The whole meeting was an absolute nightmare.
In the midst of it all, a friend of mine commented, “My babysitter’s father has got taxis. Why don’t you give him a call if you need a job?”
I was just trying to find something temporary. I was looking at bars, and I didn’t really want to go back to the bars. My son was going on a trip to St. Pierre, or Quebec, and I didn’t have the money. He made a joke like a typical teenager: “You should get a job. You should drive a taxi.”
In a matter of five days, I went from joking about it to being out in a taxi. I never had a clue how to taxi. The only thing the broker told me was that I couldn’t wear jeans. He didn’t give me a map book, he didn’t give me anything like that. I was sent out on a Saturday morning. He told me who the dispatcher was. He told me that when I push the button on the radio to say car whatever and tell him where I was to. He drew all the stands out on a piece of paper. He sat in the car and held onto my finger like you would a child and pushed the buttons on the meter, he let it go, and he said, “Now you do it.” Then he basically patted me on the arse and off I went.
I was frightened to death.
What surprised me was that I could never work another job and have the same level of money and availability as I do with taxiing. This week, I bought a couple extra things. I’ll go to work tomorrow to pay for it. If I had something extra today, I’d go to work tonight. You make your money at your job, but how can you make more? Avon, maybe. Taxiing is the easiest way to have a job and a half. You don’t even have to go home and change your outfit. I’d never have had that if I had stayed at the university.
Then there’s the fact that it’s easier to work with a bunch of guys. Say you got three female taxi drivers out on a night. Every time we’re stopped waiting on a job it becomes a bitch fest. If you’re dealing with the guys, you don’t know if their mother’s sick. You don’t know if their wife is pregnant. You don’t know that their youngster is on drugs. You don’t know that their father just died. Whereas the minute you pull up to a female they’ll tell you their life story.
It’s the first time I’ve worked around this many men for this long. At the university, it was all women. We had just the one token male. It’s so apparent that most guys don’t have the same level of responsibility as women. Even the ones that do don’t treat it the same. The ones who do take on responsibility still don’t do it like a woman. There are a few whose daughters are on drugs, they got the baby, and they’re struggling to pay all the bills. But they’ll still drop everything on Wednesday to go get drunk. Whereas the females are like, “When am I going to be able to drop everything to go get drunk? Okay, I’ll do it tomorrow.” Then tomorrow becomes the next day, the next day become next week, and next week become next month.
At the stand, there’s a group of the really old taxi drivers. They’ve got this ornery kind of way about them. They don’t want to know your name, or your business. But they treated me differently because I’m a female. I could pull up to a stand, and they’d say, “Oh, did you hear? There’s a few big jobs going out from here.” They’re not thinking that maybe I’ll go and try to get it, or I’d remember it for next week. To them, I’m just a female—I don’t threaten them. If I was a male driver they’d tell me where there weren’t jobs. They’d send me in the wrong direction.
I guess I don’t intimidate them; I don’t scare them. That’s how I got all the good bits of information when I first got started. Like I said to them, “I’m just a girl driving a taxi.”
Poor-Mouthing
Margo, driving for six years
A lot of boys poor-mouth their way to tips. Their wife got her leg broke, and they’re working extra hours. One of the kids wants a new bike but they don’t have the money to buy it. One girl told the customers that she had a yeast infection. Can you believe that? I got a crowd of women in the car on the way back from downtown, and they said, “Oh, my god! We got another female driver.”
I said, “Yeah, there’s a few of us around.”
“Are you going to tell us about your health problems? The other one told us she had a yeast infection. ”
I went, “Oh, dear God!”
That made it funny because they knew I wasn’t going to talk about any of my female issues, and I even got a tip afterwards. But it was probably on the back of the poor taxi driver who had the yeast infection. On the other side of it, I know what taxi driver that is. I’d like to go up to her and say, “What are you doing? Why are you discussing those issues with your customers? You’re just making it harder on the rest of us.”
I Need This Job
Max, driving for four months
The vast majority of St. John’s taxicab drivers are from the Metro area. One driver said, “Years ago, there’d be a few scattered women around, but you’d be hard pressed to find a foreigner at it.” There are indications that the number of immigrant taxicab drivers is rising, and their reasons for driving a cab seem remarkably similar to those of native Newfoundlanders. Still, many face additional obstacles such as language barriers and unusable foreign training, like this driver from the former Soviet Union.
For forty years, I live in Almaty. Almaty is first city of Kazakhstan. No problem for me before 1991. After 1991, when Kazakhstan separated from Russia, lots of criminals. You know, in Kazakhstan, there is lots of oil. When lots of oil, lots of money. When lots of money, lots of criminals. I’m an economist. I have a diploma in economics. In my country, I had a little business with two little stores. Criminal people want 50 per cent of what I make, and leave me with 50 per cent. If I don’t give 50 per cent, this criminal people, they say, “I kill your family and fire your shops.” They say come to my house and kill me, kill my son, kill my wife. I shake in terror. I sold my business, and I come here.
When I came to Canada, wife have divorce, and she live with my son in Calgary. I lived in Montreal for four months. In Montreal, very different people. I don’t know why. In Montreal, lots of immigration people. Maybe this problem. I don’t know. Here, if I not know, I ask you, I ask everybody. Everybody tell me, “Go here, go here, go here.” In Montreal, if I ask everybody: “Ah, fuck you!” There are lots of languages in Montreal, lots of people—a very big city. I don’t know French. I knew English a little bit.
I visited Toronto; I visited Ottawa. Very nice cities. In Toronto, in Ottawa, I don’t know where I need go. I can’t ask anybody. They say same as Montreal: “Fuck you! Fuck off !” I no ask because I know what they tell me.
My lawyer say, “Go to St. John’s, Newfoundland.” I come here, and I’m very happy here because one language and very good people. I like here because here easy. Not criminal. When I go to bed I no lock door. I know here not criminal. But my country, three or four locks.
St. John’s has friendliest people. Very good people.
My diploma not good here because economics Russia, economics Kazakhstan and economics Canada very different. My diploma here not good. First time, I work dishwasher. After I buy car, I work pizza store delivery driver. Five years. Here driving taxi I only work three or four months.
I have experience from when I work in pizza store. Every time I use my map when I first start working. I study, study, study map. Now I know city. Sometimes, I no understand speaking. My English not good. Sometimes I no understand where I need go. If I no understand, customer write me—I check, I read. No problem. I know this street, I know this avenue, I know this road. I understand maybe 75 per cent. If no understand, I ask again. If no understand, customer show me where I need drive.
I like taxiing but it very difficult for me. I work many hours. I understand I need money. I need to work ten, twelve hours in day. I tired. I know this not good for me. I need rest. Here I can’t take food because sitting. Every time I sit here in the car. Sometimes long times, sometimes short times in this car waiting for customer.
In St. John’s, not lots of jobs. I need this job.
A Bunch of Cutthroats
Danny, driving
for three years
While tipping, meaning “to give gratuity,” can be traced to the Middle Ages, its modern origins come from eighteenth century Europe. In the post-Civil War era, wealthy Americans traveling through Europe brought the practice home with them to demonstrate their worldliness and sophistication. Tipping soon became widespread. In coffee houses and pubs, signs reading “to insure promptitude” adorned prominently placed containers.
Some social scientists point out that tips are an expression of empathy for workers who earn low wages. The expectation of a tip complicates the relationship between taxicab drivers and their customers. Historically, the practice of tipping brought taxicab drivers closer to what might be best described as “service workers.” While taxicab drivers might reject the characterization, according to historian Graham Hodges, “Their relationships with customers and the chase for better tips make them resemble servants.”
There are good tippers, there are stern tippers, and there are bad tippers. The stern tippers are the type of people who let you know that they’re giving you a dollar. The university crowd, the younger crowd, don’t know the meaning of a tip. They’re the bad tippers. You’d be lucky to get an extra nickel out of them. Then there are the freeloaders. If you’re close, the meter is negotiable. If you got eight bucks and the meter says ten, then eight is fine. But don’t do it every weekend. I’m out; I’ll recognize you. What are you supposed to do with them? We got guys on the stand that if you don’t have the fare right to the meter they’ll take you straight to the RNC. But drivers know that the cops don’t want to charge them. The cops are like, “Come on. Is it necessary for us to charge this person?”
“Hang on now. What if you got paid $22 for an eight hour shift? What if you got paid $5 for the first hour you punched in? How does that sound?”
I drove a couple to Oxen Pond Road this past weekend. It came to twelve bucks. They only had eight. I was being nice, and I said, “Eight bucks is good. Don’t worry about it.”
She got out, and the guy got out. They had a kiss and said their goodbyes. She went on, and buddy got back in.
I said, “Where are we going, bud?”
“Higgin’s Line.”
It hit me that they didn’t have enough money to begin with. “Do you have any money?”
“No.”
“I can’t drive you to Higgin’s Line with no money, man.”
Of course, he was a young university student. He was like, “Come on.”
“I’m out here working,” I said. “This pays my bills and buys my groceries. It keeps my heat and light on.”
I don’t understand a lot of the younger people. They all work in the service industry; they’re all waitresses and waiters and bartenders and bouncers. But still and all they don’t tip, and half the time they don’t even have enough to cover the fare. A tip is everything, especially for a cab driver.
It’s got nothing to do with how much money they make, either, or how much they got in the bank. I think it comes down to ignorance. Some people got everything given to them, I guess, and never know what it’s like to work for a living. The people you know who got nothing are the ones who usually do try to give you something extra. They know what it’s like being out trying to make a dollar.
This elderly couple were going from the Quality Inn to Bacalao there on LeMarchant Road. It was a $7 run. I came straight across Duckworth Street, up over Barter’s Hill and right on LeMarchant Road. The man said, “We didn’t come this way last time. We went through Rawlin’s Cross.”
“I didn’t want you to have to cross the street in traffic. I wanted to let you off on the right side of the road.”
“I’m sure now,” he said. His voice and his demeanour was pretty condescending. “You just wanted a few extra dollars in your pocket.”
I tried to be polite. “No, sir. I’m not ripping you off. On a small run like this I’m not going to rip you off for twenty-odd cents. I mean, come on.”
His wife was telling him to give it up. But he kept on and kept on.
In the meantime, while he was telling his wife that he was in the right, I turned the meter off. He stopped the conversation. “Why did you turn the meter off?”
I said, “If $7 is going to be out of the way for you and your woman to have a good night out, then the ride is for free. You got me feeling bad over $7, man. Go out to dinner, and go have a good time. Don’t worry about it.”
He was like, “Yes, right on!”
But his wife was good and pissed off. She gave me a $3 tip. When they walked away, she said everything to buddy: “Why do you have to do that every single time? Every single time you hassle cab drivers.”
I drove an old guy out to Petty Harbour. He had this sandy, sandpaper face. He was big, too. He was six-four, or six-five—a big old fisherman. All the way out, he was tearing me a new asshole: “Cab drivers are all a bunch of cutthroats. I suppose I got to pay forty bucks now for this run. For fuck sake, I wouldn’t burn $3 in gas driving home in my truck.”
You don’t usually comment too much. But I said, “You can walk, or you can get caught for impaired driving. That’s six or seven grand and your licence gone.”
When he got out, I happened to look back, and I noticed that he dropped his money on the seat. It was at least three grand worth of fifties. It was a big old stack of them. I was new to the business and young. Being raised the way I was raised, I gave him back his money hoping to change his perspective on cab drivers. That would’ve made my day. I got out with the money, and said, “Hey, buddy. Come here, I want you.”
He turned around, and I stuck out my hand. He said, “I’m not shaking your hand, you cutthroat.”
“Look closer.”
And there was his money in my hand. He took his money and said, “You’re all still a bunch of cutthroats.”
If You Want to Drive, Get Your Own Cab
Gordon, driving for eighteen years
Some customers think they can get away with anything. They get in the car and they think they own it. I remember one of the other drivers, a good buddy of mine, had someone burn cigarette holes in his back seats. The driver told the passenger he couldn’t smoke in the car, and he took the plastic knobs off of the locks and twisted the steel. I had one guy reach over, drunk, and try to take control of the steering wheel. I had to hit him with an elbow in the forehead. This was a big guy, too, biceps like footballs. Going down Craigmiller Avenue, he reached over the seat and grabbed the steering wheel. There were cars on both sides of the road and children playing.
I said, “Listen, buddy, I’m driving this taxi. If you want to drive, you get your own car. I’m damn well sure that if a youngster comes out from between two cars and gets hit, your story isn’t going to be the same as mine.”
Then I had another guy who, oddly enough, I picked up at a cab driver’s house. It’s early on a Friday night—it’s not even dark out— and he’s drunk. I said, “Where are you headed?”
He told me to take him to the east end of town, behind the Holiday Inn—around that way. He then reached over turned the meter off. “You don’t need that on,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I got a family to feed, bud. I don’t know where you get off.”
Then he turned the meter off again. He said, “You don’t need that on.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. And don’t touch it again.”
“Buddy, I got to make a phone call.”
I knew there was going to be a dozen stops, and I knew I probably wouldn’t get paid. I brought him to the Fountain Spray on Military Road. It’s a Needs Store now. I decided to just drive away and leave him there. That’s the best thing to do with those kinds of guys.
Have a Nice Day, My Darling
Fitz, driving for fifteen years
I picked her up this missus at the airport, took her luggage and got her aboard. You know—common courtesy stuff. Everything went number one. I brought her down to her place, and she paid me for the job right to the penn
y. We’re responsible to put whatever they need a hand with on their step, so I haul her bags out of the back of the car. There was no tip, or nothing. “Follow me,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to bring them upstairs for me.”
I looked at her: “Bring them upstairs for you? Do you want me to unpack them and put them back in the drawers, too?”
“Don’t you get smart with me,” she said, “or I’ll call and complain.”
I wasn’t having that. “I hope you do. Have a nice day, my darling.”
She started in again: “I demand…”
You try to humour them and do the best you can, but sometimes you get fed up. “You demand what? For me to go upstairs and for me to take your luggage and put it in your bedroom? You’re cracked, girl. What’s wrong with your head?”
What it All Boils Down To
Don, driving for twenty-two years
The thing about St. John’s is we’re now on par with the national average of unemployment, which is five-point-something. The city is doing well. We got more people working. We got the university. We got five major hotels. There’s money out there. But yet they’ll be into the restaurants and into the bars and when it comes time to go home in a taxi they want a cut rate. I’ve seen them walk from car to car to car down Adelaide Street looking for a deal.
With me, the meter goes on—that’s it.
That being said, if I give you my cell number you can phone me for a taxi. But the difference with me is I won’t personalize company work. That work is for everyone. I’ll take the jobs in turn. Guys used to come in off the rigs to get their checks and give me a call. There used to be four coming in one week and four the next. I drove them around, and I told them if they wanted cigarettes or booze picked up, I’d do that, too. There was always a good tip because they had a pocket full of cash. After a few weeks, one of them might say, “Don, can I owe you $20 until we get back?” That stuff didn’t bother me; I was doing pretty well for myself.
The Other Side of Midnight Page 7