necessary for smooth operation within Swedish society.
You're also in a position where any job seems like a good job. And so, this has given a rise to certain predatory practices among the competition. Representatives for the group that owns, among other companies, Taxi K will go to the local employment office, offer a job which pays "up to 20 000 sek a month, where you can set your own schedule, and then take a vacation to Hawaii if you want" (paraphrase of an actual quote), even giving you the opportunity to take a course and get a license. This is all fine and dandy, right?
Well, what they fail to mention is this: 20 000 sek is possible, if you work 12 hour shifts, six to seven nights a week. Sure, you can set your own schedule, but you won't get paid for any free time you allot yourself. In fact, there will be shifts where you barely will get paid at all. And you will be in constant competition with 300 other people who are in the exact same boat as you.
So what's a socially disadvantaged cabby to do when he manages to get a customer? Why, he must make it count. And the simplest way to make it count is to make sure that you make as much money as possible from the trip. Thus, cheating and off-meter payment become not only an option, but even a necessity.
Furthermore, deregulation has allowed countless of people to register their own cars as independent cabs. And there's no cap on the prices you can set for your own car. In fact, if there was a cap, you'd probably be out of luck, because it is expensive to own a cab and its expensive to drive one. So again, cheating becomes a necessity. In fact, things have gotten so bad that the authorities in Stockholm have laid down the law in order to deal with the problem. That's a step, I suppose, but it's only treating a symptom. The deeper disease remains uncured.
2. My question is how much extra do you charge someone if they soil your taxi?
I've not yet had anyone truly soil my cab (except a demented old woman I found bleeding in the street. I helped her into my cab, where she peed all over the seat. Since I wasn't raised by wolves, I simply waited with her until the ambulance came and took her away). However, if they do, I demand that they clean up, and then I demand that they pay me at least an entire night's wages, as my shift will effectively be over (you don't clean up vomit or shit or the like: you return the car to HQ for sanitation and then go home). People are usually willing to pay, if my colleagues are to be believed. If they refuse, there's not a lot I can do unless I'm ready to take them to court on vandalism charges.
3. And has there ever been a customer that has tried to rob you?
Once. Picked up a bunch of rough Yugoslavian bastards out in Seed Grove. They were going to Mount Agnes. During the trip, they demanded that I turn up the music. I realized that they wanted me to turn up the music so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Bad vibes all around. I decided I was being a racist and pushed my bigotted fears aside. As we approached Mount Agnes, the guy next to me started to moan and complain about feeling sick. I asked him if I should stop the car.
"Stop at the parking lot..." he gasped. So I stopped the car.
With a swiftness and coordination that was downright impressive, Sicko grabbed the smartphone we use as an onboard computer, and then dashed out of the car, followed by his three friends. By the time I realized what had happened, they were far far away.
Looking back, I am equal parts impressed, pissed off, and scornful. Impressed, because of how perfectly coordinated they were. They had clearly done this before, and had developed some skill. Pissed off because I was mildly traumatized and without the smartphone I was unable to continue working that night. And scornful, because that smartphone is worthless. The app we use has burned its image into the screen, and it is bound to the company. So off they went with a practically worthless piece of technology. I say they can keep it. Most likely they will never achieve anything greater than that.
4. What's the stupidest thing you've ever been asked?
"What tickles your fine crotch?"
5. What is the kindest thing you've witnessed as a cabbie ? (To balance out all the bad stuff)
I don't really witness a lot of kindness. But as far as kind people go, the saint ranks pretty damn high. Oh, also... There was this one time I was driving through Rose Grove, and a small crowd was gathered around this fallen old guy. I stepped out to see if I could offer any assistance He had gotten a heart attack and fallen over. One the prostitutes had had wrapped a sanitary towel over the gash in his head, and cracked dirty jokes in order to keep him conscious until the ambulance came. Considering what misery she lives in, I find her actions pretty damn noble.
Read Part 1 Here
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1. What is the biggest prejudice/label that you feel that people attribute to you as a cabbie? And do you feel there is some truth to that label. The good old "no smoke without fire" or are they way off?
The biggest prejudice, I'd say, is that we are cheats. And it makes sense, no? After all, we get paid by the kilometer and by the minute. On a very basic level, it is in our interests to take very long and slow detours. The company I work for is blessedly free of this. With our fares being so low, there's really no profit in cheating people. I make far more money getting you to where you need to go, and then picking up another fare.
Is there truth to the prejudice? Sadly, yes. This is a very real problem in the Swedish taxi business, and it all comes back to de-regulation. I've discussed this before. It is also a matter of supply far outstripping the demand; there are far more cabbies than fares, because driving a cab is in essence unskilled labour. It is a business that holds a large amount of people from the bottom rungs of the pecking order.
There's an unpleasant political aspect to this. Sweden is known for a very liberal immigration policy. And one of the chief questions a society asks itself when it takes in immigrants/asylum-seekers is this: Now they are here. What do we do with them?
A civilised society will attempt to make the integration process smooth; get the immigrants working, and within a generation or two they will have made for themselves a place in society. The trouble is that there is a scarcity of work in this country. Add to the fact that if you come here as a refugee, or from a non-european country, you're doubly screwed because you lack a lot of the skills and knowledge necessary for smooth operation within Swedish society.
You're also in a position where any job seems like a good job. And so, this has given a rise to certain predatory practices among the competition. Representatives for the group that owns, among other companies, Taxi K will go to the local employment office, offer a job which pays "up to 20 000 sek a month, where you can set your own schedule, and then take a vacation to Hawaii if you want" (paraphrase of an actual quote), even giving you the opportunity to take a course and get a license. This is all fine and dandy, right?
Well, what they fail to mention is this: 20 000 sek is possible, if you work 12 hour shifts, six to seven nights a week. Sure, you can set your own schedule, but you won't get paid for any free time you allot yourself. In fact, there will be shifts where you barely will get paid at all. And you will be in constant competition with 300 other people who are in the exact same boat as you.
So what's a socially disadvantaged cabby to do when he manages to get a customer? Why, he must make it count. And the simplest way to make it count is to make sure that you make as much money as possible from the trip. Thus, cheating and off-meter payment become not only an option, but even a necessity.
Furthermore, deregulation has allowed countless of people to register their own cars as independent cabs. And there's no cap on the prices you can set for your own car. In fact, if there was a cap, you'd probably be out of luck, because it is expensive to own a cab and its expensive to drive one. So again, cheating becomes a necessity. In fact, things have gotten so bad that the authorities in Stockholm have laid down the law in order to deal with the problem. That's a step, I suppose, but it's only treating a symptom. The deeper disease remains uncured.
2. My question is how much extra do you charge someone if they soil your taxi?
I've not yet had anyone truly soil my cab (except a demented old woman I found bleeding in the street. I helped her into my cab, where she peed all over the seat. Since I wasn't raised by wolves, I simply waited with her until the ambulance came and took her away). However, if they do, I demand that they clean up, and then I demand that they pay me at least an entire night's wages, as my shift will effectively be over (you don't clean up vomit or shit or the like: you return the car to HQ for sanitation and then go home). People are usually willing to pay, if my colleagues are to be believed. If they refuse, there's not a lot I can do unless I'm ready to take them to court on vandalism charges.
3. And has there ever been a customer that has tried to rob you?
Once. Picked up a bunch of rough Yugoslavian bastards out in Seed Grove. They were going to Mount Agnes. During the trip, they demanded that I turn up the music. I realized that they wanted me to turn up the music so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Bad vibes all around. I decided I was being a racist and pushed my bigotted fears aside. As we approached Mount Agnes, the guy next to me started to moan and complain about feeling sick. I asked him if I should stop the car.
"Stop at the parking lot..." he gasped. So I stopped the car.
With a swiftness and coordination that was downright impressive, Sicko grabbed the smartphone we use as an onboard computer, and then dashed out of the car, followed by his three friends. By the time I realized what had happened, they were far far away.
Looking back, I am equal parts impressed, pissed off, and scornful. Impressed, because of how perfectly coordinated they were. They had clearly done this before, and had developed some skill. Pissed off because I was mildly traumatized and without the smartphone I was unable to continue working that night. And scornful, because that smartphone is worthless. The app we use has burned its image into the screen, and it is bound to the company. So off they went with a practically worthless piece of technology. I say they can keep it. Most likely they will never achieve anything greater than that.
4. What's the stupidest thing you've ever been asked?
"What tickles your fine crotch?"
5. What is the kindest thing you've witnessed as a cabbie ? (To balance out all the bad stuff)
I don't really witness a lot of kindness. But as far as kind people go, the saint ranks pretty damn high. Oh, also... There was this one time I was driving through Rose Grove, and a small crowd was gathered around this fallen old guy. I stepped out to see if I could offer any assistance He had gotten a heart attack and fallen over. One the prostitutes had had wrapped a sanitary towel over the gash in his head, and cracked dirty jokes in order to keep him conscious until the ambulance came. Considering what misery she lives in, I find her actions pretty damn noble.
Answer time 1.
"What's the worst thing you've ever encountered?"
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1) How do you avoid the urge to run these people down where they stand?
Short answer: My parents raised me well.
As a matter of fact, I did give in to that urge once. I was down on Warehouse Street, which is a small stretch right in the center of town. It's got a couple of very popular bars and restaurants, frequented by locals. Rarely do you pick up people there that are from out of town.
Anyway, Warehouse Street is an original street from back when the city was founded. It is narrow, and it is paved with cobblestones. Add to the fact that the local joints like to put tables and chairs outside their doors so as to accommodate people during the summer, and you have yourself a nightmare from an automobile-perspective.
So I had just picked up a bunch of merry revelers, and we were about to drive to the nearest intersection. Sadly, there was a crowd gathered in front of the car. I did the usual crowd-dispersal routine:
1. Flash the headlights.
No response.
2. Rev the engine.
No response.
3. Emit a series of short, insistent honks through the horn.
Response.
The crowd dispersed, giving me sour looks all the way. I returned the looks with a huge grin and a waving hand. A couple of people gave me the finger, which I took as a sign that I was doing the right thing.
However, one girl refused to move. She was this tiny pixie, with a flowery dress and a sweet smile. I repeated the routine, but she would not budge.
So I edged the car closer and closer to her, showing her that I meant business. I was saying, in the limited language of a driver, that she should get out of the way, because I was not stopping. She replied, in the limited language of pedestrians, that I could keep on coming, because she wasn't moving.
Very well, I thought. The car closed in, centimeter by centimeter. It was the slowest game of chicken ever played. But just as I was about to hit the breaks and admit defeat, she bent forward, and lay down on the hood.
My customers gasped. I smiled. She had upped the stakes. I was happy to continue playing. So with this adorable faerie clinging to the hood, I slowly rolled all the way to Warehouse Street. Coming to the intersection I stopped. She let go of the hood, blew me a kiss, and wandered happily back to her friends on Warehouse Street.
I fell in love with her right then and there and I never saw her again.
2) What's the grossest thing you've ever had to clean off the inside of your cabs roof?
I've never had to clean anything off the inside of the roof. God help me the day I will have to.
3) How do you know Mama Crustaceaus?
Mama Crustaceous is a fine woman, a mean poker player, and has no tolerance for your bullshit. Leave it at that.
Read Part 2 Here
You asked me questions and I promised answers. So here we go.
1) How do you avoid the urge to run these people down where they stand?
Short answer: My parents raised me well.
As a matter of fact, I did give in to that urge once. I was down on Warehouse Street, which is a small stretch right in the center of town. It's got a couple of very popular bars and restaurants, frequented by locals. Rarely do you pick up people there that are from out of town.
Anyway, Warehouse Street is an original street from back when the city was founded. It is narrow, and it is paved with cobblestones. Add to the fact that the local joints like to put tables and chairs outside their doors so as to accommodate people during the summer, and you have yourself a nightmare from an automobile-perspective.
So I had just picked up a bunch of merry revelers, and we were about to drive to the nearest intersection. Sadly, there was a crowd gathered in front of the car. I did the usual crowd-dispersal routine:
1. Flash the headlights.
No response.
2. Rev the engine.
No response.
3. Emit a series of short, insistent honks through the horn.
Response.
The crowd dispersed, giving me sour looks all the way. I returned the looks with a huge grin and a waving hand. A couple of people gave me the finger, which I took as a sign that I was doing the right thing.
However, one girl refused to move. She was this tiny pixie, with a flowery dress and a sweet smile. I repeated the routine, but she would not budge.
So I edged the car closer and closer to her, showing her that I meant business. I was saying, in the limited language of a driver, that she should get out of the way, because I was not stopping. She replied, in the limited language of pedestrians, that I could keep on coming, because she wasn't moving.
Very well, I thought. The car closed in, centimeter by centimeter. It was the slowest game of chicken ever played. But just as I was about to hit the breaks and admit defeat, she bent forward, and lay down on the hood.
My customers gasped. I smiled. She had upped the stakes. I was happy to continue playing. So with this adorable faerie clinging to the hood, I slowly rolled all the way to Warehouse Street. Coming to the intersection I stopped. She let go of the hood, blew me a kiss, and wandered happily back to her friends on Warehouse Street.
I fell in love with her right then and there and I never saw her again.
2) What's the grossest thing you've ever had to clean off the inside of your cabs roof?
I've never had to clean anything off the inside of the roof. God help me the day I will have to.
3) How do you know Mama Crustaceaus?
Mama Crustaceous is a fine woman, a mean poker player, and has no tolerance for your bullshit. Leave it at that.
Read Part 2 Here
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