Call me Brown

Bumper cracked,
originally uploaded by skyring.

Some days you are Supercabbie, riding that golden slipstream through the taxi night, a succession of pleasant passengers lining up to give you a fifty dollar note and a warm smile.

And some days you are Muggins, puddling up Brownwater Creek, at a total loss, wondering why you signed up to drive cabs.

Call me Muggins tonight.

It started last night. I’d already lost a half hour out of my shift, grappling in a tight space under the bonnet to replace a blown headlight bulb. Dirt on my white shirt cuffs and minor cuts on my knuckles. And then after midnight, the main taxi rank was crowded with hungry cabbies but the usual crowd of university students in for their cheap drinks was way way down. I pulled out of the glacier line to answer a call to Dickson, a quick four minutes away down the backstreets, and that was only a ten dollar fare to Watson, two suburbs over.

Back to the main rank. One of the new drivers was at the head of the line, and he held up fingers to indicate his success as I passed him. Five fingers, meaning five hundred dollars. I glanced at my meter total, grimaced, and indicated to him with a “so-so” hand movement. I was over my target for the shift, but not by much.

Another driver stopped beside me for a chat. He was a lot further in front than I was, too. Oh well, maybe I’d get a big fare down to Gordon or Banks, shoot my meter up. You never know.

But when I eventually got to the head of the rank, my passengers were headed one suburb over, close beside the university. Six dollars and seventy-five cents, thank you very much.

And that was it for my night. I was in a foul mood by the time I got to the top of the rank again. I’d worked the last hour and a half for about eight dollars. Before tax.

I was dubious about going back onto the line anyway. But the main rank looked kind of empty when I glanced over on my way to the service station to gas up and go home. So I chucked a u-bolt to tail onto the line. Wouldn’t you know it. A dozen cabs appeared out of the darkness ahead of me while I waited for the lights to change. Again, it took a good half-hour to crawl up to the top of the rank. Finally I was at second position, keeping an eye on likely passengers, so I could release the door locks. Or not.

Here were a bunch of drunks getting into the cab ahead of me. One held a pizza box, freshly bought from one of the fast-food stands that line the footpaths outside the nightclubs, and he was handing out slices to his mates. Doubtless they’d drop bits of cheese and crumbs all over the floor mats and then wipe their greasy hands on the upholstery.

I pitied the poor cabbie. That’s one reason I keep my doors locked until I can check out late night passengers.

And here was a passenger for me. She wobbled down the street alone, her comfort for the night a bag of hot chips. Doubtless with gravy.

I spat the dummy then. Put the car in gear and rolled away empty. Some nights I don’t get paid enough to deal with the drunks.

So I gave myself an early mark and a good night’s sleep. Fresh and bright and early for this afternoon’s start, I signed on and immediately got a Silver Service booking in the same suburb. She was waiting for me when I arrived, I loaded her bags and tucked her in. We smiled and chatted as I joined the traffic heading for the airport.

It was my fault. Even though it wasn’t. I glanced away from the road for a moment, checking that I’d turned the meter on. Sometimes in the bustle of getting underway and listening to the passenger instructions I forget, so I’ll look down and confirm to myself that yes, I have turned the meter on.

And when I looked back to the road, my stream of traffic had come to a stop and my cushion of space was almost gone.

We worked it out later. Three cars ahead, a purple car had slowed without warning, and the black car following had braked hard, just missing. But the white car behind her, also braking suddenly, hadn’t been quite so lucky, and then I arrived with a hefty thump. I would have had a good twenty metres of full-on braking, the anti-skid kept the wheels from locking up, and none of us were going anywhere near the speed limit, but still, I was the last in the line, and so it was my fault, the whole domino lot of it.

The purple car whizzed off, untouched, numberplate unseen, and we all emerged to sort things out.

No injuries, thank goodness. But the radiator fluid hissing out onto the street told me that my shift was over. The other cars drove off into a nearby carpark, but I had to be pushed across the traffic, ending up, appropriately enough, in a disabled spot.

It was the towball on the car I hit that did me in. If it had been bumper to bumper, there would have been a few scratches, a few sharp words. But that towball went through my bumper and into the radiator. And straight into my wallet.

We sorted out a new cab to get my passenger to the airport. We all exchanged details. Photographs were taken. The owner arranged for a tow truck and came out to take a look at the damage.

“Go home and read books tonight,” he told me. “We’ll find another cab tomorrow.”

Probably some ancient old rattlebucket instead of my gleaming but dented limousine. Call me Muggins and colour me blue.