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Lemon driver
Jun. 18th, 2008 02:38 pmHe was waiting at the club carpark entrance: elderly, a bit shabby. I stopped beside him, he opened the door, sat down beside me, and gave a nearby address.
“Only a short ride,” he said, apologetically.
Possibly a cabbie’s worst possible passenger. Only two things could have been worse - a trolley load of groceries to load and unload, and a 50% disablity voucher entitling the bearer to half off the fare.
I’d been sitting on the Manuka rank, moving my way to the front of the line, and simultaneously moving up in the zone queue for radio work. Eventually someone would walk up to my cab, or base would tell me to go somewhere for a job.
This was a radio pick-up when I was already at the head of the rank, and I’d considered whether to reject the work in favour of staying where I was for a guaranteed customer, rather than drive off for a passenger who might have found alternate transport, or have given a wrong address, or just decided that they didn’t want a cab after all.
It was a slow part of the night, so I accepted the job, inwardly groaning when I saw the pick up address. A golf club right on the far edge of my radio zone. I’d have to drive five minutes just to get there to see if I had a passenger. This time of night, he’d likely have a few drinks inside him. Maybe there was more than one raucous drunk. maybe there was nobody - another cab could deliver a passenger and scoop mine up in the process in the time it would take me to arrive. Maybe the cabbie would pretend that he had been called to pick up the fare, more likely the uncaring passenger would just jump into the first cab to show up.
But when I arrived, my passenger was waiting for me, and he’d taken the trouble to walk out to the entrance.
“Only a short ride,” he said, “but I’ve got a crook leg, you see.”
“You don’t have to apologise for a short fare,” I told him. “Everybody has the exact same need to get to where they need to be. The cab industry isn’t set up to make cabbies rich, it’s so people can get home. Or to the airport. Or the doctor.”
And that’s the way it is. My standard response. It’s the gamble I take every day as a cabbie. A job might be a long forty, fifty, sixty dollar fare. Or it might be a six dollar fare around the corner. I’ve long since stopped caring much about it. On average, it all works out.
I was smiling at him. Ok, it was a short ride. That didn’t mean it was going to be a bitter experience. Regardless of the money, I aim for a smile at the end of the trip. that’s my real reward. Getting this gent home safely and comfortably would make us both happy.
He looked at me a little oddly. “Most cabbies don’t like a short trip.”
His eyes twinkled in recollection as I reversed out, turned onto the main road and headed off to the traffic lights.
“I used to get this one cabbie to pick me up, and I told him each time that I’d give him a couple of bucks extra, he’d still be grumpy. He’d say how long he had had to wait, and he wouldn’t get a fare back and he’d have to wait even longer for his next passenger. Grumble all the way home, he did.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but that’s not your fault. You ring for a cab, you don’t know what the driver’s been doing for the last half hour. He might have just dropped his last passenger around the corner. All you want is a cab and someone to drive it.”
“One day,” he went on, “one of my mates give me a bag of lemons off the tree in his back yard. He had more than he needed, you see. So when this cabbie drove me home, I give him the fare, and I give him a lemon as well. He said ‘what’s this for?’ and I said, ‘It’s because you’re always so bloody sour!’ And now we get on just fine.”
I chuckled. Through the lights, round a corner and home. Not a long trip, but too long to walk in the cold and the dark for an old man with a crook leg. We smiled at each other. He gave me the fare and a couple of dollars extra. No lemons.
My next job was a long one, all the way down to Gowrie. It all evens out.
My lovely silver limousine is still in the workshop. Instead I’ve got a car which is a bit of a lemon. It works fine, engine-wise, but some of the controls and dashboard lights are dodgy, the cruise control doesn’t function, the radio warbles, and to close the driver’s door I have to hold the handle just so and heave it shut. And, as you can see from the photograph, the door trim is held on by tape.
But I’m smiling. The taxi industry isn’t set up to make cabbies rich, but it makes this one very happy.
“Only a short ride,” he said, apologetically.
Possibly a cabbie’s worst possible passenger. Only two things could have been worse - a trolley load of groceries to load and unload, and a 50% disablity voucher entitling the bearer to half off the fare.
I’d been sitting on the Manuka rank, moving my way to the front of the line, and simultaneously moving up in the zone queue for radio work. Eventually someone would walk up to my cab, or base would tell me to go somewhere for a job.
This was a radio pick-up when I was already at the head of the rank, and I’d considered whether to reject the work in favour of staying where I was for a guaranteed customer, rather than drive off for a passenger who might have found alternate transport, or have given a wrong address, or just decided that they didn’t want a cab after all.
It was a slow part of the night, so I accepted the job, inwardly groaning when I saw the pick up address. A golf club right on the far edge of my radio zone. I’d have to drive five minutes just to get there to see if I had a passenger. This time of night, he’d likely have a few drinks inside him. Maybe there was more than one raucous drunk. maybe there was nobody - another cab could deliver a passenger and scoop mine up in the process in the time it would take me to arrive. Maybe the cabbie would pretend that he had been called to pick up the fare, more likely the uncaring passenger would just jump into the first cab to show up.
But when I arrived, my passenger was waiting for me, and he’d taken the trouble to walk out to the entrance.
“Only a short ride,” he said, “but I’ve got a crook leg, you see.”
“You don’t have to apologise for a short fare,” I told him. “Everybody has the exact same need to get to where they need to be. The cab industry isn’t set up to make cabbies rich, it’s so people can get home. Or to the airport. Or the doctor.”
And that’s the way it is. My standard response. It’s the gamble I take every day as a cabbie. A job might be a long forty, fifty, sixty dollar fare. Or it might be a six dollar fare around the corner. I’ve long since stopped caring much about it. On average, it all works out.
I was smiling at him. Ok, it was a short ride. That didn’t mean it was going to be a bitter experience. Regardless of the money, I aim for a smile at the end of the trip. that’s my real reward. Getting this gent home safely and comfortably would make us both happy.
He looked at me a little oddly. “Most cabbies don’t like a short trip.”
His eyes twinkled in recollection as I reversed out, turned onto the main road and headed off to the traffic lights.
“I used to get this one cabbie to pick me up, and I told him each time that I’d give him a couple of bucks extra, he’d still be grumpy. He’d say how long he had had to wait, and he wouldn’t get a fare back and he’d have to wait even longer for his next passenger. Grumble all the way home, he did.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but that’s not your fault. You ring for a cab, you don’t know what the driver’s been doing for the last half hour. He might have just dropped his last passenger around the corner. All you want is a cab and someone to drive it.”
“One day,” he went on, “one of my mates give me a bag of lemons off the tree in his back yard. He had more than he needed, you see. So when this cabbie drove me home, I give him the fare, and I give him a lemon as well. He said ‘what’s this for?’ and I said, ‘It’s because you’re always so bloody sour!’ And now we get on just fine.”
I chuckled. Through the lights, round a corner and home. Not a long trip, but too long to walk in the cold and the dark for an old man with a crook leg. We smiled at each other. He gave me the fare and a couple of dollars extra. No lemons.
My next job was a long one, all the way down to Gowrie. It all evens out.
My lovely silver limousine is still in the workshop. Instead I’ve got a car which is a bit of a lemon. It works fine, engine-wise, but some of the controls and dashboard lights are dodgy, the cruise control doesn’t function, the radio warbles, and to close the driver’s door I have to hold the handle just so and heave it shut. And, as you can see from the photograph, the door trim is held on by tape.
But I’m smiling. The taxi industry isn’t set up to make cabbies rich, but it makes this one very happy.
