Recharging

Colour me idle. I’ve got a week off before a two month holiday.

Colour me busy. I’ve got a million things to do before I go, and a host of long-delayed projects to do while I’m away.

I had my final shift on Saturday night. With my day driver away for the weekend, this was a rare chance for me to put in a long shift from midafternoon on Saturday to dawn on Sunday. Fifteen or sixteen hours instead of ten or twelve. Usually I finish early on Friday and Saturday nights so that my day driver can grab a slice of the action (and to tell the truth, I don’t mind letting him have the predawn series of increasingly ratty drunks), but there’s no denying it is a money maker. Easy money. The nightclubbers line up, with very little alternative to getting home than by taxi, and we cabbies race in to grab as many fares as possible before the supply dries up.

I was going for the record. The thousand dollar shift. Given a good afternoon and evening, and a steady run at the drunks, it’s possible. Experienced cabbies talk about it. The closest I’ve ever come is $850, but you never know...

It’s a glorious day. Late summer, temperature in the mid twenties, a clear blue sky and a gentle breeze. I really don’t mind if anyone pays me; it’s a joy to be out and about on an afternoon like this. I buy a muggaccino from Artoven and sip it on the Manuka rank, the happiest cabbie in the world.

Saturday arvo can be busy, with wedding parties and tourists. Happy people, both sorts. In fact I really love driving wedding guests around. They are dressed up, men handsome in fine suits and ladies looking a million dollars. I generally keep my eyes front while the women slide into the back seat, and give them a welcome once they are safely settled. Something about weddings that makes people happy – optimism, the chance to meet friends and relatives, a free dinner...

Anyway, they are a delight to have in the cab, and with a bit of jazz playing and some smiling comments from the cabbie, there’s often a cheerful tip at the end of it. I check the back seat for forgotten cameras and handbags and I’m off again.

Tourists taking in the last sights of Canberra before heading off. I’ll often pull up at the National Gallery and there will be a couple with bags, asking me for a quick trip to the airport. A chance for me to discuss the collection and to mention that when I’m travelling, I always check out the galleries. People are happy on holidays, and I’m ever talkative when travel is concerned.

I pick up a security guard at the Old Bus Depot Markets. There’s a big Greek wedding going on, half a million dollars to hire the site, bring in three bands, a fleet of Mercs et cetera et cetera. I rush him home to Isaacs to change into a suit for the evening and we chat away there and back. He’s just had a year in Fiji, training up local security. An unhappy island nation, once riding high on tourism and sugar cane, now beset by political warfare and racial tension.

It’s a reasonably busy evening. I pull out half an hour for a kebab in town and back into it. Dash into Abels just before it closes for a Kurt Elling CD, and a Chet Baker DVD. Kurt the shop owner doesn’t recommend, but I buy the CD anyway. A few minutes browsing through tracks, and I realise that it’s twenty bucks down the drain. Not all of my passengers’ recommendations turn out trumps, but often enough they do that I don’t ignore them. Chet will have to wait until I can load him up on my notebook and transfer him via iTunes.

It was a busy evening and a busy morning. A couple of silver service jobs. I resisted checking my shift total on the meter, but I was doing well. About two in the morning I was getting close to microsleeping. Lots of work available, but if I’m fatigued, there’s no point in driving, and I need to recharge my batteries. I find a sports oval in Weston Creek somewhere, and pull up in the carpark away from streetlights. I’m out of it for a good half hour, and though I wish I couyld keep sleeping on when I wake, I’m good to go. Cranking the seat back is good enough to sleep when I’m dog-tired, but not quite comfortable for long periods.

There’s a call to the Irish Club and I ignore it. There are certain places I will not pick up from after certain hours, which is one reason I don’t work the Manuka rank after midnight when it can get quite violent. There are certainly nice people at the Irish Club, but I’ve been stuffed around there too many times to be happy about picking up there when it’s late.
I also ignore a call from a detox clinic at a homeless centre for a long trip to Queanbeyan. I can’t think of too many cabbies who would touch that one. Not at four in the morning. By that stage I was hunting up timed bookings, which usually means airport jobs. Much nicer (and safer) to pick up people who have just showered, have a purse full of money and are unlikely to leave used pizza on my leather seats.

I went on until about seven, listening to Macca on the radio, and when work got scarce, I gassed up the car, ran it through the carwash, vacuumed out the interior and headed for home. Sixteen hours in the car. I copied down the shift total. Not a thousand dollars, but not far short of my record, either.

I’m taking the week off to get my affairs in order before I go, and then it’s two months of leisure and pleasure ahead.

Much as I love driving, it’s high time I got my batteries recharged.