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skyringThere we were, two cabbies outside the National Museum of Australia, late at night in a deserted car park, both waiting for passengers who hadn't yet arrived. Or at least mine had, said "There's another one coming, I'll just go off and find him, won't be a minute."
Ten minutes later, and I'd pulled out my polishing cloth, discovered the spray-on glass cleaner in the boot, and made my windows twinkle. Then I stood beside my cab as the passengers ambled out from the main entrance. I looked around, drinking in the cool evening air, the soft glow of the city lights, the weird shapes of the museum's architecture.
Then it hit me. The car behind me was Taxi 94. I'd missed ten minutes of chatting with her new night driver. I had a brief opportunity to mention to him that I'd been driving the car for a month until yesterday, and then our passengers strolled up and we were on the road again.
Just for one night I'd been allocated a different car. The owner was rearranging vehicles and drivers, and I'd gained some idea of the magnitude of the task by the fact that I was picking up three different cars from four different locations on four successive nights (not counting Sunday, my day of rest).
Taxi 44 is much like my first cab, maybe a year newer, not as long a niggle list. Just enough of a difference in equipment to add a bit of spice to the night, if you can count different buttons as spicey. (Trust me, when those different buttons belong to the taxi meter, they can be very exciting indeed, if you aren't sure what happens when you press them!)
I looked at the old girl with fondness as she was driven away. If I hadn't been busy with my own passengers, I would have given the offside rear door a helpful slam to shut it against that balky door seal.
Otherwise, a fairly bland sort of Monday night. Parliament is sitting for their final two weeks of the year, so there is a little extra work around.
I picked up one chap from the Ministerial entrance to Parliament House, and the destination on the MDT read "Fyshwick", which is where Canberra keeps its sex industry. Well, I'm not going to pass judgement if some staffer feels the need for some brief feminine company, no strings attached, but when he sat down beside me, he ruined my fantasies.
"I know it says Fyshwick, but I'm going to Queanbeyan. The booking system doesn't understand Queanbeyan, so when it came up with Fyshwick, I just said 'Yes'. That's OK, isn't it?"
Fine by me. Queanbeyan is a good five kilometres or so past Fyshwick. A longer ride and a bigger fare. The only problem was that I'd be unlikely to string another job on from Fyshwick, so I'd be riding back empty, but that's OK. At this time of night I was beginning to scratch around for work and driving five or ten minutes to get a job is par for the course.
I had to drive all the way back into Civic to get a fare, and I took her to Weston Creek, a good twenty minute ride. From there I spotted a booking come up in Kambah, and I drove miles to get that one too. The cost of the fuel involved is negligible compared to the money coming in. Even if it's a quick "round the corner" job to get an old lady and her groceries home from the shops, it's still an overall profit.
I'm conscious of the fact that I'm not paying for the petrol, so I'm not going to drive all the way across the city to get a job, but I'll happily drive to where the work is if the alternative consists of sitting on a rank for an hour hoping that I'll get a job drop into my lap.
My Kambah passenger had a story to tell., "I know it says Barton, but I'm going to Fyshwick. The booking system doesn't understand Fyshwick, so when it came up with Barton, I just said 'Yes'. That's OK, isn't it?"
Or words to that effect. I had to smile, though. The voice identification system still needs a bit of work, but obviously what it does and doesn't understand varies from caller to caller. "The trick is to speak clearly and slowly." I told her. "It's only a machine, and it has trouble understanding if you speak like you were talking to a real person, or if there's a bit of background noise."
And off we went. Hmmm. Taking a young lady to Fyshwick at one in the morning... Well, I wasn't going to pass judgement on how she earnt her living.
I was wrong again. I still don't know what she did in Fyshwick, but as I dropped her off on the far side of the railway tracks to the red light district, it obviously wasn't what I'd imagined. I can understand asking to be dropped around the corner, but no one in their right mind is going to walk a kilometre or two in the early morning just for the sake of a cabbie's sensitivities.
Not that I mind. It's not my cup of tea, you understand, just as I wouldn't spend a pocketful of money to hang out in dimly-lit and noisy nightclubs. But if that's what other people choose to do, that's fine by me. I'm happy to drive them to where they want to go, and maybe share a conversation along the way. Press the right buttons, and a quiet midnight drive turns into a delightful experience. Everyone has a passion. Maybe it's opera, maybe it's orienteering. I just have to pick up on hints to get the passenger talking, and usually not only do I learn something, but I'm rewarded with a smile at the end of the trip.
Of course, sometimes the passenger isn't at all talkative, and that's something that you pick up on in the first few seconds. In such a case, I shut up and enjoy the evening ride. Canberra is a beautiful city and I'm happy to just drive on past the floodlight buildings and the great stretches of parkland. The fact that someone is paying me to do this, that's just the icing on the cake.
Ten minutes later, and I'd pulled out my polishing cloth, discovered the spray-on glass cleaner in the boot, and made my windows twinkle. Then I stood beside my cab as the passengers ambled out from the main entrance. I looked around, drinking in the cool evening air, the soft glow of the city lights, the weird shapes of the museum's architecture.
Then it hit me. The car behind me was Taxi 94. I'd missed ten minutes of chatting with her new night driver. I had a brief opportunity to mention to him that I'd been driving the car for a month until yesterday, and then our passengers strolled up and we were on the road again.
Just for one night I'd been allocated a different car. The owner was rearranging vehicles and drivers, and I'd gained some idea of the magnitude of the task by the fact that I was picking up three different cars from four different locations on four successive nights (not counting Sunday, my day of rest).
Taxi 44 is much like my first cab, maybe a year newer, not as long a niggle list. Just enough of a difference in equipment to add a bit of spice to the night, if you can count different buttons as spicey. (Trust me, when those different buttons belong to the taxi meter, they can be very exciting indeed, if you aren't sure what happens when you press them!)
I looked at the old girl with fondness as she was driven away. If I hadn't been busy with my own passengers, I would have given the offside rear door a helpful slam to shut it against that balky door seal.
Otherwise, a fairly bland sort of Monday night. Parliament is sitting for their final two weeks of the year, so there is a little extra work around.
I picked up one chap from the Ministerial entrance to Parliament House, and the destination on the MDT read "Fyshwick", which is where Canberra keeps its sex industry. Well, I'm not going to pass judgement if some staffer feels the need for some brief feminine company, no strings attached, but when he sat down beside me, he ruined my fantasies.
"I know it says Fyshwick, but I'm going to Queanbeyan. The booking system doesn't understand Queanbeyan, so when it came up with Fyshwick, I just said 'Yes'. That's OK, isn't it?"
Fine by me. Queanbeyan is a good five kilometres or so past Fyshwick. A longer ride and a bigger fare. The only problem was that I'd be unlikely to string another job on from Fyshwick, so I'd be riding back empty, but that's OK. At this time of night I was beginning to scratch around for work and driving five or ten minutes to get a job is par for the course.
I had to drive all the way back into Civic to get a fare, and I took her to Weston Creek, a good twenty minute ride. From there I spotted a booking come up in Kambah, and I drove miles to get that one too. The cost of the fuel involved is negligible compared to the money coming in. Even if it's a quick "round the corner" job to get an old lady and her groceries home from the shops, it's still an overall profit.
I'm conscious of the fact that I'm not paying for the petrol, so I'm not going to drive all the way across the city to get a job, but I'll happily drive to where the work is if the alternative consists of sitting on a rank for an hour hoping that I'll get a job drop into my lap.
My Kambah passenger had a story to tell., "I know it says Barton, but I'm going to Fyshwick. The booking system doesn't understand Fyshwick, so when it came up with Barton, I just said 'Yes'. That's OK, isn't it?"
Or words to that effect. I had to smile, though. The voice identification system still needs a bit of work, but obviously what it does and doesn't understand varies from caller to caller. "The trick is to speak clearly and slowly." I told her. "It's only a machine, and it has trouble understanding if you speak like you were talking to a real person, or if there's a bit of background noise."
And off we went. Hmmm. Taking a young lady to Fyshwick at one in the morning... Well, I wasn't going to pass judgement on how she earnt her living.
I was wrong again. I still don't know what she did in Fyshwick, but as I dropped her off on the far side of the railway tracks to the red light district, it obviously wasn't what I'd imagined. I can understand asking to be dropped around the corner, but no one in their right mind is going to walk a kilometre or two in the early morning just for the sake of a cabbie's sensitivities.
Not that I mind. It's not my cup of tea, you understand, just as I wouldn't spend a pocketful of money to hang out in dimly-lit and noisy nightclubs. But if that's what other people choose to do, that's fine by me. I'm happy to drive them to where they want to go, and maybe share a conversation along the way. Press the right buttons, and a quiet midnight drive turns into a delightful experience. Everyone has a passion. Maybe it's opera, maybe it's orienteering. I just have to pick up on hints to get the passenger talking, and usually not only do I learn something, but I'm rewarded with a smile at the end of the trip.
Of course, sometimes the passenger isn't at all talkative, and that's something that you pick up on in the first few seconds. In such a case, I shut up and enjoy the evening ride. Canberra is a beautiful city and I'm happy to just drive on past the floodlight buildings and the great stretches of parkland. The fact that someone is paying me to do this, that's just the icing on the cake.
