Ad nauseam.

"Don't worry, I never throw up when I'm drunk."
"Nobody ever does until they do."

One of the occupational hazards I have to take into consideration when I ply my trade is the human body and its fluids. While most people have the decency to keep their precious bodily fluids on the inside of their bodies, every once in a while things get messy.

Jared Diamond suggests that the human habit of consuming things that are obviously toxic has an evolutionary benefit. He compares it to the peacock, whose spectacular tail is its way of telling the world that its so badass that it can have such an idiotic and ungainly thing and still survive.

 "You do not fuck with me... unless you intend to fuck me, in which case, you're welcome."

By this logic, the attitude and headaches I suffer in my line of work are all part of an elaborate mating ritual. And when somebody's insides finally have had enough and spill out all over my workplace, I should tremble in awe at the culmination of such an intricate, strange dance which began millions of years ago.

I would, but I don't. I'm as transcendental as the next guy, but the moment the cosmic ballet fucks up something specific in my life, it can go hang. Because if you vomit in a cab, the cab has to be sanitized, effectively taking it out of comission for the night. Thus, by vomiting in a cab you can and will cost the cabby his entire shift. Throwing up in a cab is not causing a minor inconvenience; it will really fuck up someone's life.

Now, I am one of the lucky ones. Nobody has ever thrown up in my cab. They've thrown up down the side of it, I've stopped so they can throw up outsíde, and I've offered water and mints to more embarrassed party people than I can count. But so far, I've never had the displeasure of someone actually throwing up inside-

Ok, that's a lie. There was this one time. But thinking about it makes me feel like throwing up.

However, it can't all be glamour and righteous fury. Let's get this over with.

A few months ago, I was given a fare from Galileo Street to Catchfly Street; a good, long trip worth at least 270. So I arrived and waited. Then I saw them;
a man and a woman, looking ragged and worn, carrying shopping bags full of stuff. The wheels of paranoia started turning in my head and I remembered what my colleague Bert had told me a while back; about a couple of junkies, male and female, carrying lots of shit in paper bags, whom he had driven to Galileo street. They had then run off without paying.

I called him.
"Bert, you remember those junkies you told me about? The ones on Galileo street who didn't pay their fare?"
"Yeah, what of them?"
I looked at the screen, at the name that had been given. "What were their names?"
"... why?"
By now, they were nearby and coming closer.
"I might be driving them right now."
"What, are they in the car?"
"No, they-" the woman knocked on the window. "Fuck it, I'll call you back."

I hung up and turned to them and made a decision. If they ran off without paying, I'd write off the trip and not be pissed off about it. More out of preserving my own sanity, than out of any charitable feelings. I let them into the cab and off we went.

They didn't seem to have much to say to me, and I didn't have much to say to them. But the man seemed to have a problem with his lungs; he was coughing. A lot.
Deliberately.
And there was a distinct, splashing sound following every third cough or so.
A cold, indignant fury came over me, and very softly I said:
"What in the name of hell do you think you're doing? Are you throwing up in my cab?"

"It's cool, man," said the woman. "He's got a bag."

A bag.
A fucking bag.

I didn't say anything. I just very quietly, and very methodically pulled over at a gas station. Then I said:

"This is where you get off."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Get out and throw up in someone else's cab."

"But I have a bag!"

"It would've been so easy for you to give me a heads up when the trip started. That would be the polite thing to do. Instead you sit there, throw up, and try to justify yourself by saying that you came prepared-"

"But I'm sick!, you asshole!"

"Damn straight you are -"

"Will you shut up?" said the woman. "He's got cancer."

"Did you just tell-" I froze. "Wait, what?"

"Yes! The chemo makes me throw up."

There was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. And in that moment, things started to add up. These people did not smell. Junkies and boozehounds tend to have a scent about them; a constant miasma hovering about marking their presence. What's more, these people looked tired, worn, and furious, but they did not have that look of ruination that's typical for someone stuck in substance abuse. And finally, and most damingly, despite sloshing contents of the bag and the foul dribble on the man's chin, there was not even a hint of vomit in the air. Completely odourless. Like the vomit of someone who hasn't eaten. Like the vomit of a chemo-patient.

All my cold rage and righteous indignation drained away, leaving a stagnant pool of shame. I turned off the meter.

"... I am so very sorry."

They were surprisingly understanding about the whole episode. I took the bag and threw it away. Then I went into the gas-station and got a new bag, which I lined with yet another one, which I presented to him. He accepted it and my apology graciously.

At the end of the trip, when they paid me, I tried telling them that the ride was for free, that it was the least I could do for their trouble. The man wouldn't have it. So I accepted his money, and watched him and his lady friend disappear into the night.

Despite the bag, there was a puddle of clear, odourless slime on the floor in the back. I cleaned this up without so much as a groan of displeasure.

Papers of leave.

This is just to inform you guys that it is now official: I have been accepted in the teaching programme at local University. Starting this autumn, I will be studying full-time.

Do not fret, however. Until I'm done, I will still need money. And in order to get that money, I will have to keep on cabbin'. 

But yeah. The light at the end of the tunnel is now officially visible.

Give me your answer, do!

"Some people are idiots. This is an inescapable fact of life. Accept this, and move on."

The past few days have been miserable. Not because of work (in fact, I had the weekend off), but because of the weather. Its been hot, humid and horrible. When the sun isn't baking the world, the sky erupts in lightning storms so fierce, it is clear that God is sick of humanity, but unsure of what to do about it.

Conversely, work has been good. Summer is always good. In a country that spends nine months out of the year in gloom and darkness, every moment of sunshine is precious. And so, during summer, people crawl out of their holes. It also helps that people tend to take their vacations during this time. And we all know what happens to Johnny Swede when he has a day off, don't we?

That's right, he gets drunk. And in order to get drunk, he needs a bar. And in order to get to the bar, he needs transportation. And that's where I come in. I bring them, the bartender fills them, and I take them away. And with the drunks returned to their homes, the circle of life is complete. Summer is lucrative and really the only time of year driving a cab is worth anything.


"All right, Crabby", I hear you groan. "We get it. You make money off drunken party people. What else is new?"

There will be no insights tonight. No musings. Just a story.

The shift had been good. I usually don't work on tuesdays, but this week (and the next few to come) I've resolved to milk July for all its worth. I started late, yet somehow managed to keep an excellent pace, pulling in an average of 500 sek / hour. Aside from an incident with a female passenger who was so drunk she couldnt do anything but lay in the back seat crying hysterically (thank GOD for her boyfriend who carried her out, saving my spine in the process), things had been cool, fun even.

And the end of the shift was approaching rapidly. I was down on Frigga Street to pick up some fellow who was going to Gold Heath. I was a few minutes early, so I settled into my seat and resolved to make the minutes pass in any way I could.

Suddenly, in the gloomy distance, I saw a bike; one of those big, three wheeled contraptions used by newspaper delivery men. Nothing too strange. After all, drunks and cabbies aside, the paperboys (and girls... paper people?) are a common sight in the small hours. But something was not right about the people riding the bike. First and foremost, it was people riding the bike, not a person.

A quick note about the paper people (Yes, it's a term now): These are not kids biking through the neighbourhood, throwing papers at people's doors. They are men and women who will drag their sorry carcasses through snow, wind, slush and brimstone, climb a million stairs to make sure that each household, each apartment gets their magazines. They are also paid peanuts.

Thus, the people you find doing that job is the same you'll find at any bottom rung: the fuckups, the inexperienced, the racially discriminated, all the unseen losers that keep the wheels of society greased and turning.

So. Back to the story.

Riding the bike was a girl and a boy. A regular Daisy, looking sweet upon a seat on a bicycle built for one, while her boyfriend rode on the carrier behind her. This was my first bell.
 None were wearing any kind of uniform. Second bell.
The guy was your typical wealthy, healthy brat prince of the world; coasting along on his parent's money (and his girlfriend's pedalling), while wearing Ralph Lauren and sunglasses. At night. Because he was a fucking douche.

A story quickly took form in my head: these two brats had gotten drunk, found a bike and decided to have fun. I rolled down the window:

"Hey, is that bike yours?"
"Yeah!" Sundouche replied, as they whizzed by.
I threw the cab in reverse, followed them.
"You guys paper people?"
"Sure!"

At this point I had to stop, or I'd hit a tree. So I stopped and mulled this over. I could dash after them, which would lead to righteous conflict, but I'd probably lose my fare. Or I could do my job and hope Karma would take care of Daisy and Douche for me.

Well, suddenly the choice was made for me. Running, wearing a uniform, was a young african fellow. As he passed me by, I shouted out: "Hey!"

He stopped, and was about to run again.
"HEY!"
"Look mister," he said. "I can't stop. My-"
"Is that your bike those people took?"
"Yes!"
"Then get in the fucking car!"

He hopped in, and I made a sharp U-turn. We caught up with Douche and Daisy at Odin Plaza. I pulled up and the paper man dashed out of the car. He caught up with them and stopped them, physically. I left the cab, not really thinking. I followed Paper Man who was trying to wrest the bike from Douche. When Daisy saw me, she made like a tree. Douche remained.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Whaddaya mean, bro?"
"This man is trying to do his job. Its shitty, backbreaking work and he doesn't need some worthless twerp making his job harder by taking his bike."
"How was I supposed to know it was his bike?"
"Are you really this stupid?"
"Are you?"

Charming fellow, no?

"I don't know what the big deal is," he continued. "Lots of bikes get stolen all the time..."
"Lot's of people are assaulted all the time," I snarled. "But does that give me the right to smash your teeth in?"
"Sure," he said with a grin. It wasn't even a challenge, he was just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. I was reminded of the golden rule of arguing with drunks: "Whoever wins, you lose".

He turned to Paper Man: "Look, we didn't mean to steal your bike-"
I exploded: "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! Not one more word from you, you disrespectful piece of shit. Do you think he's so stupid, that he will accept your half-assed, and retarded excuses? If you have any fucking decency at all, you leave right now."

And he did. He looked back once, and I spat in his direction. The fact that he didn't give me the finger either shows that he had some kind of remorse, or that I had managed to scare him somewhat. I dunno.

Paper Man was very happy.  We shook hands, wished each other well and went our separate ways.

 Looking at it, I can say this: this wasn't about me wanting to be a hero, or wanting to stand up for the little man. There are elements of both, but really, at bottom, it is because I can't stand bullies. I cannot stand those who would find joy at the expense of others. Those who need to spit on others in order to assert their own worth. And I am well aware of the irony that I find these people to be without worth or value, except perhaps as fertilizer.

So I could count all kinds of noble reasons for doing what I did, and none of them would be wrong. I do believe in doing the right thing. I do believe in acting when possible. But there's also another motivation, which is just as strong and that is this: the satisfaction of taking another douchebag down a few pegs.

Not exactly noble, but it gets the job done.

And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding than a dream...

"Working on midsummers eve must suck."
"Nah, it's fine. People are happy and I'm making money. In fact, it might be a little too fine."
"How so?"
"Well, usually when things look this good, something bad is waiting to happen."

Last night was Midsummer's Eve. It is a significant date in Swedish culture, as it is the brightest day of the year, which in a country with nine months of winter darkness means a lot. It is also a time for dignified and solemn celebration.

Me, I've not celebrated it in years. Midsummer is one of our Big Holidays, and thus I drive using the Big Holiday Tariff, which means Big Money (or as big as this job allows, which isn't huge). It's a fine time to work: lots of people leave the city and travel to the coastal resorts to celebrate, and the indies follow them, leaving us decent cabbies with little to no competition. The fares tend to be long, going from the city to the countryside, and back again.

Of course, Midsummer, like all holidays in this country, is a time of excessive drinking. And so, it is also a time of excessive idiocy. I steeled myself, started my engine, and rolled off into the night.

To my great surprise, things were very calm. A steady stream of fares and cash flowed into my cab. At the start of the evening, I drove two hungarian tourist girls to a party out in Black Valley. By chance, I ended up picking them up again a few hours later, though this time they weren't talkative, what with having their  tongues solidly lodged in each other's throats. I also drove an old lady who had "decided to go all out, and party until half past midnight".  Things were looking good. People were happy and pleasant, and I was having fun too.

But what comes up must inevitably come down- hard.

And so it was that I picked up Wendy (a VIP customer) and her friend Pete.

How do I describe these two? They were like two characters straight out of a Tom Waits song. Middle aged, haggard, and wobbly, the remains of their prime clinging to them in booze-soaked tatters. Pete was dressed in stained jeans, with a doughy belly spilling out accross the top of them. A sad grey ponytail clung to the edge of his rapidly balding head. Wendy was razor thin, with a deeply lined face, and a rasp that spoke of endless cigarettes and whiskey.

"Take us to Erikshome first, and then Landwood," said Wendy and showed me her VIP-card. I nodded (already counting the excessive cash that would soon be mine) and off we went.

They didn't have a lot to say to me, but plenty to say to each other. Pete was expressing his feelings for Wendy, that she had "left a mark in [his] heart". Wendy kept saying that she wasn't interested, and he started demanding that she tell him why.

I could give you a transcript of the conversation, but really, I'm sure you've all heard it. And if you haven't heard it, you've probably said it and should be ashamed of yourselves.

But what he came back to again and again was: "I can't help what I feel! [so how dare you reject me since you made me feel this way?]. Alll the while, I was chewing my mustache in an ever-growing fury.

Is there anything more pathetic than a guy who is so fucking entitled that he is comfortable demanding that a woman takes responsibility for his feelings? Is there anything more loathsome? Probably, but not at that moment. Finally, I snapped.

"Pete," I said. "Is that your name? Pete?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing. "What, am I wanted dead or alive?" (I don't even...)

"Pete, if you want me to drive you even a meter further, then for the love of God show some fucking respect and accept that she does not want you. This is my workplace, and if I'm to do my job, I refuse to listen to your sad bullshit."

He was dumbfounded. He blubbered something, but didn't seem sure of what to do. And you'd think I'd won there, but the trip was far from over. And as we drove, I could hear him muttering, talking about how "you learn your lessons" and other such vaguely threatening stuff. While Wendy was laughing and trying to distract him. Me, I began wondering if I'd not made a mistake. As much as I like standing up for the principles, I'm no fan of getting my ass kicked. So I prepared my phone with the emergency number and let my hand hover closer to the alarm button.

As we approached Wendy's destination in Erikshome, she said:
"After this, you're gonna take Pete to Landwood."
"No fucking way I'm riding with this cabby," Pete snarled.
"That is not a problem, sir," I said. "I wasn't intending to drive you anyway."

And this is where Wendy lost her patience. And by losing her patience, she flipped her lid and started telling me that I should shut the fuck up and just drive that cab and stay out of other people's business.

In a way, I see her point. She didn't ask for my help, nor was it my duty to defend her. So yes, from that perspective, she was completely correct. But there's another perspective, and that perspective is this:

The cab is my place of work. It is my office. It is where I spend time and energy in order to support myself. The moment you drag your personal bullshit into my place of work, you make it my business. I can't ignore you. There is no divider between us. And if you're acting like an entitled, pathetic dick, I see absolutely no reason why I shouldn't put a stop to it, for the sake of my own sanity.

So take this to heart, dear reader: it is NEVER the cabbie's duty to "just shut up and drive". We offer you a service and a certain amount of discretion. In return, we ask for payment and some discretion on your part. If you cannot keep the deal, then all bets are off.

With that, I threw both of them out.

The night ended well, however. Immediately after this kerfuffle, I received a fare way outside of town. In an hour, I made back three times what I lost on Wendy and Pete.

I will return to the subject of male entitlement and sexism. THere's a veritable goldmine of that stuff. Until then, I wish you a happy, if belated, midsummer.

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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.