Chinese Box.

"I'm surprised you're saying this, miss. I am a stranger, after all."
"Whatever, its not as if we'll ever see each other again."

My city is not a big city.

Sure, its one of the biggest in the country, but with a population of a mere 9 million people, Sweden is (globally speaking)0, a nation of small towns.

Thus, I often find myself running into old friends, or friends of friends, or lovers of friends of friends. There is a passive game of Six Degrees of Separation running through the land.

With this in mind, I have a special treat tonight. It's not just a story; its two, rolled into one. The ghost of Geoffrey Chaucer is nodding in approval over my shoulder.

Tonight was the first night in a long time where working actually was fun. Being easter eve, a lot of people chose to comemorate the sacrifice of our lord and saviour by either working, or getting shitfaced, or working with shitfaced people. I was no exception. And people were cheerful and the fares were plenty.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I got a fare out in Hill Bay. Hill Bay lies south of Isthmus, and like its neighbour, its an area outside of town where only the very rich live. So I headed out there, and had to navigate a private road filled with drunken brats (rich teenagers, if you remember). Once I arrived at the place, I was accosted by a gaggle of these wealthy healthy kids, until one of them managed to break through the crowd and identify himself as my fare. So he, and three of his friends hopped into the cab and off we were.

"Got any music?"
"Is a fixed rate ok?"
"Gawwwd i'm sooooo wasted"
"Whoooooooooop"

The subject of the car stereo is worth its own entry. I'll get to that some other night. But suffice it to say, in order to keep the peace, I allowed them to connect a phone to my fm-transmitter. The music was your typical brat fare: douche-rap and House. I tuned it out and kept up a light banter with the kid next to me.

"So what kind of music do you listen to, if you don't like House?"
"Oh there's a bunch... I tend to switch it out every month."
"Oh, you like real music."
"I like music."
"Do you like Motörhead?"
I smiled.
"Sure. I actually have a story about them."
The kid grinned. "Let's hear it."

The story of how I didn't drive one of Sweden's Greatest Rock Legends, as told to Rich Kid from Hill Bay.

Last autumn I received a fare from a place called Brewhouse. Brewhouse had during the summer been the site of a very popular club. Since high season was over, I was surprised but not concerned. Fare is a fare is a fare.

So I arrived and waited for my customers. After a while, a group of people arrived. One guy, two women, and a person I can only describe as a transvestite who'd stopped caring about his looks. This fellow was huge, wearing skin-tight leather pants and a matching jacket. On his head was what can only be described as an electrocuted poodle. He basically looked like Jared, king of the Goblins. My smuggysense was tingling.

So, the Goblin king climbed into the backseat, and sat in the middle with his legs spread wide. He was wearing a shit-eating grin a mile wide. The others filed into the remaining seats.

"So!" he said. "We wanna go to the Avenue."
"I'd be happy to take you," I said. "Would the lady behind me and the gentleman in the middle please put on your safety belts?"

Before I continue, let me give some context. I am not a stickler for safety. I believe that it is every persons right to make their own mistakes. Thus, if someone wants to ride unbuckled in a car, risking their lives and the fury of the police, that's their business. However, this liberty only extends as far as yourself. The moment your lack of self-preservation threatens my safety, I will demand that you do something about it. Backseat passengers are not only endangering themselves, but they also endanger the people sitting in front of them. To put it succinctly: If any of my passengers are hurt during my work, I will feel very bad. But I prefer feeling back with my spine intact.

The Goblin king just stared at me. "You're kidding."
"I am not. If there is an accident, I don't want you flying through the car and breaking my shoulder. Please put on your belt." At this point, I noticed that he had brought an open beer into the car.
"Also, i'm going to have to ask you to leave that outside."

"What the fuck for? It's not as if I'm planning on dropping it."

"Nobody ever does, sir. But if I have to brake suddenly and you drop it, that's 30 minutes of income I lose cleaning up the mess. Do me this favour sir, and I'd be very grateful."

"And what if I don't?"

"Then, sir, I will not drive until you do."

"To hell with this! Let's get a different cab."

"Very good, sir."

The Goblin king and his entourage left the cab. I wrote off the fare and contacted HQ so that they too would write it off.

Suddenly a man appeared at my window. Big fellow. Rough and rugged.

"Is there a problem?"

"Not at all. We have a few rules. One of them is the safety of the driver, the other is that no food or drink may be consumed in the car."

"Why not?"

"Because we want to minimize the amount of time we have to spend cleaning the cab."

"What if we gave you 500 sek if he spills anything? Wouldn't that cover your lost time?"

"Sir, nevermind that you're bribing me, the thing is; you could give me a thousand and I'd still refuse. Its not a matter of money, its a matter of me not wanting a cab that smells like a bar."

Rough and Rugged looked at me and leaned in, with a conspiratorial air.

"Do you know who that is?"

Rod Stewarts evil twin? "I can't say I do, sir."

"This country has two great rock legends. One is Yngwie Malmsteen, the other is Mikkey Dee. That's Mikkey Dee. So maybe you can make an exception, huh?"

"Well," I said. "That sure puts things in perspective. Tell Mr Dee that I'd be happy to drive him, once he's finished his beer."

R&R was about to say something more, when Mikkey Dee came storming over, screaming:

"This is bullshit! I've been riding with your company for years! I know your boss! I'm fucking calling him tomorrow."

"Give him my regards, sir. Have a good evening."

I rolled up the window and left.

Thus the story of how I did not drive Mikkey Dee ended. And immediately I realized something. The guys behind me were laughing. The kid next to me was silent. More than silent, he was mortified.

"Dude..." he said. "Mikkey Dee is my dad."


The sun's coming up and I'm sitting here feeling a bit like an asshole. No teenager likes to hear embarrassing stories about their dads. No teenager likes to hear embarrassing stories about their dads while their friends are listening. And no teenager should ever be subjected to having their dad be mistaken of a transvestite who stopped caring about his looks.

It turned out well, however. He was a good sport about it. I get the feeling this wasn't the first time he'd heard a story like that. And who knows, maybe if Mr Dee hears it from his kids, he'll change his ways and we can meet again, this time as equals.

And if any of them ever reads this (and resists the temptation to sue me for defamation), let me give one final piece of advice: if you're so high and mighty that you need no longer respect the workplace of your fellow man, call a limo. Because if you decide to stoop to the level of commoners and call a low-price cab, then by God you better play by the same rules as the other peasants.

Too sexy for this cab.

"So... Ever gotten it on with any of your customers?"
"Mister, I work on comission. Every minute I spend getting it on with a customer is a minute I'm not getting paid."

As far as the local populace is concerned, there are two kinds of cabbies in this world:
Those who successfully get into the pants of their customers and those who try to get into yours. I belong to a third cathegory that is rarely considered: Those who are too oblivious or too busy to do either.

There's an irony in having a sedentary job. You spend all your time sitting on your ass, all the while becoming way too exhausted to exercise once you go home. Its a vicious cycle that leaves most of us, be we slaves of the cubicle or steering wheel, with a round belly, a flat ass, and bruises around our eyes. I am no exception to this. My advice to you, dear reader, is this: if you want to become a drunken reveler's spur-of-the-moment-one-night-stand, keep yourself in shape. This will raise your chances.

As far as I am concerned, the only thing less sexy than screwing in a cab is screwing in a nuclear reactor. Not all my colleagues agree, of course. Some of them even got a relationship out of it. One of my colleagues even had the brilliant idea of letting the meter run during the act, and supposedly got paid after. I applaud his ingenuity and look down on his complete lack of shame.

As for my own experiences, I've been propositioned more times than I know. Literally. The exchange usually follows this model:

Trip starts:
F: So, how long are you working tonight?
Me: Oh you know... a couple of hours more, depending on how busy it gets
<insert smalltalk/intense discussion as the trip continues>
Trip ends. Fare pays. Sits a moment looking at me.
F: When do you get off?
Me: (somewhat confused) In an hour or two... What, will you be needing a ride?
F: (stares at me for a moment in surprise).... No... no nothing. Have a nice evening.
Me: You too.
Five minutes later realisation hits.
Me: GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!

This has happened too many times. And while the above representation might suggest that it causes me dismay, it doesn't really. My annoyance comes from being slow on the uptake, rather than a missed opportunity. When I'm behind the wheel, the last thing on my mind is sex. If I got paid by the hour, I might consider it. But no. If the choice comes between paying my bills and getting my rocks off, I choose the bills.

Now, while I might find a cab to be less-than-optimal for getting down to business, that doesn't mean my customers agree. In fact, judging from the stuff that goes on the back seat, you'd think a cab is the sexiest place on earth. I usually let it slide. I turn up the music, dim the rearview and let nature take its course. most people have the decency to keep their clothes on while in the cab, resorting to foreplay. Most people.

A colleague (who shares my policy) of mine picked up a pair of young lovers. They were both very drunk and they were verymuch all over each other. At times during the trip, things got so intense, sloppy and heavy that he might as well have been driving a couple of incestous conjoined twins. Still, so far things weren't all that bad. Up went the music, down went the rearview.

But then something changed. The air grew thicker, you might say. Thick with moans and gasps, and the unmistakable stink of "unwashed cock" (his words).  Like Orpheus in the underworld, my colleague couldn't resist a glance behind him (in the mirror), and saw the male with his head thrown back in sloppy, savage ecstasy (since I have trouble assigning any humanity to drunken fares, I usually imagine the guy drooling and grunting). His girl was nowhere to be seen. But he could hear her. Or rather, he heard a sloppy gulping.

Putting two and two together, my collague was at an impasse. This was a long trip, which meant good money. Telling them to get a room (or throwing them out) might result in him not getting paid. But on the other hand, no fare was worth having to wipe somebodys happiness off the seat. And in a moment of clarity, it came to him. A way to put a stop to the debauchery, and still get paid.

Without hesitating, he bellowed: "HOLY FUCK!"
The car swerved back and forth, and then he hit the breaks. His customers threw themselves against their seats, grabbing onto anything that would save them from what undoubtedly would be a very messy end to their date.

"What the hell are you doing!" the guy screamed.
"Yeah, what-" said the girl, now sitting straight in her seat.
"Did you see it???"
"See what?!"
"The deer! It ran straight accross us! I barely missed it!"

A silence fell over the cab. Then my colleague got the car rolling again. During the rest of the trip, there was not a peep from his customers (aside from the sound of a closing zipper), and each kept to their side of the car. When they arrived, he was paid, and given a hefty tip for "being so quick with the brakes".

In the end, he wiped down the seats anyway, and kept his windows open until the scent of booze, sex and terror had subsided.

I'm a mothafuckin C-A-B-BIE

"By the way, do you know where we can find girls?"
"Girls?"
"Yes. The kind you can buy."
"... yeeeeah..."
"Oh really? Whe- Hey! Hey, don't close the window!"

It's been a while. Things have been kinda crazy around here. I've only worked as much as I've had to in order to scrape by. Cabbing has been the last thing on my mind.

But now I'm back, and tonight, we're going to talk about man and woman, man to man.

Surprisingly often I encounter people, usually middle aged men of means, who will ask me for a ride, and in the second breath ask me to point out the local red-light district. I won't delve too deeply into these experiences, but here's a list of quotes:

"Nah, I don't do street walkers. They stand all night out in the cold. I want to know where I can find warm girls."

"Could you stop at the red light district? I promised my clients a good time."

"The way I see it, it's win-win. She gets money, I get my dick sucked."

And so on. And so forth. To eternity and back. One long row of johns, all hoping that the nice cabby will be so kind to show them where they can stick it. It's fucking loathsome.

As some of you may have gathered, I am not against prostitution itself. The way I see it, if two people mutually agree to exchange money for sex, that is their business. And in an ideal world, that kind of professionalism would render many of the moral questions about sex-work moot. However, we do not live in an ideal world.

Society has a very weird view when it comes to sex workers. Its a weird mish-mash of different perspectives, all thrown together and blended into a freakish whole.

On the one hand, a prostitute is someone to be pitied. You are, because of desperate circumstances, pushed into a profession where you are rendered to nothing more than an animate sex-toy. You're not just selling a sexual service, you're not just selling your body, you're selling your integrity and dignity. You are a victim.

On the other hand, a prostitute is large an in charge. You love sex, you love money, and you've found the perfect way to combine the two. Getting paid to provide somebody's orgasm is not only just another job for you, it is even a source of amusement, even empowerment, since you get to see your clients at their most vulnerable (if you doubt any of this, dear reader, kindly refer to such stories as Game of Thrones, Copper, Fanny Hill, Pretty Woman, etc etc). You are a hero.

On the final hand, a prostitute is something vile. You degrade yourself by selling your body. You are hooked on drugs, or you failed at life in some other way. The only way you can survive is to get naked with someone and submit to the most disgusting things. You are disease-ridden, uneducated, foolish, disgusting. You are desperate for someone to fuck you, because that will allow you to survive. You are trash, a blight on civilisation. You are sub-human.

Bear in mind, I'm not talking about different people with different point of views. I believe that the prevailing view is a mix of all of this. That people who are not particularly engaged in the subject have a point of view that borrows from all three perspectives, and each perspective has different weight depending on that person's background, experience, or current situation.

So, what does this have to do with my line of work?

Well, because I get to see up close how people either pity, idolize or dehumanize prostitutes. I've done it myself. And I can't speak for the prostitutes themselves. I'm sure there are some who have chosen the profession and do not suffer from it, but I do believe they are a minority. I've driven a couple of them, and my collective experience is that those who blatantly are prostitutes also tend to be silent, withdrawn, even cold at times. They do not strike me as happy people.

But far more often than dealing with prostitutes, I deal with their clients. People ask me where they can find girls. People talk in the back-seat about their experiences with them, and how its all so lovely because they get to fuck, and the girls/boys get paid. Both sicken me to no end.

Like always, however, there is a story. And I have driven johns, I have turned away johns. I've argued against sexist bastards. But none hold a candle to the guy I'm about to tell you. And what sickens me the most was that I was a party to his assholishness.

Taxi M has a VIP list. People who have a special deal with the company. They are given a card, and a special number to call. The perk is that they have an easier time getting a car (in theory, but that's another story), and they always ride cheap. And so there's this one guy. Mickey. I've mentioned him before. Now, Mickey is one of our long-time VIP customers. Mickey is short, but big. A man who measures his value in muscle mass and expects other people to do so too. He is a douchebag who will always ask you to turn off the meter, so that he can pay you illegally, netting the cabbie a nice tip and allowing him to get off more cheaply. I've never cared for him. And these days, he is one of few people I actively wish a painful disease on.

It was late, as always, and I got a fare from Whitefield Street, going on to Kings Gate Avenue (the main drag of this city). Turns out it was Mickey. Fine by me. A short ride, and I could do it on autopilot. Nothing I couldn't handle. So I pick him up together with some blonde airhead (and the only reason I call her that is because of what came out of her mouth during the trip, which wasn't of much value to anyone), and we roll.

Now, Whitefield street is in an older neighbourhood, and its kinda high end. But right next to that neighbourhood is Rose Grove, the local red light district. So we drive, while Mickey and Bimbo chat. Or rather, she says astoundingly superficial things and he sniggers (at her, or with her, I do not know). Then we pass through Rose Grove and Mickey gets excited.

"Hah! There go the hookers!"
"What? Seriously???" Bimbo exclaims. "No way!"
"Seriously."
At this point I chime in, vaguely sarcastically: "Believe it or not, Rose Grove is the red light district..."
Bimbo: "I didn't see any hookers!"
By now, we had crossed the bridge and were driving up Explosion Hill.
"If you want," I said in a disgusted tone, "I could always turn around so you could have a better look at them."
"Seriously???" Bimbo says.
"Oh man," says Mickey. "do it! Do it now!"

And here is where I did something I still don't know how to justify. Maybe because I was on autopilot. Maybe I wasn't thinking. Maybe I didn't feel like entering a conflict. I don't know. But I turned the car around and drove back to Rose Grove.

And that's where I started hating myself. Mickey and Bimbo were howling with laughter. Pointing and exclaiming how disgusting the prostitutes were, calling them names.

"Are we done here?" I asked.
"Yeah, take us to the avenue."

We drove.
"I don't understand how anybody would ever sell themselves lke that!" Bimbo cried out.
"You'd never do it?" Mickey said.
"Never! Well..." she fell quiet. "Maybe for 100 000 sek. Hey cabbie!"
I didn't respond.
"Hey cabbie! How much would you pay to fuck me?"
"Are you seriously asking me that?"
"It doesn't matter, you'll never see me again. Would you pay 100 000 if it meant you could fuck me?"
"Lady, I'm in the low-income bracket. Lower your price to 50 and we can talk."

They kept laughing all the way. And I felt sicker by the minute.

To this day, I don't know why I did as he said. I don't know why I didn't throw them out. I don't know why I didn't call them out on their bullshit. And I really don't know why I joined them in their bantering, even if I did it in a mean spirit.

Had they asked me to stop so they could pick up one of the girls, and pay her for sex, I would've had a lot more respect for them. At least then, they would've treated them with, if not dignity, then atleast acknowledgment. But here where these two successful, egocentric fuckheads who used the misfortune of others to assure themselves of their own superiority.

To this day, I refuse to drive Mickey. If he comes up on my screen, I always call out on the radio to ask if someone wants to drive him instead. The boss doesn't like this, but fuck that noise.  Sure I didn't hurt anyone, but I not only allowed two fuckstains to gloat at other people's misery, I also helped them do it. I can't ever undo what I did, but I can do better next time.

The day any of my colleagues doesn't take Mickey from me, I will let him enter my car. I will then tell him exactly what I think of him.

If he still wants me to drive him, I'll drive him.

If he doesn't, then that isn't my problem.