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Call it Karma
Jun. 8th, 2008 11:25 amFriday afternoon I ran into another car. Saturday, another car ran into me.
I had one very minor prang fifteen years ago, but now I’m suddenly having accidents on a daily basis. It’s not fair.
The owner was good enough to find me another car while my silver limousine went in for treatment, and even arranged for me to drive a replacement shift to make up for the lost Friday earnings. A middle-aged taxi, amy temporary car had its share of minor faults, like the CD player not working, but ran sweetly enough, and put me in a fine humour for the night.
Steady work until three in the morning. I’d just come back from dropping off a couple in Belconnen. The wife was looking a bit queasy, and I’d given them the usual warning to let me know if we needed to pull over “and you’ll see just how fast a cabbie can stop!”
Luckily she held herself in for the drive home, and after the husband paid me, he went off to help his wife while she bent over some convenient rosebushes. That was nice. I don’t mind if people get drunk and throw up, so long as they don’t do it in my taxi.
I was in two minds about continuing on as I drove back into town. On the one hand, I’d worked a full twelve hours, and I was tired. But nothing a cup of coffee wouldn’t fix. I had the car for the whole weekend, with no day driver pacing up and down waiting to begin his shift. There was heaps of work around, with plaintive messages from base: “Seventy people waiting on Alinga Rank and no cars. Please assist!”
My chance to make a bit of extra money. Just as long as I had a caffeine boost to stretch me out until dawn, when the drunks stop flowing and the service stations become busy with unshaven cabbies gassing up, doing their paperwork and swapping night tales.
I had two choices for coffee at three in the morning. The 24 hour McDonalds on the corner of Mort and Cooyong, or the Braddon Caltex two blocks further on. I decided to swing past Maccas to see how busy it was before hitting the instant coffee at the Caltex.
I followed a cab around the corner into Mort Street, and for some unfathomable reason, he elected to discharge his passengers in the exit from the drive through lane, just past the corner. Heaven knows why, as there were two perfectly good vacant spaces a few metres on.
Anyway, he stopped, partially blocking my lane, and I slowed, in case his door sprang open and the passengers jumped out.
About a second later another car came around the corner and the driver discovered two taxis in his path. He hit me with a bang and I flung open my door and stormed out, about as angry as I’ve ever been in my life
It wasn’t so much the damage, which really amounted to no more than bent bumpers and damaged lights for both cars. Nor was it the fact that I’d have to end my shift early. It was the fact that in two successive shifts I’d managed to damage two different taxis.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. Not to me, at any rate.
There was a delicious irony somewhere, and I guess in years to come I might chuckle over it, but at that moment, I just wanted to rip the other bastard’s head off his shoulders and kick it across Lake Burley Griffin.
Luckily, I paused when I saw the damage, turned back to get my camera, and cooled down enough in those few seconds not to do anything stupid.
We moved our vehicles into the convenient car park slots, and exchanged details. He couldn’t stop apologising, doubtless keying off the expression on my face.
No real harm done, and it would all be sorted out later by insurance companies and repair shops.
But that was it for my shift. Maybe the workshop could get the car looking good in fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t bend the bumper back and pop the tail-light cluster back in. Even if I could get the car back into shape, I was in no state to deal with the increasingly ratty drunks I’d get before dawn.
The hardest part for me was telling the owner that I had broken another one of his cabs. I take a great deal of pride in keeping my taxi presentable, with the sparkling windows and the pristine doormats, and here I was returning his cars with dents and damage. I suggested that I take up a new career path as a pedestrian, but somehow he found enough faith in me to offer yet another car for a fresh shift.
If I believed in such a thing, I’d say that it’s karma, and somehow the books are balanced. I run into someone on Friday, on Saturday someone runs into me.
If this theory holds true, that means that the bloke who ran into me will be rear-ended tomorrow.
Oh, how I hope so!
I had one very minor prang fifteen years ago, but now I’m suddenly having accidents on a daily basis. It’s not fair.
The owner was good enough to find me another car while my silver limousine went in for treatment, and even arranged for me to drive a replacement shift to make up for the lost Friday earnings. A middle-aged taxi, amy temporary car had its share of minor faults, like the CD player not working, but ran sweetly enough, and put me in a fine humour for the night.
Steady work until three in the morning. I’d just come back from dropping off a couple in Belconnen. The wife was looking a bit queasy, and I’d given them the usual warning to let me know if we needed to pull over “and you’ll see just how fast a cabbie can stop!”
Luckily she held herself in for the drive home, and after the husband paid me, he went off to help his wife while she bent over some convenient rosebushes. That was nice. I don’t mind if people get drunk and throw up, so long as they don’t do it in my taxi.
I was in two minds about continuing on as I drove back into town. On the one hand, I’d worked a full twelve hours, and I was tired. But nothing a cup of coffee wouldn’t fix. I had the car for the whole weekend, with no day driver pacing up and down waiting to begin his shift. There was heaps of work around, with plaintive messages from base: “Seventy people waiting on Alinga Rank and no cars. Please assist!”
My chance to make a bit of extra money. Just as long as I had a caffeine boost to stretch me out until dawn, when the drunks stop flowing and the service stations become busy with unshaven cabbies gassing up, doing their paperwork and swapping night tales.
I had two choices for coffee at three in the morning. The 24 hour McDonalds on the corner of Mort and Cooyong, or the Braddon Caltex two blocks further on. I decided to swing past Maccas to see how busy it was before hitting the instant coffee at the Caltex.
I followed a cab around the corner into Mort Street, and for some unfathomable reason, he elected to discharge his passengers in the exit from the drive through lane, just past the corner. Heaven knows why, as there were two perfectly good vacant spaces a few metres on.
Anyway, he stopped, partially blocking my lane, and I slowed, in case his door sprang open and the passengers jumped out.
About a second later another car came around the corner and the driver discovered two taxis in his path. He hit me with a bang and I flung open my door and stormed out, about as angry as I’ve ever been in my life
It wasn’t so much the damage, which really amounted to no more than bent bumpers and damaged lights for both cars. Nor was it the fact that I’d have to end my shift early. It was the fact that in two successive shifts I’d managed to damage two different taxis.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. Not to me, at any rate.
There was a delicious irony somewhere, and I guess in years to come I might chuckle over it, but at that moment, I just wanted to rip the other bastard’s head off his shoulders and kick it across Lake Burley Griffin.
Luckily, I paused when I saw the damage, turned back to get my camera, and cooled down enough in those few seconds not to do anything stupid.
We moved our vehicles into the convenient car park slots, and exchanged details. He couldn’t stop apologising, doubtless keying off the expression on my face.
No real harm done, and it would all be sorted out later by insurance companies and repair shops.
But that was it for my shift. Maybe the workshop could get the car looking good in fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t bend the bumper back and pop the tail-light cluster back in. Even if I could get the car back into shape, I was in no state to deal with the increasingly ratty drunks I’d get before dawn.
The hardest part for me was telling the owner that I had broken another one of his cabs. I take a great deal of pride in keeping my taxi presentable, with the sparkling windows and the pristine doormats, and here I was returning his cars with dents and damage. I suggested that I take up a new career path as a pedestrian, but somehow he found enough faith in me to offer yet another car for a fresh shift.
If I believed in such a thing, I’d say that it’s karma, and somehow the books are balanced. I run into someone on Friday, on Saturday someone runs into me.
If this theory holds true, that means that the bloke who ran into me will be rear-ended tomorrow.
Oh, how I hope so!
