Coming up and out
Aug. 24th, 2008 05:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringFriday night, after midnight, city centre. It’s a whole different world to the daytime city of commuters, shoppers and public servants. The only people over twenty-five are taxidrivers. And not too many of those, neither - most of my fellow drivers are half my age.
Groups of young men and women cruise between nightclubs, crossing the streets all but heedless of the cruising cabs. The women are dressed in scant or tight clothing, ignoring the midnight chill. They have put a lot of effort into makeup, hairdo, and accessories. They are gorgeous, and I cannot help but compare them to the young men in pursuit, who usually seem to be dressed for a lazy day at home watching television rather than a night out on the town.
Maybe it’s my outlook - I prefer looking at young women in skimpy clothing to young men in same - but still, I have to wonder what it is about young men that makes young women put up with their generally poor behaviour. Especially when drunk.
“Mating rituals,” I tell my older passengers, when conversation turns to the way that Civic changes after dark. About ten at night, the older generation - my generation - finish their restaurant dinners, movie showings and windowshopping to head off home to bed. Just as the younger generation are flooding in.
I’ll often pick them up from the suburbs mid-evening. A group of four to fill a cab, usually with a few drinks inside, just to get them started. Four young folk in a taxi isn’t much more expensive than bus fare in, but far quicker and comfortable. “Front seat rule” applies, and when I pull up outside their chosen nightclub, the front seat passenger pays the fare, usually to a chorus of promises from the back seat that they will pay for the first round of drinks.
A few hours later, I’m transporting the same people back. Sometimes a group has remained intact through the night, and they’ll share a cab home, singing, cracking silly jokes, discussing the events of the night and bewailing lost mobile phones. Often they split up for one reason or another. Sometimes a reveller has found a friend, and there are whispers and intimate sounds from the dark of the rear seat. Sometimes it’s an individual, lucked down and lonely.
He was my final fare for the night, it turned out. About half past one, he hopped into my cab. I try to establish a rapport with the customers in those first few seconds. A smile and a friendly greeting goes a long way, and I can get an appreciation of my customers from the way they act in return.
I liked this chap from the start. He was handsome in his black tousled hair, soulful eyes, a lovely smile, and he’d taken a lot of care with his clothes. I knew I’d have no trouble with him. He named a suburb a long way out and we set off, my Dire Straits video playing.
Whoops! Without any warning at all, a few minutes into the ride he threw up. I pulled over immediately, and handed him the packet of tissues I keep for emergencies.
And I turned the meter off. I’d much rather have a drunk empty himself out completely and clean up as best he can, rather than do a half-assed job to save a few cents while the meter ticks on.
He looked at me, sick all down the front of his expensive jacket and soaking into his trousers. “Do you want me to get out?”
I almost kicked him out. But the initial eruption had been entirely contained by his clothing, he hadn’t gotten any on the floor or the seats, and it was a long walk home for him. I could have left him on the side of the road, and been entirely within my rights.
If he’d been more copious, I would have. And I’d have insisted on the fifty dollar “soiling” fee. Believe me, fifty dollars doesn’t even begin to cover the cost of taking a cab off the road for the hours it takes to clean up properly from a vomit incident. I had some youngsters sick up in my cab during my first days as a cabbie, and I had to take out the seats, wash the seat covers, hose down the rubber floor mats, and vacuum out the interior thoroughly. It took a day before the car could be put back on the road, and even then passengers would wrinkle up their noses on entry.
I reached into the back seat pocket for a sick bag and handed it to him. I’ve got a collection of airsick bags, scrounged from my travels, and there’s always one or two in the cab within easy grasp. Like the brace position, a sick bag is something you’ve got to have ready instantly.
“Just give me a bit of warning, will you? And you’ll get to see just how fast a cabbie can stop.”
We had to stop suddenly a few times more. Once for a classic, down on all fours, heaving the heart out session. After a good weekend, the roadsides of Canberra’s roads are pungent with used pizza and soiled tissues, and this chap was adding far more than his fair share.
But, so long as none of it comes back into the cab, it’s no skin off my nose. Better out than in, I always say, there’s a backup box of tissues in the boot, and two or three cleaning rags available.
He apologised profusely. Highly embarrassed, but I reassured him that, “these things happen. It’s okay. Let’s get you home safely. And if you feel we need to stop again, just let me know, okay?”
There was a twist. He looked at me with those big dark eyes, confessing, “I just decided that I was gay, and this was my first night, you know, trying it out.”
Obviously he’d been trying it out in the wrong places, because if he’d found the right place, he wouldn’t be telling his story to a cabbie. He’d have been snapped up in record time.
But isn’t it a wonderful thing that someone concludes they are gay, and instead of bottling it up for fifty years, hiding their feelings away from the common gaze, they go out and celebrate? Sharing it with the world and random cabbies. Sweet.
That’s part of the job I enjoy the most. The diversity in my passengers. Every night is different, and it’s the people that keep me interested.
I swapped a few cabbie yarns with him. There was the pair of professional partygoers, who had worked out a good routine for taxi chucking. One would open the door, lean out and have a good old yawn, well clear of the taxi, while his mate held firmly onto him from behind. They were so good that if it hadn’t been for the danger of blowback, I wouldn’t have felt I had to stop the car.
And there was the underage drinkers who got into the back seat, one on each side. An older and more experienced minder sat in the middle with a bucket and a bottle of water. Every few minutes she’d offer one or the other to her charges: “Bucket?” “Bottle?” I could hear the gurgling sounds from behind, but when we arrived at the end of the ride, there wasn’t a drop had found its way onto the seats or floor.
I guess I was trying to reassure him. These things happen, cabbies aren’t easily shocked, play by the rules and it will all work out. The fact that I was laughing, rather than swearing at him probably helped.
Still, he felt that he had to apologise about a hundred times. He would have hit the thousand pardons, but we arrived at his home before he could get them out.
There was thirty four dollars on the meter, but he handed me a fifty, with those words every cabbie loves to hear, “Keep the change.”
There was an hour left in my shift, but I found an all-night service station and gave the car a thorough inspection and clean. I couldn’t find anything, but I figured that there would be a bit of smell left over, and I’d be asking for trouble if I went back for another load. Instead I bought the servo attendant a cup of coffee and we yakked for half an hour, watching the night people come and go.
Groups of young men and women cruise between nightclubs, crossing the streets all but heedless of the cruising cabs. The women are dressed in scant or tight clothing, ignoring the midnight chill. They have put a lot of effort into makeup, hairdo, and accessories. They are gorgeous, and I cannot help but compare them to the young men in pursuit, who usually seem to be dressed for a lazy day at home watching television rather than a night out on the town.
Maybe it’s my outlook - I prefer looking at young women in skimpy clothing to young men in same - but still, I have to wonder what it is about young men that makes young women put up with their generally poor behaviour. Especially when drunk.
“Mating rituals,” I tell my older passengers, when conversation turns to the way that Civic changes after dark. About ten at night, the older generation - my generation - finish their restaurant dinners, movie showings and windowshopping to head off home to bed. Just as the younger generation are flooding in.
I’ll often pick them up from the suburbs mid-evening. A group of four to fill a cab, usually with a few drinks inside, just to get them started. Four young folk in a taxi isn’t much more expensive than bus fare in, but far quicker and comfortable. “Front seat rule” applies, and when I pull up outside their chosen nightclub, the front seat passenger pays the fare, usually to a chorus of promises from the back seat that they will pay for the first round of drinks.
A few hours later, I’m transporting the same people back. Sometimes a group has remained intact through the night, and they’ll share a cab home, singing, cracking silly jokes, discussing the events of the night and bewailing lost mobile phones. Often they split up for one reason or another. Sometimes a reveller has found a friend, and there are whispers and intimate sounds from the dark of the rear seat. Sometimes it’s an individual, lucked down and lonely.
He was my final fare for the night, it turned out. About half past one, he hopped into my cab. I try to establish a rapport with the customers in those first few seconds. A smile and a friendly greeting goes a long way, and I can get an appreciation of my customers from the way they act in return.
I liked this chap from the start. He was handsome in his black tousled hair, soulful eyes, a lovely smile, and he’d taken a lot of care with his clothes. I knew I’d have no trouble with him. He named a suburb a long way out and we set off, my Dire Straits video playing.
Whoops! Without any warning at all, a few minutes into the ride he threw up. I pulled over immediately, and handed him the packet of tissues I keep for emergencies.
And I turned the meter off. I’d much rather have a drunk empty himself out completely and clean up as best he can, rather than do a half-assed job to save a few cents while the meter ticks on.
He looked at me, sick all down the front of his expensive jacket and soaking into his trousers. “Do you want me to get out?”
I almost kicked him out. But the initial eruption had been entirely contained by his clothing, he hadn’t gotten any on the floor or the seats, and it was a long walk home for him. I could have left him on the side of the road, and been entirely within my rights.
If he’d been more copious, I would have. And I’d have insisted on the fifty dollar “soiling” fee. Believe me, fifty dollars doesn’t even begin to cover the cost of taking a cab off the road for the hours it takes to clean up properly from a vomit incident. I had some youngsters sick up in my cab during my first days as a cabbie, and I had to take out the seats, wash the seat covers, hose down the rubber floor mats, and vacuum out the interior thoroughly. It took a day before the car could be put back on the road, and even then passengers would wrinkle up their noses on entry.
I reached into the back seat pocket for a sick bag and handed it to him. I’ve got a collection of airsick bags, scrounged from my travels, and there’s always one or two in the cab within easy grasp. Like the brace position, a sick bag is something you’ve got to have ready instantly.
“Just give me a bit of warning, will you? And you’ll get to see just how fast a cabbie can stop.”
We had to stop suddenly a few times more. Once for a classic, down on all fours, heaving the heart out session. After a good weekend, the roadsides of Canberra’s roads are pungent with used pizza and soiled tissues, and this chap was adding far more than his fair share.
But, so long as none of it comes back into the cab, it’s no skin off my nose. Better out than in, I always say, there’s a backup box of tissues in the boot, and two or three cleaning rags available.
He apologised profusely. Highly embarrassed, but I reassured him that, “these things happen. It’s okay. Let’s get you home safely. And if you feel we need to stop again, just let me know, okay?”
There was a twist. He looked at me with those big dark eyes, confessing, “I just decided that I was gay, and this was my first night, you know, trying it out.”
Obviously he’d been trying it out in the wrong places, because if he’d found the right place, he wouldn’t be telling his story to a cabbie. He’d have been snapped up in record time.
But isn’t it a wonderful thing that someone concludes they are gay, and instead of bottling it up for fifty years, hiding their feelings away from the common gaze, they go out and celebrate? Sharing it with the world and random cabbies. Sweet.
That’s part of the job I enjoy the most. The diversity in my passengers. Every night is different, and it’s the people that keep me interested.
I swapped a few cabbie yarns with him. There was the pair of professional partygoers, who had worked out a good routine for taxi chucking. One would open the door, lean out and have a good old yawn, well clear of the taxi, while his mate held firmly onto him from behind. They were so good that if it hadn’t been for the danger of blowback, I wouldn’t have felt I had to stop the car.
And there was the underage drinkers who got into the back seat, one on each side. An older and more experienced minder sat in the middle with a bucket and a bottle of water. Every few minutes she’d offer one or the other to her charges: “Bucket?” “Bottle?” I could hear the gurgling sounds from behind, but when we arrived at the end of the ride, there wasn’t a drop had found its way onto the seats or floor.
I guess I was trying to reassure him. These things happen, cabbies aren’t easily shocked, play by the rules and it will all work out. The fact that I was laughing, rather than swearing at him probably helped.
Still, he felt that he had to apologise about a hundred times. He would have hit the thousand pardons, but we arrived at his home before he could get them out.
There was thirty four dollars on the meter, but he handed me a fifty, with those words every cabbie loves to hear, “Keep the change.”
There was an hour left in my shift, but I found an all-night service station and gave the car a thorough inspection and clean. I couldn’t find anything, but I figured that there would be a bit of smell left over, and I’d be asking for trouble if I went back for another load. Instead I bought the servo attendant a cup of coffee and we yakked for half an hour, watching the night people come and go.
