Two crappy Thursdays
Sep. 5th, 2008 12:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyringFunny, I thought Wednesday night was Thursday night. Not sure how it happened, but I guess when I finished my Tuesday shift at three on Wednesday morning, something impressed on me that it was Wednesday. I went home to sleep, woke up, and my brain must have ticked over to a new day.
I was making comments to passengers about Thursday always being busy with Parliament rising, and the cheap drunks coming into town. They must have thought I had a nut loose somewhere. Fair call.
Started off bad. The car was squeaking badly on Tuesday, and Wednesday it was really bad. Something about the rear suspension. All I had to do was go over a bump in the road or get out of the car and the noise would be right there squealing through my ears. And those of the passengers.
Of course the day driver hadn't done anything about it. I start off at three in the afternoon (or usually a bit later, once I've stowed my kit and done the paperwork), and it's pretty well busy busy busy from then on. By the time the rush slows around six, the workshop is closed. For a day shift, it gets quiet after ten in the morning, so the day driver could have taken the car in to be looked at.
He also hadn't washed the car. I know I hadn't on my Tuesday night shift, but it wasn't that bad. Another day and it was looking very dusty. Still cleaner than most cars on the road, but cabs have a high standard, and Silver Service more so.
I figured I'd run it through the wash once the rush had died down, but I didn't get the chance. Someone spotted it - base sent me a message saying a Marshall had reported my car as being unclean and I was suspended for an hour. They shut down my computer remotely. I said something rude in French.
I finished the job I was on - in fact I have a sneaking suspicion that the passenger talking Chinese into her mobile, supposedly ordering a cab for the return trip, might have dobbed me in - agreed to come back to pick her up in an hour, and went off to find a carwash. Had to go out to the airport, and as I hadn't had any lunch, I took some time out for a Subway. Drove back to pick up my passenger, car gleaming outwardly and not too bad inside, and while she spoke more Chinese to the base, my suspension was lifted, screen coming to life. Hmmmm.
Had a fare from the city to the airport and gave him a discount because the squealing was bad enough for him to complain. Dropped in at the workshop, but the CLOSED sign was up. I had one more short job, but by then I'd had enough. The noise was really bad and the thought of another nine hours of that was too much. I gassed up and went home, surprising the family by walking in before seven.
Oh well. Had an early night with the family. Got me some solid sleep. Worth the couple of hundred dollars in lost income? Maybe.
Had a text message from the owner on Thursday, asking me to bring the car into the workshop when I signed on. A message from the day driver on the visor saying, "Sorry I didn't FIX the car."
I was totally cheddared. But after about a kilometre, I realised that there was no squeaking from the back. I actually got out of the car at the traffic lights and bounced the back up and down to check. Didn't care what the drivers around me thought - most people regard cabbies as mad anyway. Fair call.
Texted the owner, and he rang back to say that they had fixed the problem, but a part had come in and needed to be fitted. I checked the note from the day driver, and found that it read that he hadn't FILLed the car. Yikes. I looked down. Only two dots on the gas gauge.
SIGH. I took the car to the workshop and waited for half an hour for the mechanic to get the work done. He was trying to do a dozen things at once, so I was actually grateful that it didn't take too long. The next couple of hour were a series of noshows and a short job in the wrong direction. I quoted a young lady fifteen dollars from Red Hill to Woden, and then she changed her mind and wanted to go a bit further. But she was such pleasant company that I swallowed the difference between my quote and what was showing on the meter. Four dollars for fifteen minutes of cheerful talk and laughter - bargain!
So it was a bad start to the evening, with time taken out to fill the gas tank early. Did some airport jobs, but got caught on the wrong side of the boom-gate when the passengers from the final plane for the night ran out. I'd paid my two dollars, waited for half an hour, but when the last passenger emerged, I was still two cars from the front. Had a few more bad jobs after midnight, but cheered up when I got a private call to come back out to the airport where a delayed flight was expected in about one AM. You can make a lot of money at the airport, with passengers wanting to be taken home, and home is often in one of the distant suburbs. You also get people booked into an inner-city hotel, a lower fare, but still not to be sneezed at.
We were three of us Silver Service drivers waiting in a Tarago, swapping stories and looking out for the plane. I spotted it landing - just a fast moving white tailfin beyond the terminal - and we joked about whether there'd be enough passengers for us. And where they'd be going.
"Banks," suggested Dragan. A long, long fare.
"Burra," offered Paul. Even longer.
"Campbell," I ventured. Campbell is the nearest residential suburb to the airport, just over the Mount Pleasant ridge.
The passengers began coming out, we went back to our own cabs and packed in their bags.
She got in beside me, a young lady with a smile.
"Campbell," she said.
I was making comments to passengers about Thursday always being busy with Parliament rising, and the cheap drunks coming into town. They must have thought I had a nut loose somewhere. Fair call.
Started off bad. The car was squeaking badly on Tuesday, and Wednesday it was really bad. Something about the rear suspension. All I had to do was go over a bump in the road or get out of the car and the noise would be right there squealing through my ears. And those of the passengers.
Of course the day driver hadn't done anything about it. I start off at three in the afternoon (or usually a bit later, once I've stowed my kit and done the paperwork), and it's pretty well busy busy busy from then on. By the time the rush slows around six, the workshop is closed. For a day shift, it gets quiet after ten in the morning, so the day driver could have taken the car in to be looked at.
He also hadn't washed the car. I know I hadn't on my Tuesday night shift, but it wasn't that bad. Another day and it was looking very dusty. Still cleaner than most cars on the road, but cabs have a high standard, and Silver Service more so.
I figured I'd run it through the wash once the rush had died down, but I didn't get the chance. Someone spotted it - base sent me a message saying a Marshall had reported my car as being unclean and I was suspended for an hour. They shut down my computer remotely. I said something rude in French.
I finished the job I was on - in fact I have a sneaking suspicion that the passenger talking Chinese into her mobile, supposedly ordering a cab for the return trip, might have dobbed me in - agreed to come back to pick her up in an hour, and went off to find a carwash. Had to go out to the airport, and as I hadn't had any lunch, I took some time out for a Subway. Drove back to pick up my passenger, car gleaming outwardly and not too bad inside, and while she spoke more Chinese to the base, my suspension was lifted, screen coming to life. Hmmmm.
Had a fare from the city to the airport and gave him a discount because the squealing was bad enough for him to complain. Dropped in at the workshop, but the CLOSED sign was up. I had one more short job, but by then I'd had enough. The noise was really bad and the thought of another nine hours of that was too much. I gassed up and went home, surprising the family by walking in before seven.
Oh well. Had an early night with the family. Got me some solid sleep. Worth the couple of hundred dollars in lost income? Maybe.
Had a text message from the owner on Thursday, asking me to bring the car into the workshop when I signed on. A message from the day driver on the visor saying, "Sorry I didn't FIX the car."
I was totally cheddared. But after about a kilometre, I realised that there was no squeaking from the back. I actually got out of the car at the traffic lights and bounced the back up and down to check. Didn't care what the drivers around me thought - most people regard cabbies as mad anyway. Fair call.
Texted the owner, and he rang back to say that they had fixed the problem, but a part had come in and needed to be fitted. I checked the note from the day driver, and found that it read that he hadn't FILLed the car. Yikes. I looked down. Only two dots on the gas gauge.
SIGH. I took the car to the workshop and waited for half an hour for the mechanic to get the work done. He was trying to do a dozen things at once, so I was actually grateful that it didn't take too long. The next couple of hour were a series of noshows and a short job in the wrong direction. I quoted a young lady fifteen dollars from Red Hill to Woden, and then she changed her mind and wanted to go a bit further. But she was such pleasant company that I swallowed the difference between my quote and what was showing on the meter. Four dollars for fifteen minutes of cheerful talk and laughter - bargain!
So it was a bad start to the evening, with time taken out to fill the gas tank early. Did some airport jobs, but got caught on the wrong side of the boom-gate when the passengers from the final plane for the night ran out. I'd paid my two dollars, waited for half an hour, but when the last passenger emerged, I was still two cars from the front. Had a few more bad jobs after midnight, but cheered up when I got a private call to come back out to the airport where a delayed flight was expected in about one AM. You can make a lot of money at the airport, with passengers wanting to be taken home, and home is often in one of the distant suburbs. You also get people booked into an inner-city hotel, a lower fare, but still not to be sneezed at.
We were three of us Silver Service drivers waiting in a Tarago, swapping stories and looking out for the plane. I spotted it landing - just a fast moving white tailfin beyond the terminal - and we joked about whether there'd be enough passengers for us. And where they'd be going.
"Banks," suggested Dragan. A long, long fare.
"Burra," offered Paul. Even longer.
"Campbell," I ventured. Campbell is the nearest residential suburb to the airport, just over the Mount Pleasant ridge.
The passengers began coming out, we went back to our own cabs and packed in their bags.
She got in beside me, a young lady with a smile.
"Campbell," she said.
