Road to Riches
Jul. 16th, 2008 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringChristianity turned my shift around last night. I was on the downhill slope to the taxi shift from Hell, and a saint stepped into my cab. It wasn’t Heaven at the end of the night, but I had definitely been blessed.
I’ve changed my week to Monday to Friday, so that I can get a whole weekend with my family. What am I working for, I used to wonder, if the end result was that I only had a few hours of quality time each week. My family shouldn’t have to tiptoe around the house on their own days off so that I can get my sleep.
I flew back from Queensland on Saturday, had the Sunday off - a productive day of shopping, housework and just enjoying the company of my wife and children - and then on Monday afternoon I got dressed and turned up for my shift. After an hour, I guessed that my regular cab had been reassigned, and I texted the owner for an alternative. Not that I mind having a night off if a cab isn’t available, of course.
I’d make no sort of manager. Administration, juggling drivers and cabs and shifts, sorting out money and paperwork and government regulations - these hold no charm for me. But the owner must thrive on such stuff.
After a while I was given an address, and the phone number of my new day driver. I drove out, waited, texted, and finally, an hour and a half after I should have commenced work, my cab arrived. I think that the driver had been enjoying a long shift, stretching his day out to cover the afternoon peak as well as the morning, not expecting a night driver.
Not a Silver Service cab, in fact it was a bit of a rattley old taxi, but reasonably clean, and all the important bits were working.
Trouble is that there wasn’t an afternoon peak today, or at least if there had been one, I’d missed it. Parliament is not sitting, not for another six weeks, and in school holiday time a lot of Canberrans are absent. The public service workshops and conferences aren’t being held, and consequently the large floating population of carless transients aren’t around to be shuttled between office, restaurant, hotel and airport.
By seven o’clock it was dark and quiet, and I was working my way along the main city rank. Very slowly.
Finally I was at the head of the queue, and a young man walked around the corner out of the gloom - our taxi rank is now adjacent to a building site, and it’s a picture of grey desolation - and sat down beside me.
“Camp Copper on the Coppins Crossing Road,” he said.
I goggled a little. This was right out in the sticks, and although the love of money is the root of all evil, you could almost hear the dollar coins chinking as I estimated the fare.
We had a pleasant ride out, the lights of the city and then the suburbs fading behind as we entered kangaroo country and I kept my eyes peeled for bounding shapes ready to leap out at me.
“What’s the best way to arrange a cab back?” he asked, “Do I ring for one when I’m ready, or can you have one waiting?”
“Ah, what time, would that be?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Sure, I can be waiting for you. It’s kind of slow tonight and I should be free to drive you back in.”
We pulled off the main road, down a gravel track to a series of new buildings replacing the old Camp Copper destroyed in the 2003 bushfires, and he proffered a credit card.
“I’ll see if we have coverage out here,” I said, running it through the machine.
“Processing, processing, processing... DECLINED: NO NETWORK”
Ooops.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “When I pick you up and take you back to civilisation, we’ll have radio coverage.”
I made a note of the fare amount, and took down his details just in case I was tied up elsewhere at nine o’clock and had to call for another cab. Mind you, with over forty unpaid dollars riding on this passenger, and another similar fare to be had for the return trip, I was going to make damn sure I was there to pick him up at nine.
It was slow, but I got a few local jobs to fill in the time. Bought a bottle of window cleaner when I gassed up. The fuel gauge on this taxi was misbehaving, and I didn’t want to be stuck out in the bush with no fuel.
I headed back out with a nice cushion of time. If he was early, I could pick him up, and if he was late, the cab could use a bit of polishing.
The camp was buzzing. Teenagers running around, soft drinks in their hands, hanging out around the hut doors, talking in groups, just enjoying each others’ company. There were some flags hoisted near the admin building, and they didn’t look like the Boy Scout symbols. Heavy on crosses and Latin mottos.
The penny dropped then. This was one of the staging areas for World Youth Day, a periodical Catholic Church gathering. The Pope had landed in Sydney earlier that day, and huge open-air masses were planned. Young pilgrims from around the world were assembling, and doubtless tomorrow the buses would pull up at the camp, the young folk here would climb aboard, and in a few hours they would be praying with the Pontiff.
I polished up the windows while I waited. Normally the young people I see as a taxi driver revel in alcoholic spirits before rolling in carnal congress, but these teenagers weren’t following this well-worn path. Just good friends and orange fizz.
My passenger, just a few years older than his flock, appeared from the well-lit buildings, his short beard and steady walk marking him out from the youngsters swirling around.
“You know the Roman Catholic cathedral in Manuka? St Stephens? That’s where we are going.”
Perfect. Manuka on a Monday might be quiet, but it’s still a nice place on a winter evening. Maybe Artoven would still be serving cappuccino. And I would be eighty dollars and more up on a slow shift. certainly enough to put me over my target for the night if I worked until three.
He talked about the young people. Their songs and dances and t-shirts, friendships made in the cold mornings and warmed around the campfire. Years later they would remember these times fondly, and I felt him slipping back into the Nineties as he talked.
I was kind of sorry to set him down beside the red brick cathedral in Manuka. It’s pleasant to have an amiable companion to share a piece of Canberra’s night-time with, and I’d be lonely while I waited for my next fare.
It’ll be a busy time for taxidrivers in Sydney over the next few days, I reckon. They’ll make small fortunes while we Canberra cabbies ride out the cold, quiet nights.
Artoven was long closed. I put on St Germain, good chill-out music, and pulled out a book, wondering who would be my next passenger.
I’ve changed my week to Monday to Friday, so that I can get a whole weekend with my family. What am I working for, I used to wonder, if the end result was that I only had a few hours of quality time each week. My family shouldn’t have to tiptoe around the house on their own days off so that I can get my sleep.
I flew back from Queensland on Saturday, had the Sunday off - a productive day of shopping, housework and just enjoying the company of my wife and children - and then on Monday afternoon I got dressed and turned up for my shift. After an hour, I guessed that my regular cab had been reassigned, and I texted the owner for an alternative. Not that I mind having a night off if a cab isn’t available, of course.
I’d make no sort of manager. Administration, juggling drivers and cabs and shifts, sorting out money and paperwork and government regulations - these hold no charm for me. But the owner must thrive on such stuff.
After a while I was given an address, and the phone number of my new day driver. I drove out, waited, texted, and finally, an hour and a half after I should have commenced work, my cab arrived. I think that the driver had been enjoying a long shift, stretching his day out to cover the afternoon peak as well as the morning, not expecting a night driver.
Not a Silver Service cab, in fact it was a bit of a rattley old taxi, but reasonably clean, and all the important bits were working.
Trouble is that there wasn’t an afternoon peak today, or at least if there had been one, I’d missed it. Parliament is not sitting, not for another six weeks, and in school holiday time a lot of Canberrans are absent. The public service workshops and conferences aren’t being held, and consequently the large floating population of carless transients aren’t around to be shuttled between office, restaurant, hotel and airport.
By seven o’clock it was dark and quiet, and I was working my way along the main city rank. Very slowly.
Finally I was at the head of the queue, and a young man walked around the corner out of the gloom - our taxi rank is now adjacent to a building site, and it’s a picture of grey desolation - and sat down beside me.
“Camp Copper on the Coppins Crossing Road,” he said.
I goggled a little. This was right out in the sticks, and although the love of money is the root of all evil, you could almost hear the dollar coins chinking as I estimated the fare.
We had a pleasant ride out, the lights of the city and then the suburbs fading behind as we entered kangaroo country and I kept my eyes peeled for bounding shapes ready to leap out at me.
“What’s the best way to arrange a cab back?” he asked, “Do I ring for one when I’m ready, or can you have one waiting?”
“Ah, what time, would that be?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Sure, I can be waiting for you. It’s kind of slow tonight and I should be free to drive you back in.”
We pulled off the main road, down a gravel track to a series of new buildings replacing the old Camp Copper destroyed in the 2003 bushfires, and he proffered a credit card.
“I’ll see if we have coverage out here,” I said, running it through the machine.
“Processing, processing, processing... DECLINED: NO NETWORK”
Ooops.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “When I pick you up and take you back to civilisation, we’ll have radio coverage.”
I made a note of the fare amount, and took down his details just in case I was tied up elsewhere at nine o’clock and had to call for another cab. Mind you, with over forty unpaid dollars riding on this passenger, and another similar fare to be had for the return trip, I was going to make damn sure I was there to pick him up at nine.
It was slow, but I got a few local jobs to fill in the time. Bought a bottle of window cleaner when I gassed up. The fuel gauge on this taxi was misbehaving, and I didn’t want to be stuck out in the bush with no fuel.
I headed back out with a nice cushion of time. If he was early, I could pick him up, and if he was late, the cab could use a bit of polishing.
The camp was buzzing. Teenagers running around, soft drinks in their hands, hanging out around the hut doors, talking in groups, just enjoying each others’ company. There were some flags hoisted near the admin building, and they didn’t look like the Boy Scout symbols. Heavy on crosses and Latin mottos.
The penny dropped then. This was one of the staging areas for World Youth Day, a periodical Catholic Church gathering. The Pope had landed in Sydney earlier that day, and huge open-air masses were planned. Young pilgrims from around the world were assembling, and doubtless tomorrow the buses would pull up at the camp, the young folk here would climb aboard, and in a few hours they would be praying with the Pontiff.
I polished up the windows while I waited. Normally the young people I see as a taxi driver revel in alcoholic spirits before rolling in carnal congress, but these teenagers weren’t following this well-worn path. Just good friends and orange fizz.
My passenger, just a few years older than his flock, appeared from the well-lit buildings, his short beard and steady walk marking him out from the youngsters swirling around.
“You know the Roman Catholic cathedral in Manuka? St Stephens? That’s where we are going.”
Perfect. Manuka on a Monday might be quiet, but it’s still a nice place on a winter evening. Maybe Artoven would still be serving cappuccino. And I would be eighty dollars and more up on a slow shift. certainly enough to put me over my target for the night if I worked until three.
He talked about the young people. Their songs and dances and t-shirts, friendships made in the cold mornings and warmed around the campfire. Years later they would remember these times fondly, and I felt him slipping back into the Nineties as he talked.
I was kind of sorry to set him down beside the red brick cathedral in Manuka. It’s pleasant to have an amiable companion to share a piece of Canberra’s night-time with, and I’d be lonely while I waited for my next fare.
It’ll be a busy time for taxidrivers in Sydney over the next few days, I reckon. They’ll make small fortunes while we Canberra cabbies ride out the cold, quiet nights.
Artoven was long closed. I put on St Germain, good chill-out music, and pulled out a book, wondering who would be my next passenger.
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-16 01:52 pm (UTC)I'm laughing at how after being touched by God (so to speak) you listened to a saint!
sounds like a lovely passenger