Flipping the bird

"What an asshole! You should've just plowed through."
"I would, but a car covered in blood and hunks of hair is terrible for business."

I was done. It was time to wash the car and head home. At 5.14 am, it was only me, the sunrise, and the early birds (a bunch of jackdaws, to be exact) out to get their proverbial worm. Most of them were looking for said worm on the lawns lining the side of the road, and one or two on the road itself.

 In my line of work, roadkill is inevitable, and since Sweden is the land of roe deer, moose, and an ever-growing army of wild boar, the term roadkill has the potential to cut both ways. Thus, of all the animals that I encounter on the road, birds are my favourite, because they're the best at getting out of the way. And even if they don't, the most damage they can do is turn into a puff of feathers. But like I said, ninety nine percent of the time, they get out of the way.

So there I was, happily driving down the road, when I realized that one of the jackdaws hadn't gotten off the ground in time. A millisecond later, I heard a thud against the front of my car. A wing rose  and flapped against the hood. I hit the breaks and put the car in reverse, convinced I'd see a crippled jackdaw on the ground. And to put it out of its misery, I was going to have to run it over, and then go home feeling like a monster. A great way to end the evening.

To my surprise, and horror, there was no jackdaw on the ground. I got out of the car and walked around to the front and saw this:

This little dude (let's call him Gary) was lodged in the front of my car. He was struggling to get out, but once I came around he got very still. I could see broken feathers, and what the rest of his body looked like, I didn't even want to consider.

After googling what one should do if one hits an animal I called the emergency number.

"What's your emergency?"

"I've... hit an animal."

"All right... Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, it's... uhm.."

"What kind of animal is it?"

"I'll be honest," I said. "I don't know if this is even apropriate to call in, but... it's a jackdaw."

"A jackdaw?"

"Yes. And it's stuck in the hood of my car. Like, literally, stuck in the grill. Most of its body is literally stick inside an air-intake on my car. So... yeah... I have no idea of what to do."

The operator paused for a long while. And then she said: "I... Hold please while I talk to my colleague."

And so I was put on hold, while Gary kept staring at me. He looked like he was calmly and patiently awaiting me to help him out, an illusion that was shattered the moment I left his field of view. The moment I did, he started thrashing and trying to get out. Once I returned, he got still. He wasn't asking for help, he was terrified of me. And who could blame him?

The operator got back to me: "I'm gonna put you through to the police."

So I was put on hold. For a long, long time. A couple of passers by stopped, were duly horrified and walked on. Finally the police picked up. I explained the situation.

"Do you have any way to put it out of its misery?"

"... I don't think you understand, it's literally stuck inside the front of my car. If I put it out of its misery, I'm going to have to dig it out with my bare hands."

"I'm sorry, sir, but jackdaws are not covered by the <law about animals that get run over>."

"All right.. so there's no animal control or something... people who know what to..."

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"So what you're saying is that I should... murder the hell out of this bird and dig it out of my car."

"Pretty much."

"All right. Great. Have a wonderful morning."

I hung up. I looked at Gary.

"I am so very sorry, little guy..." I got into the car and took out a pair of work gloves. Gary was positioned in such a way that I could grab his head. I'd twist his neck, and then just.. pull him out. That was the plan.

Of course, Gary was having none of it. He kept biting at my fingers and flapping his wing at me. Not that he had to. I was horrified, and every time I reached for him, I recoiled just as quickly. I simply couldn't do it. I could feel the ghosts of my cro-magnon and neanderthal ancestors judging the shit out of me.

"So we heard a bird was giving you trouble, huh?"on

Without really thinking, I started feeling around Gary's shoulders. Maybe I could get a better grip. Maybe I could figure out which way his head was turned so I could twist his neck in the optimum direction. Maybe I could get him out and then run over his doubtlessly crippled body. Maybe I was just trying to procrastinate as much as possible before having to do the inevitable. 

I realized something. Gary was holding on, as much as he was stuck. He didn't want to be there, but he wasn't very keen on me pulling him out either. I managed to push away one foot that was gripping a crack, and managed to tuck away one of his wings. And then it happened. Suddenly he came lose. For a brief second he was in my hands, and then he started flapping his wings furiously. I let him go, and he took off!

Sure, he was missing a few feathers, and sure he was wobbly, and sure, his right wing and tailfeathers were covered in his own shit (who can blame him, though), but he was fucking flying! 

I watched him disappear beyond the houses, cawing indignantly all the way. 

As I'm writing this, I can hear the birds outside my window. The crows and the jackdaws. There's a corny part of me thinking that perhaps they're saying that humans aren't all that bad. After all, one of them helped Gary out today. 

A far more realistic part of me knows, however, that what they're saying is this:

"We know where you live, motherfucker. And we know how far it is between your front door and your car. Sleep tight."

Three Shades of Brown:

"So who are you voting for this year?"

"Not sure. I kinda feel that whoever wins, I lose."

I've said before that try to keep politics out of my writing. My success at this has been spotty. If you've read this for a while, you'd be correct to assume that I am on the progressive side. I consider myself a feminist, I do my best not to be racist, and give people a fair shake regardless of their background. I don't always succeed, and when it comes to matter of class and education, I can be downright arrogant, if not completely conceited.

All that being said, I try not to let it colour the way I approach people. Success varies. 

Tonight I'm going to edge close to the perilous edge of political debate. Tonight, I want to talk about the Sweden Democrats and their sympathisers. 

For those of you already well versed in Swedish political history, skip ahead. There's stories below. For the rest of you, here's a little background. 

The Sweden Democrats (SD) are a nationalistic, socially conservative party that has had a place in Swedish Parliament for the past eight years. Their rise to power went hand in hand with an increased anxiety among the Swedish populace about immigration, how the government handled it, and how well they were integrated in society. The Swedish public identified a problem, and SD offered a solution. Whether the problem was real, or the solution was the correct one is highly debatable. Be it as it may, they've been playing Littlefinger in the Swedish parliament for the past eight years.

SD grew out of the BSS-movement. BSS stands for 'Bevara Sverige Svenskt' (Keep Sweden Swedish), a movement that grew out of the neo-nazi movement. Rather than go into detail about the movement's aims and policy (that stuff can be easily googled. I urge you to check out several sources, as bias is very high), I will post a picture of some campaign material they used back in the 1990's. 

Translation below.

On the left, a general image. Note the slogan and the party behind it. 

On the right, two different fliers, top and bottom.

Top: 

"Sweden, wake up!

Problem: Mass immigration.

Consequence: Poverty

Solution: Repatriation. 

Bottom:

Warning! 

To Swedish girls! 

Avoid unprotected intercourse with negroes who carry deadly AIDS!

Preferably: Do not desecrate your race, Your Sweden, Your family and relatives.

Only have abortions in an emergency.

Keep Sweden Swedish.

Charming, right? 

Well, since then, SD cleaned up their act. They got nicer suits, and they changed their rhetoric to nicer words. If you look through their party programme and their list of policies, and values, you'll find that very little has changed. Their list of principles espouse an idea of a nebulous "Swedish nation", which is distinct from say, a "Jewish" or a "Sami" nation. It also speaks of every 'nation' or ethnicity having a kind of inherited 'essence' which is completely independent of culture or nurture. They are also one of few political parties in Sweden who want to limit abortion rights. 

What they haven't done is to make up with their Nazi roots and officially distancing themselves from them. They're pretty fucking mealy-mouthed about the whole deal. Now, all political parties without exception have skeletons in the closet (let's be honest, the 20th century was an absolute quagmire when it came to maintaining humanist moral values), but most of them have admitted this, and distanced themselves from their dirty pasts. Even the Left Party, which used to be the Swedish communist party (but distanced themselves when they realised that the Soviet Union wasn't all that great). This, I believe, is the bare minimum required for a party to be treated with any amount of respect. 

In recent years, they have also shown to be quite simpatico with other far right movements in Europe and the US, such as the alt-right, the Hungarian Jobik party, the french Front Nationale,  among others. They have repeatedly allowed former (?) members of the Nazi movement to represent them, and while they espouse a doctrine of zero-tolerance for racism, it is quite remarkable how many of their party members regularly get excommunicated for being racist. 

I'm not here to point too much of a finger here, but for a non-racist party, they sure do attract a lot of racist people. 

This is not going to become a discussion on the growing movement of far-right nationalist politics in Europe. In fact, it is not even going to be a discussion about SD itself. I've given this background, it is all verifiable (however, I will admit that it could very well be my Zionist overlords who have brainwashed me into writing this, so if you buy into that particular conspiracy I expect you to take whatever I say with a grain of kosher salt). I also happily admit that I'm biased as all hell in this issue. 

No. Tonight, I'm going to tell you three stories about three different fares, each of them unique, but all had in common that they were sympathetic to SD.

______________________________________

Star-crossed lovers.

Remember that time I discovered that the Swedish police occasionally employs apes? Well, as I was in the process of telling the officers who did what and where (while I did my best to hide my face in the most ridiculous way possible), a drunken party dude sidled up to the car.

"Hey... hey, are you busy?"

One of the officers stepped between him and the car. "Step back sir. You're interfering with police business."

"But I was only asking if he was available..."

"He is not." 

I looked the guy in the eyes (as well as I could, through my shades) and said: "Once they're done, I'll take you wherever you need to go."

The guy accepted this and stepped back. The police finished their business, concluded that they could do jack-shit about the situation and let me go. The guy got into my cab. 

"Sorry about that," I said, while removing my disguise. "I just witnessed an assault and a mugging. The cops wanted me to point out the perpetrators. And I didn't want them to see my face."

"Who, the cops?"

"No, the perps."

"Oh,... Yeah, that makes sense. I wanna go to Seed Grove."

"In that case, I'll take you there."

I was in no mood to drive anyone at all. I wanted to go home, I wanted to curl up in a ball and wait for the anxiety to pass. I was sick to my stomach of work. However, this fare would allow me to fulfil my quota for the the night. And besides, I needed the distraction.

"You'll have to excuse me," I said. "I'm a little shaken up. How are you?"

"Oh... You don't wanna know."

"Actually, I do," I said. "I would very much like to know. I'd like to get my mind off the past fifteen minutes."

"All right then," he said. "Things are kinda shitty."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "I was on a date tonight."

"Didn't go well?"

"Oh, it went great," he said. "We really hit it off. She was so pretty, so smart... But... You know... She's VP-K."

"VP-K?" 

"Left Party Communist."

"Is she a time-traveller?"

"No, no... but you know, you can change a name, but that doesn't mean you change your nature. And the problem is that I'm a Sweden Democrat. Like, totally."

"That's one way to look at it," I said. "But yeah, I can see where you two might've hit a snag."

"Yeah, no shit," he said with another sigh. "And it sucks. You know, she called me a racist. Weird thing is, she put up some very convincing arguments to that point."

"Really?" I was amazed. Was I witnessing somebody dealing with a personal epiphany?

"Yeah," he said. Then he smiled triumphantly. "But I have a major argument against her. Pity I didn't use it. You see, I have this friend. He provides me with cheap cigarettes smuggled in from Russia. And I offered her a pack, and she accepted it and when I said I could hook her up, she said yes. So you know, that makes her a tax evader. Total hypocrite!"

Nope! 

"Yeah," I said said slowly. "You could've totally shown her there..."

"I know, right?" he said. "So, what are you voting for this year?"

"I'll be honest with you," I said. "I've not decided, but I'm leaning towards whatever party that's going to offer the best checks and balances against SD's influence."

He looked at me with disappointed eyes. "Uh huh, so you think I'm a racist too, huh?"

"I don't," I said. "I don't know you, and I didn't hear her arguments. I have no idea why you chose to vote for SD. Your reasons could have nothing to do with racism. I'm not here to judge you. All I'm saying is that I can't in good faith support a party that grew out of the neo-nazi movement and hasn't made any amends or official statement about it."

"Yet!" he said. 

"Dude, they've had eight years to distance themselves from that," I said. "Plenty of opportunity. If they haven't done it by now, would they ever?"

"Well what about VPK? When did they distance themselves from their communist past?" 

"I don't know," I said honestly. 

"I'll tell you: When the soviet union fell. And they'd been in the parliament for years before that."

I later found out that it was a lot earlier. In fact, they did it in the 1950's. The party split between those who still espoused communism (and they are still around, officially calling themselves communist) and those who didn't.

"The fact still remains that they've officially distanced themselves from that doctrine," I said. "SD has not."

"Yet." 

Before it turned into a debate, I put a lid on things. I made my point, and told him that I simply didn't have the knowledge to further pursue it. We switched topics. He told me he was a seaman, and that he had recently survived a pirate attack off the coast of India. They had managed to scare them off by angrily waving sticks as if they were guns. They had later heard that a Russian ship had been attacked by pirates too, but had utterly destroyed them using actual guns. I really, really wish I remember the details of that story. It would've made for a great entry. 

So. The takeaway from all this was the following: this guy knew and accepted that SD had Nazi roots. This guy was not comfortable with it and hoped in his heart of hearts that one day, once Sweden was awesome again, SD would officially come out and say: 'We're totally not Nazis anymore'. 

I can't help but feel a bit sympathetic. I don't envy him the potential identity crisis he's in for. 

_______________________

To eat humble pie with a side of crayfish.

I was out in Bishop's Yard, one of those heavily segregated areas in this city where crime is common and poverty is rampant. It's one of those areas of town that are hyperbolically known as "no-go zones" internationally. This is my country's legacy these days. I was once told by a very passionate Filipino guy in Washington DC that Sweden was full of no-go zones and rape. So that's what we're about in the eyes of the international community: Abba, Ikea, and no-go zones. It makes a fellow proud to be a Swede. 

Of course, its not only racial minorities living out there. Three fellows hopped into the car. They were off to town for a night of drinking and fun, and I was the lucky fellow who had the privilege of taking them there. They all had shaved heads, which immediately made me think of skinheads. I also reminded myself that I'm a total hypocrite, since I've been shaving my head to the scalp every since I discovered that male-pattern baldness is not a temporary thing. 

They chatted a bit, back and forth. One of them (let's call him Cueball) sighed.

"Guys, I had to eat humble pie with Lisa."

"Yeah, what happened there?"

"Well, you know me..." he said. "I'm shitty at relationships. You remember a while back, the fight we had?"

"Yeah, you stormed out."

"Sure, that was the end of it. But before that, I flipped a table and I screamed and I acted like a fucking idiot, because I can't deal with commitment, you know? I don't know what to fucking do when I'm in a relationship. So I ran out, got drunk and didn't call her for a month."

"We remember. You were a fucking tool," said the guy next to me. Let's call him Baldie.

"Yeah, but we've patched things up," he said. "You know how it is... I had to let that steam out, and then I realised what the fuck I'd just done. So I came crawling back to her, and had to eat a fuckton of humble pie." 

"I bet," said the guy next to him. Let's call him Scalp. "So did she make any demands?"

"Of course she made demands! When you gotta eat humble pie, you gotta accept the demands, you know?" said Cueball. The other guys nodded sagely at this. 

"Yeah," said Scalp. "When you eat humble pie, you gotta accept everything they want. They got you by the balls. Like when Katie told me I couldn't vote for the Sweden Democrats after she took me back after my fuckup."

"That's what Lisa said!" said Cueball. "That, and I had to be more available. More 'present' in the relationship, whatever the fuck that means.

"Yeah... You gotta make that choice; relationship or politics," said Scalp. "Katie said that too. At the same time, I don't know what the fuck that means. Present? I tried buying her flowers, but she just laughed and said: 'This isn't you, Scalp. What are you hiding? Are you cheating on me?' "

"Yeah," said Cueball unhappily. "Same here. I have no fucking clue how to make this work. But I want it to work."

"You could always ask her for flowers," I said. "Setting a precedent. Make flowers a part of the relationship makeup."

"Hey," said Cueball. "That's not a bad idea. What are you voting for, cab man?"

"Dude," said Baldy. "Don't do this. Let's not get into politics."

"Come on guys, we're all on the same page here, right cab man?" 

"I tend to vote for minor parties," I said, hoping to God this wouldn't turn into a debate. I was not in the mood for holding my own against three united political opponents. I wanted to get paid and get rid of them. "Whoever wins of the big parties, I feel I lose."

"Damn straight! They fuck you, you know? You shouldn't read the media because..."

Thank God for Baldie. "Dude, enough. We've heard the rant before, we agree, and this guy probably just wants to drive us and get on with the next fare. Besides, I can tell you how to be more 'present' in your relationships."

"Oh yeah?" said Scalp. "Go on."

"It's real simple," said Baldie. "See, take me. I fucking love crayfish. Sometimes, I just want to buy a whole bunch and just gorge. But if I did that, Marie would call me an asshole. But the solution is fucking simple. I go and buy my crayfish, some bread, and a bottle of wine. I don't even have to cook; all I need to do is throw the crayfish in a pot, pour out some wine, slice up the bread, and tell Marie: 'Baby, I thought we could have a romantic shellfish dinner tonight'. She gets hers, I get mine. Minimum effort, maximum effect."

Silence hung in the cab. 

"Are you saying," I said. "that you've found a way to life-hack your relationship?"

"Damn straight." 

I have to admit, I was fucking impressed. I mean, it was kinda low and disingenuous, but an elegant solution nevertheless. The guy had figured out how to be a self-centered asshole while seeming like a caring and loving partner at the same time. While I can't agree with it, I can't help but give credit where it's due.

The conversation went on. Cueball kept trying to get me to check out various youtube channels, all of them alt-right, nationalistic, Jews-control-the-media fare. I politely nodded, and pointed out that I was more worried about mass surveillance and data storage than immigration. 

"There's one thing I really don't like about SD," mused Scalp. "They have a really fucked up policy when it comes to abortion. Really fucks women over, you know."

The others nodded in agreement. 

I've been in this business too long to be horrified by all this. But I learned two very valuable lessons:

For some people, women's rights to health and their bodies are a fair price to pay to keep foreigners away from our shores. The other was that if I ever fail at being a life partner, well... there are quick fixes around that. 

_____________________________

The International perspective.

I found myself down at Hunter Street. My mission: pick up a guy called Henry and take him to Maytown. Not a bad fare at all. So I waited, and suddenly there was a knock on my window. I opened it and there was this black guy. East-African, by the looks of him. Probably Somali, on account of the large Somalian diaspora that lives in this city. Later on it turned out I was correct in my assumption

"Hey, you're the guy who's going to take us to may-town, yeah?" he said in Swedish.

"Is this the guy! Big man, we've been waiting for you!" cried a voice behind him in English. Two other Somali guys came running out of the building. I realised what had happened here. It is not uncommon for non-white people in this city to give a very Swedish- (or at least white) sounding name when ordering a cab. This can be for several reasons, the main one being that they're hoping to get around a perceived bias that cabbies won't pick up someone who doesn't sound like they're Swedish. This is all bullshit of course, since I don't know either the name or the destination of the fare until I have accepted it, and the people in dispatch are in the business of getting as many fares for us as possible. That being said, I understand the concern. It is not unfounded, but with Taxi M at least, it is irrelevant.

So I let them in. I quickly assessed the situation. 'Henry' was raised in Sweden. He spoke to me in Swedish and spoke English with a Swedish/Somali accent. His two friends (cousins it turned out) were raised in England and so spoke the dialect common to black people in England, complete with various Caribbean phrases and pronunciations. And like most groups of Somali customers I've driven, they were loud, animated, and seemingly very aggressive. I've learned that this perceived aggressiveness is partially due to inherent Swedish anxiety about foreigners, and in part because swedes tend to be reserved and low-key in their communication, as opposed to most of the rest of the world. So with my prejudices firmly in check (or at the very least, acknowledged and carefully sorted away), I turned on the meter.

'Henry' didn't like that one bit. "Why does it say 20 sek already? I'm to pay you 20 sek just for standing here? You trying to trick me?"

"No, sir," I said. "20 sek is the starting fee. To compensate for the time I spent driving here. It's standard taxi procedure. If you'd ridden with Taxi G, the fee would be double the amount."

He looked at me suspiciously, but conceded.

One of them, let's call him Brit, heard me speak English and shouted cheerfully: "Where are you from big man? What's your name? You sound American."

"Yeah, can't help that. Too many movies. I lived in England once, but I'm Swedish."

"Oh, Swedish! Not Serbian or nothing like that? Then you gotta be voting for the Sweden Democrats, yeah?"

"Actually no," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because they're kinda Nazi..."

"No, no, man! You can't vote for the Social Democrats! SD are the only ones who can save this country!"

By now I was so stressed out by their loudness (yet very charmed by their demeanour) that I'd taken a wrong turn. In order to immediately get out of trouble, I said to 'Henry': "I fucked up. Let me pause the meter until we're back on the right track."

He gave me a surprised look, and then his suspicions melted away. 

Brit shouted again: "I FUCKING LOVE THE SWEDES! They're so honest! That's how to do it! This country is great, so you have to vote for SD! You can't vote for the fucking Social Democrats!"

"I never said I would..."

"No, man!" he roared happily. "You can't watch TV or read Swedish news. Its all part of the Zionist conspiracy! SD are the only ones who care about Swedish culture!"

"The fuck do you know about Swedish culture, man?" said the other guy in the back. Let's call him English. "You've never been here before."

Brit didn't give a damn.

"Look big man... what's your name?"

"Crabby..."

"All right Babby, listen to me. I'm from Somalia, all right? And we got fucked by the British, we got fucked by the Americans. We couldn't hold onto our culture, and we lost it all. And the same fucking thing is happening in Sweden. The Zionists..."

"Don't fucking spread that poison here, man!" said English. "you don't know shit about this place..."

But Brit wouldn't let up. "You have to protect your culture! And SD are the only ones who want to protect your culture. You have to vote for them!"

I was a bit amazed. 'Henry' laughed at Brit, called him an idiot and told me he was voting for the Liberal party, because he was all about business and moving up in the world and pushing back against racism. 

The rest of the trip was a weird blur. I couldn't keep up. I couldn't even enter the discussion. How could I? I don't get loud or brash when I drive. All I remember are these three cheerful, loud voices, disagreeing violently with each other in the friendliest way I've ever witnessed. 

The thing is, I could kinda see Brit's point. He was arguing from a position of lost culture. And he wasn't wrong insofar that Sweden's population in general isn't deeply in touch with their culture or history. That kinda went out of the window when we as a country took a big step away from nationalism after World War 2. Sweden, being a small country, has hungrily embraced the international sphere on political, economic and cultural levels. And to an extent, we've done it at the cost of many of our own cultural touchstones. So from this guy's perspective, coming from a country which had lost its cultural and political integrity, he wanted to warn me of supporting that very same thing. 

However, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Cultures survive if they are meaningful to their practitioners. While it may be sad, well... The majority of Sweden has either accepted or embraced the fact that the deep and ancient parts of our culture isn't all that important anymore. There's nothing unnatural or wrong about it. But it is a bit sad.

However, he viewed it as a Zionist conspiracy - it was of course the Jews that were behind the 'cultural marxism' and 'globalism' that was destroying cultures worldwide, including Somalia and Sweden. And had we been alone, I would've dismissed him as just another idiot. I kept counting down the seconds until he'd start ranting about George Soros, but thankfully he refrained from that.

Luckily, his cousins 'Henry' and English dismissed him for me. They completely shot him down, and yet it was clear they all loved each other very much, even if none of them really agreed on anything.

Finally, we arrived at our destination. After a lot of trouble with the card reader, mostly due to their complete impatience and/or faulty cards, they finally paid and got out.

"Thanks for the ride," said 'Henry', and his cousins hooted something similar. 

"It was a pleasure driving you guys," I said, and added (culturally appropriative that I am): "ah-salaam aleikum". 

'Henry' and English went absolutely wild, clapping me on the shoulder and shouting: "aleikum salaam!" 

They left the cab and Brit leaned in and grinned at me.

"You know why you said that, bruv?" 

"I like to think its because I wanted to show respect to your religion and culture," said I. I was about to add 'I meant no offence, sorry' in a flurry of progressive white anxiety, when Brit shook his head and grinned.

"Its because the social democrats have brainwashed you to accept multiculturalism," he shook my hand and laughed. "Take care of yourself, and vote for SD!" 

______________________________

The Swedish general elections are coming up. I'm undecided as to which party I'm going to vote for, or why. I'll figure that out in time. After all, democracy is worthless if you don't make the effort to figure that shit out. That being said, this summer I got to see three different facets of SD supporters. Two of them confirmed certain stereotypes I have in my mind about the party. And the third one turned my perception completely upside down. 

The fact that SD exists is a tragedy. The extremists that will follow in their wake are a threat to democracy as we know it. And they are part of a wave that is sweeping accross the western world. It is absolutely horrifying. That being said, these three meetings had a weird effect on  me. They humanized the people who vote for SD and their ilk. And while each meeting left me feeling oddly positive, there's a darker side to it. The people who put dangerous political groups into power are not monsters. The scariest thing is, they could be anyone.  By either omission, ignorance, or a misguided sense of civil responsibility, these people, these fellow human beings, with all their flaws and merits, are the ones who drive this political process. It would be easy, if those who vote for SD really were monsters.  We could simply get our torches and pitchforks and drive them into the sea.  But they're not. They are single droplets, who together become a dangerous wave of hatred with the capability to destroy the country.

Let me leave you with this:

Democracy is fragile. So when you go out to vote, make sure you know what you're doing. Understand why you believe what you believe, and understand why your opponents do not share your beliefs. Understand that they have their reasons. Understand that they are as terrified and small as you are. Understand all of that, before you attempt to change someone's mind. People are complicated and messy. Understand that whatever happens, a democracy always gets the government it deserves.

This time, the system works.

"You're a working man and I respect that. We all gotta do what we have to to get along. You drive a cab, and I steal shit."
" Whatever works, huh?"

Longish intro. Story below

I'm a believer in the social contract. My view is that it is in the careful balancing act between individual freedom and social obligations that society can be founded, maintained, and flourish. Thus I don't (with one notable exception ) do fares off the meter. Its not just about staying out of trouble, it is about adding ingredients to the great pie of society, so that I may have a slice whenever I need it.

So let's talk about a group of people who've been popping up a lot lately. I'm talking about the criminal element. The thugs, the scumbags, the crooks and the low-down dirty bastards. The victims, the hungry, the desperate.

Artist's impression.

Because more often than not, most people who want to pay me off the meter are people who, for whatever reason, feel that society has given them nothing and thus are in no mood to give anything to society. The people who say; why the fuck should I slave away like an asshole for one measly slice?  You might remember I've touched on this before.

Every once in a while, I drive honest-to-god outlaws. Sometimes because they need to go somewhere, like anyone. At other times because they're off to do some dirty deed or other. And at times it is because they need someone to pick them up after they've served time in prison. Provided we can establish a rapport, I usually find them fairly sympathetic. and they usually sympathise with me. As in the above quote, most of them get the struggle of low-income work. Some of them think I'm an idiot for paying into a system that, to their mind, doesn't give a fuck about me. Some of them treat it as a personal choice, just as a life of crime is their personal choice. In the cab, I adopt an attitude of to-each-his-own. Outside, I'm pretty horrified.

One more thing before we get to the meat of today's entry. I know, this intro is dragging on. Bear with me.

In my travels (both in the world and on the Internet) I've come across the idea that Sweden (and Scandinavia in general) is soft on crime. After all, if you commit a crime, you damage society. So society should damage you, right? And here's Sweden with its short prison sentences, comfortable cells, and ample opportunity for going on leave - it's a goddamn miracle that we haven't degenerated into a criminal wasteland.

But here's the thing; the philosophy behind the Swedish penal system is the idea that criminals are, by and large, not evil people but people who have for whatever reason chosen to break with society. And if they chose to break with society, they must be given the choice to rejoin it. Not only the choice, but the opportunity. A reason. So there's an idea that the prison system must not only give them the choice, but also the means and motivation to create a good and productive life within the limits and laws of society. Is it perfect? Fuck no. Some people are unrepentant assholes and will abuse the shit out of this leniency. But at the same time, we have fairly low rates of recidivism, internationally speaking.

So the system works sometimes. Here's a story about that.

______________________________

Three years well spent

He wore a dirty baseball cap, hadn't shaven for days, and his skin had that weird, sallow doughiness of somebody whose lost a lot of weight in a decidedly unhealthy way. He asked me about fixing the rate and I explained to him why that wasn't an option. 

"No problem, I get sticking to the straight and narrow. Better in the end, you know. But tell me if you change your mind."

Sometimes conversations can take very sudden turns. I've had conversations that start with the weather, and end with heavy drug use. You never see those shifts in conversation coming - so here I was, chatting away on a very superficial level with this dude. His tone was curt and to the point, the kind of man that never had had much need for a large vocabulary. I got the sense that he, like many denizens of this city's underbelly, made it his business to talk about himself as little as possible. So we chatted about how hot the weather was, how annoying the massive infrastructure project was to drivers of all stripes, and shame about Sweden losing in the World cup.

I can't remember how it happened, but suddenly he told me that he had recently served three years in prison. So I put on my best 'fuck the system man'- face and listened.

"Me and a buddy ran a junkyard. On the side, we bought copper from junkies. We paid them in cash."

"I think I've run in to a couple of your clients then," I said. 

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, they wanted to make a deal with me so I could help them smuggle copper they'd stolen to some junkyard in Homeridge."

"Oh they got that back there? Good on you that you didn't set anything up with them. Little bastards never keep their promises. I had one guy bring me in a length of cable, from the train. The bolt cutter had melted from the electric charge. They'll steal anything."

"And you paid them."

"Sure. It was good business. But I made a mistake. See, there are ways to get around that shit. Papers you can push the right way, expenses you can write off... And my partner, he was the smart one. He got out while the going was good. He was married to a Nigerian, and he sold his share of the company for a couple of millions. He went with her to Nigeria and opened a bar. Shortly after he left, the tax-department is knocking on my door. They were going to audit me. And me, I didn't have my shit together, so they got me. Three years in prison, man. Two point nine million in fines."

"Shit," I said, quietly thinking that what goes around comes around. 

"Yeah," he said with a rueful grin. "So that was a thing."

"Still, that sounds rough. Three years of your life."

"Actually it wasn't that bad."

"Oh? Comfortable lodgings?"

"Sure, like everyone. No, it wasn't that bad. Because during that time, they got me a psychiatric evaluation. Turns out, I've got ADHD. I've always suspected that something was weird, but I never really thought about looking into it. Never really wanted it. Didn't trust the system, you know?"

"Sure."

"So I got out, and on medication. Got my shit together for real this time. They even wrote off the fines. So life is good. Besides, my partner had it worse."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he said with ghoulish amusement. "Two weeks after he opened his bar, he died in the Ebola epidemic. So he wasn't as smart as he thought he was."

He laughed, and god help me, I couldn't help but laugh with him. Because there's something wrong with me. 

"So the system works, then?"

"Not sure about that," he said. "But it worked fine for me at least."

_________________________________

Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.

_________________________________

More Violence.

"He tried to kidnap you? Are you OK?"
"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.

_______________________

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.

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-

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.

_______________________

Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.

______________________

Ella

"Thank you for your help last week. You really saved me. I have done as you suggested and called the hot line and the hospital, where they found out I had a broken rib and a hemorrhage in my shoulder. I don't know how to thank you, but I'm eternally grateful - Ella."

I read the message over and over again. I made excited little squeaks, I pressed my fingers to my mouth. I did a weird little jig, as relief and joy washed over me in waves.

She  made it, I thought. Thank God.


I was planning on writing about something else today. Something somewhat self-indulgent, an exploration of my feelings after the "nice trip" last Easter, and how it has affected me. Well, I'll give you the short version of that: everything is fine, aside from a few things, and I'll write that entry next time for anyone who is interested. Tonight, let's talk about Ella.

It was dawn, and I had gotten greedy. Somewhere in the middle of the shift, I had decided to just keep going for as long as I could. But finally, I felt I could do one more fare, and then I'd be done. And as luck would have it, this far would take me from an area in the eastern part of town, to some bumhole-nowhere way beyond King's River. Easily 30+ minute drive and an excellent way to end the evening.

The preceding sentence was the last positive thought I had for the next hour.

I arrived at the address, and sitting on the stoop was a woman. She looked exhausted, and all around here were these tote bags. Some guy, all muscles and salt-and-pepper hair, kept moving in and out of the house, bringing out more tote bags, filled with (as far as I could see) soft things like blankets or clothes.

Something felt off, but I did a quick calculation. Most likely, this couple came from Bumfuck-nowhere-beyond-King's-River and had been in town visiting friends, potentially having some kind of picknick or other kind of outing which requires luggage in tote bags. Aside from the sheer amount of bags, the theory seemed to check out.

I stepped out and opened the trunk. The man said nothing to me, didn't even meet my gaze. He simply began filling the trunk with tote bags. The woman rose on unsteady legs (if she were drunk, then that too would fit into my theory) and climbed into the back. I went back to the trunk to close it. While I did, the man leaned his head inside the car.

The driveway in which I was parked was very narrow. Save for actually climbing over the guy, I had no way of getting past him to the driver's seat. So I waited while he stood there, leaning into the car. Then he pulled out, slammed the door and walked back to his house.

Huh...

I got into the driver's seat and I asked: "So.. Just you then?"

"Yes," she said softly, her eyes glazed and her face pale. "Just me."

"So just where in <destination> are we going?"

She burst into tears.

On reflex, I handed her one of the many paper towels cabbies keep on hand for just such an occasion. She wept and she wept, whimpering.

A whole other story began to take form in my head. Lovers' spat - he threw her out. I was driving her from a very ugly breakup. Right?

"I don't mean to pry," I said softly. "And if you want me to shut up for the rest of the trip, I will. But would you tell me what happened?"

She wept and she spoke. He had broken things. Her phone, most of all. He had thrown her into a wall.

"I never thought this could happen to me," she said bitterly. "Who would've imagined that I would be one of those women who said that, huh?"

"If its any consolation," I said, trying for a little gallows humour (because that sometimes has a positive effect). "most of those women were probably just as shocked."

She didn't laugh. She simply said: "I need to borrow your phone. He broke mine. I need to make a call."

I gave it to her, and she called her mother, crying and crying, telling her what had happened between ragged sobs. Once she was done, she handed back the phone and sighed.

"I need cigarettes. Could you stop by the gas station over there?"

After she got her cigarettes, we rode on. There's really little point in trying to recreate the conversation. It was haphazard and disconnected - usually I would ask a question, she'd give a short answer, I'd try to say something comforting, she'd say nothing. So in a long, long car trip, made up of mostly awkward silences, I found out the following:

Her name was Ella. She was a manager at one of the fancier restaurants in town. She and her husband had been out clubbing, and gotten separated. Or he had decided to go home early. It wasn't quite clear. However, this separation had taken its toll on him. When she came home, he had flipped out, angrily accusing her of fucking every guy imaginable in the hours they'd been apart. He also told her that he had called her parents and said the same thing. When she tried to protest, he had exploded, smashed her phone. Then he had broken a hat rack. Then it was a blur. He had thrown her stuff out into the garden, and he had thrown her into a wall, hard enough to make her entire side and shoulder scream with pain.

"I've never been so scared," she said more than once.

I've never felt so fucking useless. Usually in these situations, I'm able to at least comfort the person I'm talking to. Make them feel, if not better, then at least safer. But here... Here, there was nothing I could say or do. So I posed my little questions. Questions about the situation. Questions about her life. In the end, it petered out into a shade paler than smalltalk and I just kept my mouth shut for the rest of the trip.

Because what the fuck do I know? There was a nasty truth in all this, which is that no matter how much I profess my progressive views, no matter how many abused women I'll drive, no matter how many hugs and thankful words I may receive, or praise from friends, the fact is that I am not a person who can actually save anyone. I'm just a dude with a car, and an overdeveloped sense of morality and quite possibly a white-knight-complex. And there she was, sitting in the back seat, completely devastated, her life literally in pieces, and there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to help her except keep driving.

Somewhere during the trip, I turned off the meter. The idea of her having to pay me, on top of all the other mess just felt disgusting.

"What can I do? That's my entire life back there. What the fuck do I do now?"

"Are you asking me...?" I said carefully. She sighed.

"Sure."

"I have no idea, to be honest," I said. "But... right now, I think you shouldn't worry about what happens next. Right now, there's nothing you can do, except sit back and wait until we get to <destination>. Once we're there, I could give you a number you could call, to a women's support hot line. They will know what you can do next. You're not alone in this."

In the midst of my self-loathing, I just felt as if every word was a stupid fucking platitude. A slightly more verbal version of patting someone awkwardly on the head, saying 'there there'. But she sighed with a little relief and nodded.

We'd driven for almost an hour, and we were nearing <destination>. It was gorgeous. Rolling hills, the mountains towering over the fjord, and the sun rising in the east, spilling gold over the whole thing. And we arrived at the address - a little weekend cottage she'd bought.

"What do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing at all. This ones on me."

"No, you can't," she pleaded. "Of course I'm supposed to pay you."

I realised I may have made a mistake. By turning off the meter, I had essentially taken away one of the securities the passenger has against the cabby. Also, I had done so without explaining it to her. At the very least, she might think I did this out of pity. For some, it is a matter of pride to be able to pay, rather than to be reduced to a victim who can't make their way in the world.

Well, shit...

"Look," I said. "This is for my own sake. I'm not trying to make you feel any less of an adult, here. The way I figure it, you've had it rough enough and I don't want to add to it. So for my own peace of mind, this trip is on me, all right? I can give you the receipt for what we've racked up so far, but you don't have to pay."

She meekly accepted this, though she declined the receipt. "Do you need any help carrying those bags?"

"No, its... its fine," she said.

Once more, I decided to ignore her potential wishes in this. Although there was a practical reason to this. The driveway was at the bottom of a hill, and the house was at the top. If she would do this herself, I'd be stuck here for a while. Also... I needed to do something. I needed to feel useful, even if all I could do was to drag a couple of tote bags up a hill.

So without a word, I loaded my arms full of bags, and together we made our way up to the house. She got the bags inside and I remained outside. I asked her: "Do you still want that number? To the women's support hot line? You got a phone in your house?"

"Yes I do, and yes please," she said. I wrote it down and gave it to her. She stood there, staring at the little note. And she began to cry again.

"What will I do now?" she whispered.

"You'll call that number," I said. "Whatever happens next will happen later."

She trembled, and I, stupidly, extended my hand to shake hers and say goodbye. Tears were flowing down her face, so I very carefully and very awkwardly, giving her plenty of time to shy away, placed my hand on her arm and squeezed gently.

"He knows where I am," she said. "What if he comes? Shit, I'm scared, I don't know what..."

"Do you have neighbours?" I asked. She nodded. "Then wake them up, and tell them  your situation. Don't be alone, if he comes. Make sure there are other people around you. Beyond that, I don't know. But you're not alone in all of this. There is help. There are people who have been where you are."

She gave me a slightly grateful smile and nodded. We parted ways.

On the long way back, I freaked out. I started recording the events, so I could write this down later, but it devolved into screaming. I was so furious. I hated him. I hated everyone like him. I hated the system that allowed and in its own way encouraged people like him to exist. I wanted to kill. I wanted to fucking cry.

Somewhere in the middle of my hysterical ranting, I became aware of the fact that he was the guy who called the cab. He knew she was out here. Far, far away from civilisation, and I had left her there.

Hero complex again, right?

I decided to do two things. One was, I sent a text to her mother, telling her she was safe. The second was to call the cops, tell the story, give them every scrap of information I had. It was all I could do, and it wasn't nearly enough. Useless and pointless. Because I'd not changed shit, I'd simply just moved it around.

Another abused woman, another blog about me bemoaning the patriarchy, and cursing my inadequacies, while signalling to the world what a virtuous, progressive bleeding heart I was. For the longest time, I didn't want to write this. Actively refused, because what's the point? I've told Ella's story so many times already. The same roles. The same conflict. The same script.

You see why I mostly wanted to forget all this, right?

But then I received the message you see at the top of the page. I responded and we passed a few messages back and forth, before deciding that we're going to talk tomorrow. She wants to know my side of what happened - she can't remember much of that night at all.


So this story had something akin to a happy ending. At the very least, it didn't end in impotent silence. And I do hope she'll get all the help she needs. Because I can't really do shit other than move her from one place to another. It's barely anything, but maybe this time it was enough.

_______________________

Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.

______________________

"And bring hither the fatted crab and kill it; and let us eat and be merry..."

"We're probably the worst passengers you've ever had."

"Well, as long as you don't try to kidnap me and force me to drive halfway across the country, I think we're good."

As you can tell, I survived my last adventure. Now it's summer again, and I'm back on the road, night after night. That wasn't my plan, however. 

I thought that when I had to bite the bullet and start cabbing while studying, I'd generate more material for the blog. But I made a mistake, and that mistake was that I started driving the day shift. In fact, I figured that since I've started working regularly, I wouldn't have to go hard and spend every summer night working my ass off. Oh how the mighty have fallen. 

Because here's the thing: I tried driving during the day for the first two weeks of June, but I kept having to deal with the nasty little fact that during the day, being a cabby is no fun at all. You have to get up at an ungodly hour to make any kind of profit, the fares are fare between, traffic is miserable and on top of it all, nothing fun ever happens during the day. Or at least, nothing weird. 

There's only so many variations of "I picked up this dude, we drove for a while, small talk about weather and city infrastructure" that you can write before you realize that your blog has become a log and of no joy to anyone except perhaps statisticians. 

So two weeks in to my attempt in working in such a way as was beneficial to my health, I realized I was on the verge of driving off a cliff in sheer boredom. With that, I called my boss and asked to take the night shift again. 

So, my days are spent in a zombiefied stupor, my body and brain are slowly deteriorating, entropy and chaos are slowly taking over my apartment, and I am enjoying the hell out of working. I hate how much I enjoy this job, and have to remind myself that the reason why I enjoy it is because I'm not stuck in it.  

So I'm back, and I have stories to tell. Most of the stuff I've experienced in the past few weeks have been dark: assault, robbery, toxic relationships, broken people living broken lives. Their stories will come. I've also driven a Viking skipper, a nationalist who was uncomfortably aware of his chosen party's Nazi origins, and  Tonight, I want to tell you something ridiculus. 

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A midnight snack

She was in her early forties. One of those people who were hot while young, beautiful in middle age, and would probably be handsome when elderly. Sharply dressed in a jacket and black skirt, with sensible and imperious shoes. She had a dog with her which she had failed to report in when calling the cab (as we know, its good form to inform dispatch about all and any pets you might be bringing along) . 

"Is it ok if she rides along? She's tiny, only six months old."

The pup was most certainly not tiny, and would probably be the size of a horse within a year.

"Let her ride on the floor, and it's all good." 

"Nice, thanks!"

So my passenger slipped into the seat next to me, and her huge puppy took a seat on the floor behind us. And credit where it's due: the dog stayed there through the entire trip. 

We were going from Linnaeus to Hookfield - a slightly above average fare. So I took the car south, figuring I'd take the road across Gold Heath (which is not a heath, but a gigantic goddamn hill) to avoid the traffic lights. As we were nearing the ramp leading up to Gold Heath my passenger decided she needed provisions.

"Is there anyway we can stop and get something to eat? I'm starving." 

I realized she was a bit drunk, though she hid it well. However, even light intoxication can lead to strange cravings in the middle of the night.

"Sure, there's a 7-11 on Ashmount street."

"You think its open?" 

"Probably."

"Won't it be really expensive?"

"Nope. This is Taxi M."

Satisfied, she agreed and we turned the car around. A few minutes later (spent talking slightly disjointedly about her adorable 'little' puppy), we found that the 7-11 was indeed closed. I suggested that if she was open,there was a street grill that was open all night nearby. As long as she didn't eat in the car, she could go get whatever she wanted.

"Sounds good," she said. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You sure? Not a coke? A burger? You're probably hungry. I can get you something."

"No thank you," I said, wondering idly if her comment about my hunger was a reference to my barely tolerable overweight. 

"Oh come on, you can't say no. I'm offering you here. Don't you want free food?"

"No, thank you, its fine."

"Come on, don't you want something ? French fries? Falafel? Anything you like, I'll buy it. I'm trying to be nice here."

"Look, I appreciate it, I do. But I'm good. Thank you." 

She kept it up. You'd be surprised at the amount of nagging that can be done in the span of three minutes. Each time I declined, each time a little bit more forceful."

We arrived at the grill.

"You'll turn off the meter, right?" she asked. 

"I won't, no."

"What?? But I'm offering you free food here!" she was aghast. A mortal insult to her dignity. 

"And I appreciate that, but my landlord prefers money to burgers."

"Fine, fine," she said. "But I'm leaving the dog with you. Mind you, she can get a little weird when she's alone."

And then she was out, and inside the grill. And there I was, once again, alone with a dog belonging to a potentially crazy person. The life of a cabby is truly a cyclical phenomenon. 

The dog didn't get weird. In fact, it was quite well behaved. It got a little whiny, but it accepted my hand and calming words. For a six month old puppy, it was quite chill. 

Seen here, chilling with a bear.

After a while, my passenger returned. She had a years ration of junk food with her. She got into the car, and placed her food on the floor between her feet. But there was another bag with her. "And this," she said, "is for you!"

She gave me a can of coke, and started digging out a box of fries. I was stunned.

"This really isn't necessary-" I began.

"What? But I bought you this food! Look, I'll just place it here-"

"Yes, I get that, but I said no, remember?"

"Oh nobody has to know," she said. "I'll just put it here, between the seats-"

she said, as if bribing a local politician.

"Look, this is very kind of you, but I don't..."

"Oh come on, just a few fries?" she said, bringing a handful to my mouth. I gently pushed her hand away, unsure if I should laugh or scream.

"Please, ma'am," I said. "You asked if I wanted food and I said no. I wish you'd respect that."

"Oh come on!" she looked around, suddenly conscious of something. "Is there surveillance in your car? Can they hear what's going on in here?"

I considered pressing the alarm button, just to make her fears come true.

"No-"

"Nobody has to know! Trust me, I'm a lawyer. It'll be fine, just between us!"

On and on and on, while the car made its way over Mount John, and down toward Hook Field. She really, really wanted me to accept the greasy treats she had gone through so much trouble to get. In my paranoid mind, I began to wonder if she was fattening me up for one of those cannibalistic orgies that potentially happen regularly in Hook Field. 

"Now you listen to me," she said in a very motherly tone. "My grandmother lived through the rationing during World War 2. She knew the value of food and would NEVER let it go to waste like you are."

We were nearing the destination, and I was caught between making money and throwing her out just so I could have a moment of quiet. Principles took a back seat; I just needed her to shut up, so I could get paid with minimum fuss. So I said:

"Well, for your grandmother's sake, I'll meet you half way."

"Yes?" she said, her eyes glowing with imminent victory.

"I'll take the food, and once I've dropped you off, I'll take a break and enjoy it."

"You promise?"

"I promise," I said, lying through my teeth (if my teeth had parted, she may have stuck a doggie bag between them). "Its time for a break anyway."

She wasn't convinced. She looked at me with narrow eyes. "Do you swear on my grandmother's grave?"

"I do," I said solemnly.

"You better," she said. "This is my grandmother we're talking about."

"I would never dream of disrespecting your grandmother," I solemnly intoned. 

"Pinkie-swear," she said, offering her finger. I hooked it, with a sense of dread. Then I took the bag from her and placed it on the compartment between the seats. We had arrived.

She paid, and said "Make sure you eat all of it."

"I will, thank you."

Satisfied she left. 

I drove a block, opened the window and threw the food to the night, wishing the rats and crows a pleasant meal. Free of my burden, I went back to work, where the rules of reality apply.

Of course, there are moments, just before sleep, when I get the sense of being watched, as if my doorway is darkened by a hunched figure,  wagging a long, bony finger at me in maternal disapproval.

There are children starving in Africa, 

you ungrateful boy...

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