It finally happened!
Well, that’s one more place on my cabbie blacklist. Certain addresses I just won’t touch. Homes where the residents call multiple cab companies, taking the first one that shows up. Homes of people who have been abusive. Clubs with lax security enforcement.
It was past half-time. Half-time for me comes after the Perth flight at 2230. There’s one more Virgin flight – an hour later – before the airport closes for the night, but I’ve found that passengers on the low-cost carrier aren’t as likely to take a cab, and if there are more cabs than required, likely I’ll have wasted a long wait and the two dollar boomgate fee to get out of the airport cabyard.
I got a nice long fare off the Perth flight, down to Oxley, Chet Baker
I worked out of Kingston for the rest of the night. Kingston is tricky because the rank is out of direct view of the bars on Green Square, and unscrupulous cabbies will often cruise slowly along, or worse, park with their light on, snapping up passengers before they get to the cab rank where the honest cabbies are waiting. And waiting.
I got a long fare about half past twelve. Kingston to Cook with a wait for cigarettes at the Belconnen Shell servo. That put me over budget and, contemplating the remainder of a quiet night, I gave up, heading off for Braddon, a top-up, a “taxi wash”, vacuum and home to bed.
I was almost onto Belconnen Way when I got a radio job. Not fifty metres from the Belco servo, as it happened. And not a familiar address. Oh well. I turned left for adventure and profit instead of right for home and comfort.
Nobody waiting at the servo, and the street was a quiet little lane, serving the back entrances of various shops and repair yards. Not a regular place for taxi passengers. I hunted up the short lane, turned at the top and paused, scanning for human life.
A few cars moved out of a carpark, so there were people around. I realised this was the back entrance to the Pot Belly, a pleasant little bar often featuring live music. Probably locking-up time and a staff member needed a lift home. Probably a nice long fare, otherwise one of the others would give him or her a lift. Maybe even back into town, which would be nice.
Two figures approached, and one slid into the back seat. A young lady about middle age, looking like she’d had a few too many. I greeted her, asked her to buckle up, and prepared to move off, once I’d been given a destination.
Uh-oh. Instead of fastening her seat belt, she pushed her handbag into the front seat and climbed after it, sitting beside me.
“Uh, where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Where’s home?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Not good. Drunk passenger, no destination. I was also wondering if she’d fall asleep on me. Or throw up. Or have money to pay.
It emerged that getting home wasn’t a high priority. She eventually named a suburb, but when I pressed for more details, all I got was “we could find a park and neck.”
Hmmm. While I’m not averse to necking with middle-aged women, the authorities – meaning my wife – might not approve. Besides, I was thinking of getting her home safely and me home and to bed. I did my best to ignore her occasional touches.
I told her that the police station was just around the corner, and unless she gave me a destination address, I’d have no alternative but to leave her there. And, realistically, that was my only other option. I could hardly leave her seriously intoxicated all alone on the street, nor could I sit and chat with her all night. If “chat” was the word for what was on her mind.
Of course, one hears stories of female passengers offering themselves to cabbies, sometimes in exchange for a ride, sometimes on top of the fare, but apart from a bloke or two laying his hand on my knee, and a very rare peck on the cheek from a happy young woman, none of this had ever come my way.
Nor am I in a position to take advantage. I see my cab as a way of getting people home, not as a mobile love nest. Well, not for me, anyway – sometimes there’s some serious romance going on in the back seat.
We moved away from the now closed bar and around the corner to the police station. This didn’t have the hoped-for effect of demonstrating that I was serious.
Now, I’ll go to almost any lengths to help a person in distress, but if they won’t let me take them to where they need to be, then there’s not much I can do.
When I’d exhausted my options, I called up base, asking them to alert the Belconnen police. Within a few minutes, five burley coppers were assisting the lady from the cab. She couldn’t give them an address, either, but the sting came when she accused me of making advances towards her. I think the cops registered the look of outrage on my face, because they told me I could leave.
I hope they were gentle to her, either giving her a room for the night or working out where she lived.
I’m sorry it worked out that way, but I must reserve any blame for the people who continued to serve alcohol to an intoxicated person, and then pushed her into a cab as a way of getting rid of her.
And this is why the Pot Belly is now on my blacklist. If I get any late night calls there, I shall refuse to answer them.