Theodore, driving for thirty-eight years
Jimmy Stone used to be a popular name in the taxi business. When he was at it, he was probably the best taxi driver in St. John’s. I saw him one time driving this older lady up to Sobeys on Ropewalk Lane. He got her walker out and helped her in. He sat her on the bench and told her to wait there while he parked the car.
I was out by the door with the wife. I said, “Jimmy, what are you at?”
“I’m going in to help her buy her groceries.”
When he came out, he put the bags in the trunk, took her home and put her groceries away for her in her cupboards. Jimmy used to do that, and with some guys you can’t even get them to open a door for the customer. They wouldn’t care if you were 100 years old, they wouldn’t get out and help you with nothing. Jimmy was a taxi driver, buddy, I guarantee you. He was a gentleman.
The Taxi Inspector
Darryl, driving and dispatching for twenty-five years
It was five bucks for your taxi licence and twenty-five to register the car. The city would give you a big card that used to go in the window and a separate card for your pocket. You got one every year. You had to go down to the Horseshoe Tavern and get the taxi inspector. That was in the 1960s before City Hall was built. City Hall wasn’t built until the 1970s. He would spend all day into the Horseshoe Tavern drinking beer. Beer was only 33 cents a bottle. You could buy three for $1 and get a penny back.
There was no paper record of you getting your licence because he spent the $5 on beer. But then computers started to come into it and there was a record kept of everything.
The Knight Riders
Edward, driving for thirty-eight years
What got me into this headache? My father was poisoned with me going to him for money. “This is what you’re going to do,” he said. “You’re going to get a taxi licence.”
The Mounties took me out for my driving test. I drove around Pleasantville and parked between two cars. But when I went to back her out, I forgot she was still in reverse and struck the pole. The Mountie said, “Don’t worry, it was my fault. I distracted you.”
Frank Upshaw was doing the hiring for Gulliver’s. “See Bill Grouchy at City Hall. Tell him you want your taxi licence.”
I showed Bill my driver’s licence, and he wrote out a card and stuck a little silver dash on it. “Go to work,” he said.
That was in 1974. I’ve been at it ever since.
For my first job, I drove some buddy out to Mount Pearl, and he stuck me for the fare. At least, he tried to stick me for the fare. He got out and walked up to his apartment. I can still see him as plain as day. He said, looking down, “What are you waiting for? You’re not getting paid.”
“Say that to my face,” I said.
He ran down over the stairs and hauled out a wad of cash and started waving it in my face.
I was sitting in the front seat, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and took the money and shoved it in my mouth. “You’re not getting that,” I said. “Thank you.”
I ended up giving him a good knocking. But, man, he was as tough as nails—as tough as nails. When I got back into the car, he was getting up, and grabbed me by the jean jacket. He ripped the back right off, the square piece on the back of the jacket.
When I pulled out, he chased me with the piece of my jacket in his hand: “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you! ”
I still got my money, though.
You look back on those kinds of things and kind of laugh.
When I started driving, I never had any kids, and I wasn’t married. I had lots of time on my hands and cash in my front pocket. I was meeting all kinds of different people and getting paid for it. I was happy to get behind the wheel of a taxi and drive someone to work, pick them up and bring them home, or drive them to the supermarket, the hospital. It wasn’t like working in an office where you got to stick inside all day. You could come and go when you pleased. You could go home when you wanted, go pick up a bucket of chicken, or grab a beer if you wanted. Drivers weren’t under as much pressure and stress as they are now, either. At the end of the day, I can’t wait to get out of the car. It gets to you because you know you got to be out and there’s nothing else for you but taxiing.
There was a television at the stand where you could watch a bit of the news while you waited for a job. You could go in and watch television, relax, and have a cigarette and a coffee. All the drivers got along because there weren’t a lot of cabs on the road, and everyone was getting their fair share of work. There was no Jiffy. There was no Co-Op. ABC was on the go over on Southside Road, but they had maybe only fifteen or twenty cars. Courtesy Taxi only had five cars, and so did Golden Cabs. It was easy to make money because everyone worked a particular area. Golden Cabs had Churchill Square. Bugden’s had the east end. There were only ten cars down to Gulliver’s, whereas now they got close to ninety. You were working with a good bunch of guys who would take the shirt right off their back and give it to you. There was no job robbing, no fussing.
Johnny Dunn, the little midget, is dead now. But when he was dispatching, if a job was given to you on the stand to pick someone up, but there was already a car in the area, Johnny would say, “What do you want to do?” You would pass the job onto that driver. That was common. There was no robbing jobs on other drivers, and there was a very slim chance of getting a water haul—going to a house and no one comes out. There was none of this calling up two or three different companies on a Friday or Saturday night and taking the first one that got there.
We really had to work the hours, but that’s never changed. I had to put in ten, twelve, fifteen hours a day, just to stay on top. I ate, slept and breathed in the car. There was none of this airport stuff, hooking jobs to Clarenville, Gander, or Bay Roberts—a big score. You were tickled pink to drive a parcel up over the hill for $3. Right now, the meter starts at $3.25, but gas is more expensive. It used to be $5 for a half-tank of gas, and insurance was dirt cheap. I think I was paying $500 a year when I first put my taxi on the stand—probably less.
Rather than wait for a job from the dispatcher, I’d cruise. He would write you down on a piece of paper and if you didn’t get a job off Water Street he’d give you a house job. But Water Street was always flat out. Woolworth’s was the busiest department store in the city. Then there was The Arcade and Bon Marche. Those stores were open for years, long before I was born.
George Street was nothing, a ghost town. There was a supermarket and a scrap metal shop, and that’s about it.
Water Street was the thing for taxi drivers.
When I got put on nights, it was like a whole other world. I was used to picking up people at Woolworth’s and The Arcade. When the supermarket was on Parade Street, I would pick up customers with a load of groceries. I had never experienced night driving. I said to myself, This is wicked!
Fact was, you’re making more money and you’re into the downtown scene.
I learned pretty quickly that part of driving the night shift was hustling to make a dollar off the meter. I often had prostitutes in the car. Sometimes I’d drive them over to Confederation Building, and they’d take buddy with them and go lie down in the field for fifty bucks. They weren’t up there with those fancy girls, the call girls, or whatever it is you call them. They were at the bottom of the ladder—they were desperate. There was a whole load of them around Bulger’s Lane. The Portuguese and Japanese fishermen would come off the boats and they would give you fifty bucks for lining them up with a prostitute. Every driver knew where they were to, them and the bootleggers. If those same fishermen wanted a bottle of rum after eleven o’clock, you would bring them up to Shea Heights. If they wanted a woman and a bottle of rum, you’d take them up to Shea Heights and then back to Bulger’s Lane. Then he’s got his bottle of rum and his woman.
For me, how I remember it, Water Street in the summertime was like Hollywood Boulevard. People would be lined up on the sidewalks waiting to get into the
clubs. I’d have the windows down, the music going, waiting for a lady to stick out her leg, some beautiful blonde with a frame on her like a model. That’s the one you watched out for. You’re looking out the window, doing probably seven miles-an-hour because the traffic is bumper to bumper, and then out she steps with the red dress and the high heels and all done up to the nines.
That’s when I had long hair and a full mouth of teeth. I would pick young women up down around The Stetson, some woman who has had a fight with her husband or her boyfriend. They would stand around and have a cigarette and look for meat and watch you cruise by. You’d probably go past her three times and she would still be on the sidewalk, watching. As soon as they got in the cab, first thing, they would ask how old I was. They would ask if I was mar- ried, or if I had a girlfriend. Then they would want to know if I was interested in coming in for a drink. Picking up a woman was something I had never experienced.
As a matter of fact, I picked up a crew at the airport, an Air Canada crew. There were three women. They were talking back and forth in French, and one of them said, “Listen cabbie, I’m sure you must know where to get some special stuff.”
“What do you mean, special stuff?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. The good stuff.”
“Yes, I know where to get it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You drop these ladies off at the hotel and we’re going to go party. Don’t worry about the fare. I got that covered.”
“Go on,” I said. “Fine and dandy.”
The first place I hit was the Corner Tavern on Hayward Avenue. Dry. I went to Gower Street. Dry. I went to Froude Avenue. Dry.
“I don’t know what to tell you, missus. This doesn’t happen very often. I usually know where to get a few draws.”
I got hold of Baker on the stand. We used to talk in this lingo where nobody could pick up on what we were saying. “Baker, where can I get a bit of ice cream, or cotton candy?”
“Go up to Empire Avenue and wait on the corner.”
I went up and parked with her for five or ten minutes and three guys walked out from behind a house. I blew the horn to call them over, and she bought $100 worth of gear from them, which was a good bit of dope for that kind of money.
“We got to sample this,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere.”
“Are you serious?”
“We got to sample this before I go back to the hotel.”
We went up to Signal Hill, and I took a right by Deadman’s Pond. We went in where there’s a view of the harbour. “Down around the rocks” is what we used to call it. I put two cigarette papers together, rolled them up as thick as my thumb. “Do you really want to smoke this?”
“C’mon,” she said.
We were having a puff and handing it back and forth, and then she wanted me to meet the other two: “Come in and meet my friends. One is from Nova Scotia and the other is from Montreal.” That’s why they were speaking French. I went in and sat down. They had wine in there, all kinds of drinks, and then she hauled out the bag of dope.
The music was going, they were laughing, carrying on, and they were starting to get pretty damn frisky, and I got right paranoid. “I got to go back to work,” I said. “That’s it for me—I’m gone.”
If I told some of the younger drivers the stories I’m after telling over the years they wouldn’t believe a word of it.
It used to be fun and enjoyable to drive a cab. Maybe that hasn’t changed for the younger guys out on the road. Maybe I’m just out of the loop where I’m older. Michael O’Brien started down there with us, and he would tell you the same thing. He had his hair down over his back, too—real long hair—and gold on every finger and around his neck. Remember that show that used to be on television with the fast car that could talk, Knight Rider? That’s what we used to call each other, “The Knight Riders.” If you worked nights, that’s what you were called. That atmosphere is gone. As far as I’m concerned, taxiing is only good for a nineteen or twenty-year-old.
Concrete Jungle
Michael, driving and dispatching for thirty-six years
I used to love for a Friday night to come. That was your money night. Saturday night was the same way. But you didn’t have the cluster on George Street like you do now. We’d go and park at the Bella Vista. We’d go park at the Steamer. We’d go park at the Traveler’s Inn. The clubs were spread out. You only had so many taxis this end of town, and only so many taxis that end of town.
It’s like a concrete jungle down there now. Everybody is let out at one time and, you know yourself, you got thousands of people on George Street between two and four in the morning. The more decks they put on, the more buildings they open up, the worse it gets. Ten years ago, Shamrock City was a jewellery store. Now it’s a bar. All that along there on Water Street, the Post Office, what is it now? Dooley’s. The list goes on and on. Years ago, they had the El Tico and a couple little small bars. Mostly there were department stores and restaurants. In around the corner, you had Gosse’s. What could Gosse’s hold? Probably twenty people. Sterling’s was the same way. If you had ten people in there she was full. Some of the bars down there now can hold 1,000 people, I’m sure.
The only thing you had to contend with was a guy not paying you, or something like that. If you went to his house the next day, he gave you your $20. There are guys in this town that had hard names when I was taxiing. I know they don’t mind me mentioning them: the Drukens, the O’Driscolls, the Mahers, the Leonards. If they didn’t have any money or were that drunk they didn’t know they were even in the cab you’d just bring them up to their door and they’d go on in. The next day, you’d get the money off them at their house, or you might see them on the street somewhere.
I never had a problem where I had to call the police. I was never assaulted. I never had any problems like that. If you went over to Gosse’s or the Queen’s Tavern, or any of the older clubs, and got a guy who you figured was too drunk you’d just leave him there with the bartender. But nine chances out of ten you were after driving him home within the last week, and you knew where he lived. Now his wife might not be very happy about it. I brought a guy up from Gosse’s to Holloway Street. He had two bottles of rum with him. I opened the door, but she wouldn’t let him in. She broke the two bottles of rum right there on the sidewalk. She wouldn’t let him in, and he was no good to me. I ended up taking him back downtown and having the Constabulary look after him.
Anyone you interview in this city, anyone at all, will tell you it’d be worth it to sit on the roof of City Hall and look out and see what goes on Friday and Saturday night. If I’m coming up and I got you and your wife in the car and there’s three or four guys who wants to get in with you, they’re hauling open the doors, they’re jumping up on the bonnet, they’re holding onto the bumper.
That’s why I’m dispatching. I’m too old for that kind of stuff. It’s not fit down there—not fit.
Dead Time
Financial Hardships
“One thing about being a cabbie is that you don’t have to worry about being fired from a good job.”
– Alex Reiger (Judd Hirsh), Taxi
“Neither the company nor the union gives a damn about us. As far as they’re concerned, we’re machines—as wretched as the cabs.”
– Lucky Miller, New York City cab driver,
from Studs Terkel, Working
“We are all born poor.”
– Rise Mickenber, Taxi Driver Wisdom
In the public’s mind, the St. John’s taxicab driver personifies both the real and the imagined ills of North America’s oldest city. Whereas their habitat was once defined by the harbour and the railway station, it now encompasses the back lot of the airport, Water Street and Adelaide Street, and dozens of strip malls. These are often lonely and sometimes violent places. The popular image of the St. John’s taxicab driver is blue-collar and itinerant, if not criminal and low-life. But their backgrounds are often working class and lower midd
le-class. Unlike most major mainland cities where upwards of 50 per cent of taxicab drivers are from predominantly Muslim countries, the St. John’s taxicab industry remains largely ethnically homogenous: students, pensioners and the sons and daughters of taxicab drivers. Many are career drivers; few are women. Some, let go from other work, are too old and under- trained to re-enter the workforce, and they drive a taxicab as a last resort.
The taxicab industry, once a collection of family-run and neighbourhood stands, at its peak, in the years following the Second World War, counted forty-one taxicab stands operating within the city limits. Twenty-five years later, that number had dropped to thirty. Now there are just seven. What happened in the intervening years? As operating costs soared, older drivers and small fleets left the industry and sold their taxicab licences to larger stand owners. The 1970s also saw the emergence of the “broker,” an independent contractor or middle-man, who had acquired small fleets and then leased cars to individual drivers for an even share of the profits. By the early 1990s, a handful of companies had grown to encompass three quarters of cab licences.
As in many other municipalities, leasing doomed many vulnerable drivers to a kind of wage slavery. At the end of the day, drivers are paid 50 per cent of whatever has accumulated on the meter, minus gas expenses. This was an obvious attraction to fleet owners and brokers because it ensured daily receipts and removed the spectre of rising gasoline and insurance costs. Individual taxicab owners, generally referred to as “independent operators,” became subject to exorbitant and unregulated weekly stand fees. Although the 1990 Commission of Inquiry into the St. John’s Taxi Industry found that stands were making only a modest return on their investments, the taxicab industry is largely cash-based. The Taxi Bylaw requires daily income sheets to be kept, but those rules are not strictly enforced.
To maintain a competitive environment while offering the public an adequate level of service, the city has periodically capped the number of available operator licences. Currently, there are 364. Although there is no uniform policy in place to determine the appropriateness of the number—municipal documents indicate one taxicab per 500 residents—it is reviewed by the Taxi Commission annually. Each stand owner must first purchase a stand licence that approves the operation of the stand and sets space requirements for its taxis. While the city has never restricted the number of taxi- cab stands, it has limited the number of parking spaces (referred to in the industry as “slots”) to 402. While this regulation, in theory, offers owner operators some flexibility to move between stands, the reality is much different. The Commission of Inquiry determined that the regulations unfairly bind an independent operator to a stand, and that the opportunity to move was “exceptionally small and in most cases not practical.” One taxicab driver spoke candidly about switching stands: “What’s better, the devil you know, or the devil you don’t know?”
The Other Side of Midnight Page 4