On the Ball

Mooseheads,
originally uploaded by skyring.

I rarely pick up from the Belconnen Soccer Club. For one thing, I try to steer clear of Belconnen as a whole. It's a long way from Manuka, Artoven and their wonderful cappuccino. The main cab rank at the Belconnen Town Centre is a dismal place, blank concrete walls on one side, a cold empty park on the other. A product of the Seventies and architectural brutalism. In contrast, Manuka is full of life and outdoor cafes, people strolling or dining, visiting the boutique bookshop, window-shopping, emerging from the cinemas, eyes full of romance.

Belconnen's not my cup of coffee.

But I happened to get a job out to Belconnen, and instead of driving back to civilisation empty, I hung around on a slow night.

It was just me on the rank. Reading a programming manual and wondering if my despatch screen software had taken itself off to another planet.

Finally a "cover job" popped up. Not in my radio booking zone, but close enough that I could get there to collect the passenger before they froze solid waiting for a cab. I hit it without too much thought - anything to relieve the boredom and winch myself closer to my night's target by a few dollars.

Belconnen Soccer Club. Scene of one of my earliest taxi disasters from my first days of cabbing. Too painful to revisit now, but in my inexperience I inconvenienced passengers, made them pay more than they should, drove them around more than they needed, and ended up with a shopping bag full of what I hope was urine slowly leaking onto the floor in the back. Don’t ask.

I found the way in and curved smoothly into the pickup point outside the main doors. My passenger was waiting for me, a lone man, several years older than me.

He got into the front seat, nominated a Gungahlin address, and we moved off in that direction, a little guidance required when we almost missed a turn and headed off in the direction of Charnwood instead.

Back on track, I settled down to scrolling through the GPS display to find a street that might match the mumbled name I'd been given. Beep. Beep. Beep. It sounded each button push as I scrolled in and out and moved around, my eyes stealing seconds from the road.

"I can direct you," my passenger said.

I gave up trying to find the route, and relaxed. I generally find that passengers like this have given the exact same directions to hundreds of cabbies and know the precise best way home.

"Got to do something," my passenger said. "Can't sit at home all the time, getting bored."

"That's OK. Everyone's entitled to a few drinks at the club."

"Been doing this long?"

"Oh, about eighteen months," I replied. "Five nights a week, twelve hour shifts. Standard for a night cabbie."

I usually get a gasp at that. Usually another when I mention that I finish about three in the morning. Not from this chap.

"Still live with your parents?"

I chuckled. My parents are interstate, both retired. Still, it's nice to be mistaken for a young man. I must tell my barber he's a genius.

"I'm in my fifties," I replied.

We talked about children living at home for a while. His were in their thirties, long gone, mine within a year or so of twenty, still at home, though gaining more and more independence. One day they'll fly off for nests of their own, but in the meantime I'm enjoying their company.

I uncertainly approached an intersection, waiting for his direction, and after he pointed me right, he observed, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I named an inner suburb, one where house prices in excess of a million dollars are not unheard of.

"Why are you driving a cab? You must be pretty well off."

I'm not usually interrogated by my customers. People take cabbies for granted. Pick up the phone, call a number, someone appears with a taxi. Perception of another life beyond the steering wheel is a rarity.

I paused a moment. The morning papers had listed an amazing new high for an industrial stock in which I held a nice package of shares. Over the past year I'd probably made the equivalent of a moderate lottery prize. On paper, at any rate. Certainly far more than I'd made in a year of long night shifts.

"I like it," I replied.

And I do. It's not hard work, I get to talk to an amazing variety of people, I get to drive in bus lanes, I can sit on the Franklin Street rank in Manuka nibbling on one of Artoven's superior rock cakes while I listen to Harry Chapin, I can do any of hundreds of things that are streets ahead of watching television at home, or sozzling myself on cheap beer in a football club. And only the previous day I'd picked up a young lady for the Press Gallery's annual Midwinter Ball at Parliament House.

I'd gasped as she came out of the darkness, opened my door and sat down beside me. She was gorgeous in a few stylish wisps of black clothing. I sighed in delight. "Not every day I get to drive a princess," I told her.

She smiled in return. "Oooh, I like you. You can stay with me all night."

Sharing a few minutes with a princess as we cruise the Parliamentary Triangle. That’s priceless. I dropped her off at the Ministerial Entrance for her to collect her date for the night, some lucky prince of power.

It's the princesses, the brides, the happy singing students, the philosophers, the jazz fans, the tourists. They all entertain me. And vice versa. Maybe they admire the way I shimmy past a line of traffic and catch the bus lane light. Maybe they admire my offbeat taste in music. Maybe they like the photographs of Paris or Barcelona or Waikiki or Hong Kong that appear on my iPod screen. Maybe it's the way I laugh at their jokes. I certainly entertain them.

No. I was wrong. I don't like my job as a night cab driver.

I love it.