Driving a taxicab was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had. It wasn’t a job that would make you rich, despite the various implications by passengers as they sat watching the meter clocking up their fares. I usually worked a regular day shift, but on occasion did some evening work and sometimes worked the drag shift (dusk till dawn). You meet all types of people from every part of town as a cab driver, and included business people rushing around to their meetings, people from poor suburbs, people from wealthy suburbs, and everyone in between including shoppers, prostitutes and their customers, old folks, young folks. Everyone you can imagine. It was actually interesting to meet and talk to a lot of these people.
It was because of the wide variety of people that came into the cab that provided inspiration to conduct a gallop poll prior to one of Australia’s Federal elections. The government had been sacked in 1975, and a new election was to be held, and there was much speculation as to which party would be elected. I was particularly shocked by the manner in which the government of the day had been dismissed, and I wondered if others felt the same. One gauge would have been to see if people wanted the same party returned to power. So, I decided to ask everyone who got into the cab how they were planning to vote. A cheeky thing to do, perhaps, but interestingly more people volunteered their intentions than were offended by my enquiry. It turned out to be accurate, predicting the opposition being elected in a landslide victory.
It never failed to amaze me the number of people who used taxis who could least afford it. Trips to the TAB betting office were common. Not everyone was a winner. Trips to and from the dole office were also common. So, what were these people sacrificing if they were spending their money on a cab fare? Maybe they stayed sober that day, or did without a meal that night. Sometimes I’d have to drive miles to pick up some frail old man or woman who wanted a cab to get them little more than across the road or maybe a few blocks to the shopping centre, and sometimes these old codgers seemed to spend as much time getting in and out of the vehicle as they spent in the cab for the duration of the trip. If I were lucky I’d get a country fare. The company I worked for had a contract with the state railway authority. From time to time there would be a rail service breakdown, and a fleet of taxis would be ordered to transport rail crews and mechanics to and from the breakdown site, which was often miles from most anywhere. I’d fill the petrol tank, and have a nice drive in the country to some remote location. These jobs didn’t come up often, but when they did they were savoured.
There was an unusual fare I picked up from an Adelaide taxi rank. A woman aged about sixty-something got into the back seat, and as usual I asked where she wanted to go. She didn’t know. She said she was in Adelaide on holiday and would like to see a few of the sights. “Fine, no worries,” I said and set off. It would have been cheaper to go on an organised tour, but it was her money after all. I drove her around the prettier streets of Adelaide and up to North Adelaide where a view of the city could be had because of its elevation. This was not such an unusual fare, but then she asked if I would mind taking her a bit further afield. Did I have time to take her on a country drive? “Sure, where would you like to go?” I asked. We discussed options, and she settled on a trip to the Barossa Valley to look at some of the vineyards in the area. She was happy with her day’s outing, and took my card at the end of the trip.
The next morning when I turned on the radio in the cab and registered my presence for the day there was a booking on the board with my name on it. I had been personally requested for a fare. That’s not such a remarkable occurrence, but it wasn’t common. I went along, and of course, it was this old woman again. She wanted to go on another country drive. We went to Victor Harbour, a seaside town to the south of Adelaide, and we chatted from time to time along the way. It was quite a pleasant day, as was the conversation. It turned out that she was chatting me up. She explained that she was married, but her husband for whatever reason, couldn’t get it up, leaving her pining at the bedpost (Viagra wasn’t in use then). Images of the movie ‘Midnight Cowboy’ came to mind. That was the film in which Jon Voight’s character was going to get rich by fucking rich old women for cash. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Presumably, the first few hours spent in the cab the day before was her weighing me up. So, with her husband’s blessing she went off to find a stud, and the stud was me. I must have been about twenty-four back then, and here I am being propositioned by someone who seemed to me to be about the same age as my grandmother. Couldn’t she find an easier, cheaper way of doing this? I declined her offer, collected my fare, and she didn’t call me again. I felt touched, and sorry for her. Driving past the same taxi rank a few days later I saw her standing, waiting in the queue.
There was a fare I picked up at the Gepps Cross Hotel well after closing time. A young woman and her boy friend, both in their early twenties were standing in the middle of the car park. She seemed embarrassed by the state of drunkenness of her companion. He was so far gone he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. He could stand by himself but needed her help to direct him. He was distinctively lolling around. I was undecided as to whether I should drive off and leave them. I suspect she had called a few cabs before me that night, and perhaps I was the first driver who was considering accepting the fare. She looked so fed up that it was more for her that I took them. She opened the rear door, and was trying to manoeuvre him into the back seat. He was leaning with his back against the side of the car. She got so far with him, and then they stopped. There seemed to be some shuffling going on. I couldn’t work out why they weren’t getting into the car. She seemed to be struggling with him, but he wasn’t going anywhere. “What the fuck’s he doing?” I yelled as the situation began to dawn on me. I knew exactly what was going on. There was a trickling sound coming from the area of the open door. He had flopped his dick out, and was having a piss. I leapt out of the car to see him urinating against the inside of the open door. He obviously thought the door was a urinal. His girl friend was trying to wrestle him away, but he was hanging onto the door tightly, and wasn’t going to let it go until he had finished. She was embarrassed. I was infuriated. Eventually she got him inside, and we got on our way. She was very apologetic. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to go, but not before he spilt his guts and vomited the rest of what he’d had to eat and drink that night, onto the floor of the car. She must have seen it coming and held his head down. She was good enough to hose down the door, and clean up the spew when I got them home, and she reimbursed me a twenty in addition to the fare for the trouble they’d caused. That helped my mood markedly.
The next fare wasn’t far away, but unfortunately despite the attempt at cleaning the mess, some of the smell lingered. Embedded in the upholstery seams, I expect.
“There’s a funny smell in here,” the next customer said.
“Is there? Really?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Yes, there’s definitely a strange smell in this cab.”
“Oh, thanks. I’ll check that out,” I said as innocently as I could.
On a rather hot summer’s day another unusual experience occurred. One of the other drivers had a regular booking to take someone from Enfield to Elizabeth, a northern Adelaide suburb. However, the regular driver wasn’t available, and I was sent in his place. A rather hefty young woman got into the cab, and sat in the front seat. She was distinctively disappointed her regular driver wasn’t available, and after some hesitancy she decided to go with me. It was a reasonably long trip to Elizabeth, which meant I’d make a good few dollars from this fare. The taxi company I was working with was one of the few that did business in the far northern suburbs, which meant I was reasonably sure of getting a fare back to town. So, we got on our way, and I was happy.
My passenger’s initial disappointment in not seeing her regular driver subsided, and she began to make idle chat. Well, I thought it was idle chat. It didn’t take long before the tone of her conversation changed with almost all of her comments adopting a sexual suggestion. That’s fine with someone you know, but with a total stranger it was distinctively odd.
I wasn’t familiar with the suburbs in Elizabeth or of getting to her particular part of it, but a reasonable start was taking the Main North Road out of town. Shortly into the trip I thought it prudent to ask for some directions. “Garry,” that was her regular driver, “goes straight up,” she said, and pointed skywards. Presumably she meant keep to the road I was on. Then she added, “You can go straight up too,” and pointed upwards once more, this time pointing with a pumping action. At least I was going in the right direction even if her behaviour was a little strange. Not long after, she passed comment about the weather. It certainly was a hot day, and it was in the days before car air conditioners were common. She asked if I would mind opening the air vent on her side of the car. She appeared to be suffering in the heat. I obliged, and a breeze began to move the air, ruffling her skirt. She opened her legs allowing the air to circulate, and pulled her skirt above her knees. “Garry usually takes me for free,” she said as she opened and closed her legs. “You can take me, for free, too. If you want.” I looked at her legs opening and closing, not quite knowing what to think, but knowing exactly what was going on. She wanted a free ride for a free fuck. This was the reason she had a ‘regular’ driver. They had a mutually beneficial arrangement. “Oh, that feels good,’ she said holding up her skirt to catch the breeze. Did she think this was this meant to be seductive? What would be her next trick; taking off her top. I definitely wasn’t taking the hint, and after a time she stopped her antics.
At the end of the trip I asked for my fare, and she was miffed about having to pay. I watched her disappear into her house surrounded by a handful of snotty-nosed youngsters who were waiting for her. The youngsters were possibly the result of someone else’s free taxi rides. I dare say Garry would have had a lot of explaining to do when he saw her next. I had a quiet laugh to myself, as I drove off.
I was robbed as a cab driver. I was a mug to leave my money lying around, but it’s easy to become complacent when you feel secure. A coin dispenser and wallet were mandatory. After a time the wallet got rather bulky and throwing it on the dashboard became habit. Anyway, I was called out to a house in Norwood. It was early evening and the sky was getting dark. As usual, I pulled up at the front of the house, gave a toot on the horn, and began to fill out my log sheet, in anticipation of the fare. Usually by the time that’s done there is some activity at the house, but on this occasion everything remained quiet. So, I jumped out of the car and knocked on the front door. No one answered. It was an empty house. In the few minutes it took me to walk to the door to check it out and back again the money was gone.
Someone had rang through and made a fake booking, lingered around hiding in the street somewhere until the cab arrived, and as soon as I got out to knock on the door, they came out of hiding to rummage through my stuff, grabbed the money, and scarpered. It could have been some kids living in the same street, or more serious-minded thieves. There was no way to tell. The police contacted me a few weeks later. The wallet was recovered miles from where it was stolen. No money of course, just the empty wallet. No doubt it was chucked out the window as they were driving. News bulletins often report taxi robberies, and on occasion, attacks involving the death of the driver. My experience could have been a lot worse.