Boot in the Bum

Boot in the Bum,
originally uploaded by skyring.

It was two o'clock on a cold Tuesday morning. I needed one more fare to make my night, as the song says, and there were several other cabbies around at the tail end of a slow shift to compete me for it.

In fact, I was sitting second on the main city rank, and the way things were going, it could be another hour before someone walked up and got into that cab, let alone mine.

So when the call went out over the despatch system that there was work on the casino rank, I jumped at it. Peeled out onto the deserted streets, jumped every stop sign on the way, raced through the enclosed laneway opposite the youth hostel - (heaven help us both if I ever meet myself coming the other way on the blind corner) - and accelerated down Allara Street, the casino coming into sight.

And another cab just pulling out. He must have gone the short way.

Still, I figured I might as well be first cab on a deserted rank, better than being second car on a deserted rank, yeah?

So I hung a u-turn and slid in.

And to my extravagant pleasure, there was a passenger waiting for me. Maybe there had been two or three in a group, going in different directions, and they'd asked the cabbie to call up more cabs.

Anyway, here he was. Even if he just went around the corner, the flagfall alone would put me onto budget.

Kingston, he said, naming an apartment block. He said something else I didn't quite catch, but it didn't matter - I was on the way.

He liked my music video. Everyone likes Dire Straits, and he talked about how just having music playing in the background made people happier. Or at least it made him happier.

"I like you!" I told him.

Here was his apartment block. The driveway curved in past a big tree on the nature strip, and I made a mental note to avoid it on the way out.

"Just pull over here," he instructed, "I'll go get my money."

He got out and raced up a glass-walled staircase, disappearing from view near the top.

Hmmmmm. Would he be back? Had I just given a runner a free ride home? Blown all his money at the casino, not enough for a cab on a cold night.

I didn't think so. He didn't have that runner feel to him. Runners aren't usually chatty, charming people.

I waited a minute or two. I didn't have any option, really. My shift was about over, and there was no time left to go hunting another passenger, assuming I could find anyone other than idiot cabdrivers out and about at this time of night.

Movement on the stairs. My heart sang a little song of happy. Tuck the fare away, go off and gas up, vacuum out the floormats, drive my car home and curl up in bed.

But he didn't come to my wound-down window. He walked around and sat back down in the passenger seat. He looked at me.

"Back to the casino?"

There's a reason I don't go into casinos. Back in high school I learnt about probability and statistics. Losing your ready money late at night and taking a cab back home to get the cash reserves for another chance isn't my idea of responsible investment.

But I don't question the passengers. The longer the fare the better.

I was perfectly lined up in the driveway, and I reversed back, using my wing mirrors like a true professional. Pick a line and stick to it, and you can reverse down a long straight driveway with perfect confidence.

I kept a close look for that tree, aiming to use it in my right-hand mirror as a guide.

Crump! We stopped suddenly just as I passed the property line. I hadn't seen any obstacle in the driveway, and nothing had appeared in my mirrors. Puzzled, I got out and discovered that I'd backed fair into the tree. I'd forgotten about the curve in the driveway.

There's no justice. It's a driveway I've gone down a hundred times in the past, but I've always turned around outside the reception entrance. But this time, because I was expecting my passenger to come down and pay me through the driver's window, I hadn't turned the car.

I looked at the damage in the dark. Bad, with a bumper bent like a banana, and some panel damage, but it looked mostly cosmetic, rather than mechanical.

I cautiously backed onto the street and drove a way. The car felt solid, and there were no sounds of scraping or squealing, so I accelerated off to get my passenger delivered.

He couldn't stop apologising. Don't know why he thought he had anything to do with it. If an idiot cabbie reverses into a tree with a trunk the size of a wine barrel, it's definitely not the fault of the passenger sitting quietly beside him.

I reassured him on this point. Blame was entirely mine, and frankly I was relieved that it hadn't been another car, or a late night pedestrian, or one of those idiot cyclists you glimpse riding along without lights in the dark. Or a helmet for their fool head. The tree had survived the impact well, and although there'd be a price to pay, that's just money, and I'd proceed all the more carefully the next time I had to back out of a dimly lit driveway.

Me, I was working out what to do. I'd take a better look at the back end when I got to some light. Maybe the damage was minor enough that the day driver could work his shift. Maybe not. In any case, if I drove to the workshop, It would be six hours or so before anyone showed up. Better to get the car back to the day driver's place, and in the morning he could drive it to the workshop and pick up another cab for his shift.

We pulled up outside the casino, a little more sedately than last time, and my passenger paid me. The fare was twenty-seven dollars, but he handed me a hundred, telling me to just give him a fifty back.

I made a protest - such a big tip is far too much and I usually try to bargain people down to a more reasonable ten or twenty percent - but he was insistent. Somehow he thought the tree was his fault. Maybe he thought he should have shouted a warning or grabbed the wheel. Maybe he should have, but the responsibility is all mine.

Anyway, I'm not too insistent on refusing a big tip. This time I'd need every spare dollar to help pay for the damage.

"Good night," I called as he got out, ",,,and good luck."

I hope he made a million before dawn came around and closed the casino.

I got the car back to where it lived in a kind of cabbie group house. One of the other drivers came out while I was unsuccessfully trying to get the boot open to retrieve my bag and called the owner on my behalf, shining an industrial-sized flashlight all over the bent body of my beautiful Fairlane as he reported the damage.

It was all sorted out, and again I salute the owner, who must get his sleep regularly interrupted by cabbies reporting disasters, yet deals with each crisis calmly and competently. Maybe he then goes off and kicks the dog.

I thought I might be in the doghouse for my next night's shift, but no, a fresh limousine was found, and I did my best on another quiet night to earn a bit of money to pay the bills.