Quick mate! Quick! He
wants me to get to a pub in the middle of town quick it seems. We arrive and
park up a little distance from the pub. He is nervous, excited. We wait. Ten minutes
go by. “What are we waiting for? I
whisper so the people in the pub 50yds away cannot hear me. “My children…” he
gagged back a cry. “ I’m losing my children.” He was talking to himself and was
getting more agitated as he stared at the pub door. Twenty minutes go by. A woman comes out and lights a cigarette, he
tenses, and she is clearly the person we have been waiting for. A couple of
minutes later a man joins her, cuddles then kisses her grabbing her arse as he
does. Tony is breathing heavy “My wife…” he is whispering to himself… My
children…I’m losing my children” he then explodes out of the cab and runs at
the kissing couple. Screaming. Pushing. A scene. I leave. I leave because weeks earlier this same woman
tore at my clothes demanding sex. I obliged. I didn’t ask if she was married, I
didn’t ask if she had children. I feel sick. I never gave a thought. I was single. I saw this man’s life fall
apart. I took part in his downfall and watched it finally fall apart. He was
whispering prophetically his own future moments earlier, the future where he
sees his children at the weekends, where he over compensates with them at every
opportunity, a future where his home is probably a dingy flat. He saw that
future sitting next to me in the cab. I stopped women calling upon me to
scratch their itches; I refused from then on to shape someone's sombre future. I
have seen Tony in the park with his lovely kids, he was laughing and happy, but
I knew at 5pm, he takes them back to the woman that has sex with complete strangers.
This was a blog about the lives that got in a taxi, The newspapers i wrote for, now it’s just a blog about life.
Monday, 15 July 2013
Hammy.
A small diminutive man.
Drunk, happy and full of things to say, I cannot understand a single word so I
nod an awful lot. He wears a tartan cap with a bright red bobble on top. He is Scottish and sees the cultural irony in
his choice of headwear. Worried that my constant nodding to his indecipherable
drivel will turn into a twitch, I then decide to ‘hmm’ agreeingly. We arrive, he
pays me in 2p and 20p pieces and I am now wondering should I reinforce the floor
beneath my bed where my change bucket lives. He finally decides to leave the
cab, his face bright red with joy matching his bobble on his cap. He stops,
bellows something to me in drunk Glaswegian, opens his yellow polystyrene box
of steaming hot fatty kebab meat, grabs a large handful of what scientists are
still deciding whether it is meat at all and deposits it onto my instrument
cowling right in front of me. The grease is hot and is already running down my
leg and to my brogues that I dutifully polish every day. He is tearful at his
bountiful generosity as he slaps the same greasy hand onto my shoulder and
gives it a squeeze as he gets out, wobbles and falls into a bush. This was my
tip. I drove home open mouthed, incredulous and in shock to wash and change.
Took an hour to get the grease out of the carpet in the cab. AN HOUR.
Eileen
Her speech impediment
makes it hard for me to understand her. You have to listen hard. In her late
sixties and having spent, many years locked in her own home, away from the
frightening outside world. She is now going to shows and taking part in
community excursions, making friends. She pointed to a balcony on the second
floor of the flats, on it, she grows herbs and flowers and especially
strawberries. She loves strawberries. As we pull up to the entrance, she
stutters violently and shakes and I hold her hand and ask what is making her so
upset. Her neighbours spit on her herbs and strawberries from the next-door
balcony, they pour beer and stub cigarettes into her herb pots. Laughing.
Shouting. Poking fun at her speech. She hears them from her living room
cackling like hyenas. She struggles to tell me she is being bullied. She is
looking to move to a chalet type bungalow, small but with a small garden and this
lit up her face. I watch her wave the electronic key at the door and it buzzed
open. I sit outside, furious, watching and willing the hyenas to come out,
Eileen is already on her balcony scanning her little pots and quickly
disappears back in again. There is nothing I can do but stare up at the dirty
net curtains of the hyena’s lair. I reluctantly leave. I am a working man and
have to go to my next fare who is now wondering where I am. I do go back, slow
to a crawl, sometimes park and look up. Today everything looks fine. Maybe I’ll
pop back tomorrow. Maybe.
Karen.
I almost gave up
waiting when a well-dressed, well-groomed young woman appeared with a small
luggage case on wheels. She has been in the secure unit for six months. “We
have to go and get my dog” so off we go to get her dog. She tells me she has
been sectioned before and because of that, when the argument occurred with her
boyfriend they locked her up again. She is worried, “What if my dog doesn’t
recognise me? “What if he has been given a new home”? We arrived at the kennels
that is some distance from the town. Karen has been in the office for some time
and decides to stand outside. She needs to be outside. Way across the huge yard
a dog is being walked and he is barking, Karen notices and is now moving from
the door. The dog, a good 150 yards away is going nuts and is let go by its
walker and runs across the vast yard. “Jimmy! Karen shouts, the dog is
barking/crying as it missiles towards her. They meet in a dust cloud in the
yard, both in the dirt, both shrieking with joy. Karen is on her back being
washed by Jimmy, immaculate clothing not so anymore. A scene of happiness of
such I rarely see in real life. It took an age to calm them both down enough to
get them in the cab. Jimmies tail never missed a beat the whole journey. Karen
only had the £4.20 she was sectioned with and my meter said £19.80 but that was
ok. I took it and was happy with it. Karen saw me crying in the yard but that
was ok as well.
Cleaned.
The local theatre
emptied and the mum and young daughter are now in my cab, it’s quickly evident
however that the daughter is not feeling well and the mother opens the rear
window to its fullest extent and shoves her daughters head outside. I offer to
stop so she can empty her stomach contents onto the side of the road. I was too
late, the daughter was already projectile vomiting all over the side of the cab
as I was driving, and it even spread over the rear window. We arrived at their house,
her mother immediately offered to clean the mess off the cab, and I accepted
her help to clean up. My first task was
to make sure that there wasn’t any vomit was inside the cab and opened a rear
door and crawled inside to check. The mother came down the path with a large
bucket of soapy water and threw it at the cab. The window was still down and I
and the whole interior of the cab was now soapsuds and steam. I vocally let her
know how displeased I was and she ran and locked herself in the house and
called the police, whom after my explanation could not stop laughing. It took
three hours and all my own clean towels from my home to dry it out. After
changing clothes and explaining what happened to the controller, he did a bit
of a wee in his pants. I fail to see the humour in this and you had better not
be smiling.
Joan.
Its 2am and I’m picking
up an elderly lady from the hospital to take her home to a nearby town, she is
quiet and thoughtful, you sense that some people should be alone with their
thoughts. A few minutes go by; the night is especially dark as it is a new
moon. I hear the start of a little choke that precedes a cry, something I hear
a lot. The already low volume of the radio is silenced as I switch it off. I ask if she is ok as gently as I could. “My
husband, he passed away tonight” I just listen.
“We were married for sixty one years and I have never been alone, never
slept alone and never been in our house alone in all that time.” We sit outside
her house for quite a while, I hold her hand and she makes eye contact with me
for the first time and sees me being a bit tearful and I apologise for my
silliness, eventually she plucks up courage to go into her own house. I told
her I will be with her till all the lights are on. I end up making ‘that’ call to
her daughter and she is on her way. I leave. I do not belong there. The house
is now full of activity; neighbours are knocking, even at this silly hour of
the morning. Its 3.30am she isn’t alone and I drive away, I forgot to get paid
again, but it doesn’t really matter. Not really. I finished my shift soon
after, got to my own car and find it smashed up by vandals. I had a bit of a
cry.
John.
Twenty-five years in
the navy, he is 73, smart and smells fresh and clean he has just visited his
lady friend in the caravan that’s in the nice park just north of the town. It
has just gone eleven and the meter trips over to the night rate at exactly that
time; I notice he noticed that the meter is now on the enhanced night rate and
ask him about himself. He tells me about the boatloads of alive and dead souls
he has seen in all of the oceans of the world trying to flee from oppression.
He has holed and sunk gunrunners and their cargo, he tells of lovely weather
and death in the same sentence, always just an able seaman, never promoted and
was happy with that. We arrive and I stop the meter total, he is sighing as he
is counting his change. I laugh and joke and wish him a good evening, I even
get out of the cab and open the door for him , stand to attention and salute,
he laughs and walks off, I notice his shiny brogues, good ones. You can
tell. He did not notice my sleight of
hand because I didn’t take his money, it wasn’t that much. After twenty-five
years protecting this country, it was just a little thank you from me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
The Bench He Never Sat on
Not a random bench, the actual bench. I bought a bench before my step father died. I put it under a tree, it was to be a place I could ta...
-
I began writing this about seven hours after being discharged from hospital, after being taken their some seven hours earlier today (Mon 11t...
-
It’s a heady, stuffy warm mid-August late evening. The smudged painting of a blue-pink and yellow sky and low sun makes for a truly be...
-
So...you want me to kill EVERYONE in the pub From murder to theft. Cattle rustling to debt collection. I've been asked for my ...