Small dreams of a night cabbie

Sometimes, I'll wake up to myself at say, two in the morning. Here I am, I'll think, driving around a distant suburb in the dead of night, listening to some murder mystery audiobook, at least an hour to go, everybody else is fast asleep.

Why am I here?

And why do I like it so much?

Seems that there are two types of cabbies. The first sort, it's just a temporary job to them. Get a car, make some money, do something else in a while.

The money's the objective.

The second type, there's something more. A love of driving, maybe. A love of people, maybe.

For me, it's the satisfaction of finding holes to put the jigsaw pieces. That's what it is. I'm part of that most marvellous of human creations, the city. I'm a tiny part of the order and pattern. I'm solving the puzzle. I'm slotting the right bits in the right holes. There's a lot of satisfaction in this.

Sure, I also get paid money to do it, and I enjoy myself along the way. And I look forward to my next big trip, for which the money goes towards, when I'll see new bits of the world, meet new friends and have a totally marvellous time.

In any given shift I'll meet some fascinating people, have a cosy chat, help them with their groceries, get a smile out of them. That's one of the things that keeps me climbing back into the cab.

But I'll also get some drongoes. Maybe it's the gent with his nose in the air from one of the ritzier suburbs. His involvement with me is limited to telling me an address at the beginning of the trip, and signing the credit card slip at the other. In between he's yakking on his mobile phone.

Actually, he's not too bad. I concentrate on the driving and enjoy the music.

Maybe it's the drunks, who get tumbled into the passenger seat by a more sober companion. I'm given an address, and I drive them home, usually either putting up with a stream of drunken maunderings, or the gentle snores of someone I'll have to jolt awake on arrival.

Maybe it's the yobboes, long on ego, short on brains, who leave rubbish in the back seat, wind down the window to yell at women, offer me extra if I get the cab sideways.

I tell myself that the drongoes will be gone in a few minutes, and that even drongoes deserve to be taken home safely.

I drop them off, tuck away the money, and drive off down a dark, deserted suburban street, fingers flicking across to CD six, where I keep my audiobook.

And wonder who'll get into my cab next, and where we'll go together.