Out of control

[skyring]

Today marks the end of my first week. I won't provide a fare by fare account of my days and nights, but I'll pick out bits and pieces to illustrate the strange life of the Canberra cabbie.

I'm on night shifts in Car 94 for the immediate future. I've got to admit that I'm impressed with the owner. I haven't met him yet, but in the few phone conversations we've had, he's demonstrated that he keeps a firm but polite hand on what's going on. He has roughly twenty cabs and forty drivers, plus a workshop to keep them flying, and nobody has ever said a bad word about him. Spare me the hands-on micromanager and the lazy laissez-faire approach - this guy does what needs to be done with a few efficient words. I'm to meet him next week and run through my progress so far.

Let's see. I've now discovered how to turn everything on and off in the cab. I even managed to zero my shift total on the meter last night, something which at least one experienced cabbie I've met doesn't know how to do.

Joy of joys, I can make a receipt for a cash fare. It doesn't go through the printer at all. Instead there are little pads of receipt slips and all I need do is fill in the spaces. Why didn't I notice them before, I wonder?

They were waiting for me on the corner of Northbourne Avenue and London Circuit, what passes for the crossroads of Canberra. as soon as they piled into the cab I recognised soldiers. Not just the young, fit figures and the short haircuts, but an attitude. Cocky, in control, full of it.

Three youngsters and an older man. The older chap was a local, probably a sergeant or corporal from one of the local Army units showing some interstate visitors a good time. Smell of beer on their breaths and the night was still young.

"We want a strip club," the brash young fellow riding shotgun said. "You got them in Canberra, right? It's not all politicians and public servants?"

"Sure!" I agreed. "Where did you want to go?"

"A strip club." he repeated, looking at me.

How the hell would I know? I knew we had them in Canberra, but I didn't have a clue about specific addresses. This hadn't been on the list of test destinations.

"Ahhh, in Fyshwick. That's where they are. You sure you don't want a massage parlour?"

"No. I don't want a massage. i want a strip club. Naked women. Let's go for a ride."

There were two ways we could get to Fyshwick, and I wasn't sure which was the shortest, but we were on Northbourne Avenue, which turned into Commonwealth Avenue, I could then cut across the middle of the Parliamentary Triangle, and show them some of the sights on the way. The other route, out past Russell, and across Dairy Flat, wasn't quite as convenient from where we were. So I did a u-turn and headed south across the Commonwealth Avenue bridge.

"Hey, where we going, chief?" The older chap in the back seat asked.

"Fyshwick!" I announced with a confidence I didn't feel. I knew I'd be able to find something sordid in Fyshwick, home of sex shops and brothels and car repairers and second-hand bookshops.

With a bit of help from the local, we had a quick tour as we whipped over the ink black lake, reflections of the Carillion and distant buildings sparkling. Turn left, past the National Library, glance up the hill at Old Parliament House, slide past the High Court...

"Where are you taking us, cabbie?"

"Fyshwick," I repeated. "That's where we keep all that kind of stuff. Errr, I could really use a bit of guidance here."

I was hoping that the local gent would have some local knowledge, maybe a preferred strip club where he was on first name terms with the staff and had a member's club gold pass. No such luck. He grumbled and shut up. Maybe he knew as much about strip clubs as I did.

We were out of the grand public buildings now, past the residential complexes of Kingston, old power house, railway station.

A sign appeared in front, and we kept on driving.

"Hey, driver, that sign said Fyshwick, and if that's where we're going, then you've passed it."

"Big place, Fyshwick," I replied.

I could sense the unease growing as we continued on, under Monaro Highway, left turn into the other half of Fyshwick, which is indeed a large suburb. Here were takeaway shops, car electronics places, retailers of industial wear... All closed, this close to midnight.

We kept on driving, and I could feel the seeds of rebellion stirring amongst the light industry and heavy retail. At last I spotted a small but garish sign in the distance. My spirits rose. Maybe it was only a vendor of marital aids, but they'd point us in the right direction. We pulled up, and it certainly looked like a strip club. No indication as to the precise nature of the business, but the pink neon and floodlit silhouettes of naked women looked promising. Bouncers on the doors...

"Here we are!" I looked at the meter. "$22.50, please!"

"Driver," the chap in the back said, "Why did we come all this way instead of along Constitution Avenue?"

Well, I'd been kind of wondering the same thing myself, but once I was committed to the southerly route, any reversal to the other route would have made the whole thing longer. Besides, I wasn't sure that the other way was shorter.

I muttered some reply, about not wanting to come all that way through Pialligo near the airport, which wasn't exactly on the route, but was the only name I could think of for the region where the airport road speared off to head past Fyshwick.

"Look," he said to the chap in the front seat, who was dutifully holding out the correct amount, eager to get to the naked women, "Just give the driver the twenty and hang onto the change."

He glanced at me. "You know why."

He thought I'd been ripping them off by deliberately choosing a longer route. I could understand his thinking, and I was furious with myself for not knowing where naked women were to be had in Canberra. I'd lost control of the situation, and this was the result.

"Fare enough," I said, taking the twenty.

As soon as I got a chance, I looked up the manual. Yes, the other route was shorter. And then I consulted a telephone directory. The only establishment I could clearly identify as a strip joint was in quite the other direction, in Mitchell.

But I'm sure they found satisfaction.