The Other Side of Midnight

by Mike Heffernan

  Two years ago, my buddy, Danny, got into a bit of a fender-bender. The guy was driving an Acura sports car. It was one of the high-end models, like a Mercedes, not one of the ones you see around here. Buddy rear-ended Danny here in the Tim Horton’s parking lot. I got out making sure Danny was okay, and I kind of positioned my car so buddy in the Acura couldn’t take off. The guy had gone into Tim Horton’s without even realizing he had rear-ended someone. He came out, got back in his car and blew the horn at me. “Move out of the way,” he said.

  “No, I’m not getting out of the way, man. You just rear-ended someone. You can’t leave the scene of an accident.”

  He got out of his car and walked across to the Tim Horton’s.

  Me and Danny were talking. “Are you all right, or what?”

  “Yes, but my neck is a little sore.”

  I called the ambulance.

  “The ambulance will be here in a minute,” I said. “They’ll probably throw you on a stretcher.”

  Buddy came out with a coffee in his hand, a big black coffee. I knew right off the bat he was drunk. He was like, “What are you harassing me for?”

  “What do you mean, harassing you?”

  He said, “You blocked me in. You wouldn’t let me leave. Do you know you can be charged for that?”

  I’m like, “Hold on now, bud. You just rear-ended a guy. How come you’re not asking him if he’s okay? You’re more worried about getting away. That tells me you’re drunk. Are you drunk?”

  With that, he turned around and went back into Tim Horton’s for the third time.

  The cops came and then the ambulance took Danny off. He had whiplash.

  I told the cops that I didn’t know for sure if buddy was drunk. It turned out later that he was a lawyer, a high-end lawyer, and that he was drunk. It was his second offence. I guess he was trying to throw a coffee in himself to sober up. I couldn’t believe that someone so highly educated could be so stupid. I wouldn’t care what was going on, if I was drunk or not. My priority would be to find out if anyone was hurt. That guy was obviously a straight-up pig. Where are people’s morals?

  Getting Sick in the Back Seat

  Paul, driving and dispatching for seventeen years

  Physical violence? No, but I’ve had people fighting over a cab. Like if you got in on one side and someone else got in the other. Both doors are open, and you’re arguing over who got in the cab first. I’ll just drive down the road and whoever wants to get in can get in. I’ve had people throwing up. I would tell them, “If you get sick, you’re cleaning my van. I’ll haul into the gas station, and you’re going to clean up the mess while the meter is running. If not, I’ll get the cops, and they’ll make you pay for it.” The cops will make you pay $80 to have the van detailed.

  One fellow threw up on the side of the car. Another one I took to Paradise, and when I got out by Smith’s Home Furnishing, he got sick. He threw up right on the mat. I took the mat and all and just heaved it out onto the side of the road and left it. No mess anywhere else—that was it. I had four nurses heading home from downtown. When I turned off of Adelaide and onto New Gower, one of them got sick. When I got to Mount Pearl, she got sick again. I parked at North Atlantic Petroleum on Commonwealth and Brookfield, shut off the motor, and they went in and bought Pine-Sol, Windex, paper towels—the whole shot. When they got it cleaned up, the van smelled better than ever. They were nurses see, and they were used to that kind of stuff.

  I explained to the wife, when I get you in the van and it’s January or February, and I know you’re drunk, I’ll put down the four windows. I’ll freeze you. You’re more likely to throw up when you’re warm, but not if you’re froze to death.

  Zombies

  Danny, driving for three years

  There are two types of zombies. There are zombies, and then there are kamikaze zombies. It’s all got to do with the late hours of the night. There are the kamikazes that jump right in front of you. They don’t care if you’re moving at thirty, forty or fifty. They’re coming out, and they’re coming after you. They’ll kill themselves right on the bonnet of your car for a ride home. Then there are the zombies, like something out of Night of the Living Dead. You’re coming down over the hill and their eyes and their mouths are hanging open. They’re eating pizza, and they got it all down their shirt. Their eyes are crossed. They’re screaming; their hands are reaching out.

  I’ve often come in on Pitts Memorial Drive, and they’re out the highway. When you’re coming out on the highway you’re about doing one-twenty. I’ve often come in doing 170, or 180. About two weeks ago, there was a kamikaze right on the fast lane walking out to Kilbride. I phoned the police: “There’s no light there. He’s going to get killed, and a cab driver is going to go to jail for it.”

  “We’ll send out a cruiser. If he’s still there we’ll have a chat and let him be on his way.”

  As far as I know, you’re not allowed to walk out a highway. You’re not allowed to hitchhike, or anything. You got two cruisers sat there on George Street. Send one up, put him in the car and cart him off. Or call a cab and get him to pay for the run home. I know I’m not going to pick them up. That’s a zombie right on the spot. That’s the kind of crew we’re picking up every weekend. You got to be careful. My son, you don’t know what half of them are going to get on with when they get in the car.

  I Never Heard Nothing Until I Got Into This

  Fitz, driving for fifteen years

  According to folklorist Hagar Salamon, when someone tells a myth he or she enters into a kind of cultural dialogue with the listener. Myths convey messages. They address and respond to the dilemmas of human existence, and their repetition provides belief that solutions exist. Myths are not just confined to “primitive” societies but are threaded through modern social life. They use symbols, or signs, to “enable their transmission in concentrated messages.” Taxicab drivers often repeat “the myth of the naked women” as a means to mediate and to challenge the strains they experience in dealing with the public. The myth is defined by symbols—race, gender and social status— which articulates their uneasy relationship with female customers.

  I was a bartender for thirty years, but when they put the machines in I got fed up with it. I got fed up with it because there was no money to be made at it any more. Anyone could change tickets and ashtrays. Now they don’t even need you to change ashtrays. I was getting kind of bored with it, anyhow. I thought, Jesus, I got to get something else. My buddy spoke to me about taxiing. Right from high school he was in the industry. He said, “Go in and get a licence and drive the car for me in the daytime.”

  I said, “Right on. It sounds like a plan.”

  My brother-in-law owned a stand. I said, “Do you have a car to give me, or what?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  That’s how I got at taxiing.

  I’ve been working with people all my life. I thought I was after seeing it all and hearing it all at the bar racket. But I never heard nothing or seen nothing until I got at this.

  One morning, I went over to Hatcher House at the university, and two little Asian people came out, a girl and a guy. They put their luggage aboard, we’re going out over the road, and I happened to hear her giggle. I looked in the rear-view mirror, and here she had nothing on. I said, “What’s on the go?” Buddy never even had on a pair of socks. They were trying to get in a little dart before they went on the plane back home.

  People are unreal. They get in your car and they figure they own it: You do what I tell you. But they forget that there are other people who got to sit in the car, too. Many times, I’m after turning around and saying, “You can’t be doing that. What do you think you’re doing?” Then they look at you like you’re crazy, or something. To them, you’re only a dumb taxi driver, and I got to listen to what they’re telling me. To a certain extent, you do have to grin and bear it. What else can you really do? But you get kind of used to it after a while.

  They sent me up to Chanc
ellor Park one morning. It’s a place for elderly people who got to be watched around the clock. I went up and waited and waited. I called up the dispatcher: “There’s no one coming out of here.”

  He said, “I’ll keep you in mind. There’s nothing doing, anyway.”

  Next thing, out comes missus. She had on a three-quarter length mink coat. [He uses a French accent.] “Take me to the hotel down by the water.” That’s what she said to me. Now there’s a load of hotels down by the water.

  “My darling,” I said, “which one?”

  “Drive.”

  I drove down and, sure enough, she was talking about the Newfoundland Hotel.

  “Wait,” she said and went in.

  Exactly a half an hour went by: “Take me to that other hotel.”

  The Delta was what she was talking about.

  The meter was still ticking away. I hauled up, and she went in. Another thirty minutes went by, and out she came and sat in the car: “Take me to the other one again.” I went out the road, and I was talking away to her. She was saying where she was from, that in Montreal things were a lot faster. Then the next thing I know, she opens up her coat, and here she got not a tack on—nothing. Not a tack, not a tack. She said, “Do you want this, or do you want to get paid?”

  I said, “My darling, I can get as much of that as I want home. [He points to the meter.] Tick, tick, tick.”

  She peeled off $400: “Thank you very much.”

  Dealing With Drunken Women

  Danny, driving for three years

  While it is illegal to deny someone access to goods and services based on gender, in a recent CBC article entitled “St. John’s Taxis Leery of Young Women,” one company spokesman indicated that because they feared accusations of sexual impropriety some drivers were leery of picking up young women. There was an immediate backlash from women’s organizations. In a press release, the executive director of the Coalition Against Violence stated: “Negative ideas about young women exposed by this taxi company are incorrect and disrespectful.” Doug McCarthy, president of Co-Op Taxi, was quick to point out that, in the past, drivers, protecting their livelihood and their safety, had always picked up women first, couples second and men last. “Now,” he said, “that’s reversed.”

  At first, my girlfriend was a little skeptical about me driving a cab. Her main concern was driving after four-thirty and having to deal with the drunken women, the Jabba the Huts. It’s always the big, fat, nasty woman that’ll say, “I’ll show you my tits for a run home.”

  I’m in the car alone: “Ah, no.” Maybe if it was Pamela Anderson, or something, I’d consider it.

  I used to tell the girlfriend that she didn’t have to worry about anything. “I’m out working. If I come home every Saturday night with $40, then you got a reason to worry. I’m gone for twelve hours, and I got next to nothing made. You can phone down to that stand to find out if I’m working, and they’ll tell you.” I got to punch in and out when I’m gone on a call. If you’re not going to take a call, you let them know. If you want a break, or a coffee, or tea, or whatever, you let the dispatcher know. If you’re messing around, you got to take your name off. It’s only easy for the girlfriend to know if I’m up to no good.

  They Don’t Know They’re in the Car

  Michael, driving and dispatching for thirty-seven years

  If a bartender comes out and puts you in my car and I haul away, it’s my responsibility that you get home. I just can’t put you on your doorstep and say, “I’ll get the money tomorrow.” Even if I get paid and drive off and leave you there you could tip over in the snowbank, or you could strike your head off the concrete. You could die right there on your doorstep.

  When you pick up some of the younger crowd coming out of Liquid Ice at seven in the morning, they’re gone—wrecked on ecstasy and cocaine. You name it, and they’re on it. You might put them in the backseat, and they say they’re going to Hayward Avenue. There’s nobody going with them. They’re in the car, but they don’t know they’re in the car. They don’t know they’re in the world. But they’re going to Hayward Avenue. Once you put on that meter and drive away they’re your responsibility. Once you get to Hayward Avenue, then what do you do?

  You got to watch what you’re doing, too. People come out: “Take so-and-so home.” They put her in the car. She’s eighteen, or twenty years old. She’s a university student. It’s probably her first time in town. It’s probably her first time downtown. She’s got a little dress on. She’s drunk; she’s stoned. You get her back to campus, and she may trip when you let her out. She may scratch her leg, or tear her dress. She may tear her slacks. She wakes up the next morning and phones the police, and you got to go explain all this old stuff. Once your name goes in the paper for anything like that, sexual assault, the thought will always be in the back of people’s minds: Did he do it? Was it him? You may be innocent, but if your name ends up in the paper for sexual assault you got one hell of a job to try and clear yourself. You’re the last one to have seen her. Between here and there you had no one else in that car but her. There was one driver who was charged and went to jail. It could easily happen out there now. When you bring them home, you just don’t know.

  You Get Fucked Over, and Nobody Gives a Fuck

  Derrick, driving for eighteen years

  Most crimes against taxicab drivers are petty theft. Sometimes they are what the Criminal Code defines as “common assault,” which includes the use of force, both directly and indirectly, or threats. It is often the frequency and not the severity of these crimes that contributes to the perception that little is being done by the police to protect the taxicab driver’s safety and to catch perpetrators. Taxicab drivers are left to swallow their fear and anxiety and get back behind the wheel. But now they have a knife kept in their boot, or a sawed-off hockey stick beneath their seat: “We got to protect what’s ours.”

  Think about it. You can go into Walmart and rob a $4 shirt and you’re prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, to the point of going to jail. If you rip off a taxi driver for $50, it takes the cops over an hour to get to your location, and then they have the gall to say, “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want him arrested, and I wanted him prosecuted. That’s your job. He didn’t pay me. I want my money, or let’s get him arrested.”

  I had two kids arrested up in Foxtrap after taking me for a milk run. They owed me sixty bucks. I said to them, “I’m going to get you.” And I caught them. But this is what the goddamned courts did. Without giving me sufficient notice to show up and plead my case, they convicted one of them and told him to pay me. I never saw that money. With the other kid, at least they notified me in time. I went down to the court, and the prosecutor comes over: “Blah, blah, blah. He’s in school. He’s a nice kid.”

  He paid me my thirty bucks, his half of the fare. I didn’t get the second half of the fare. What’s wrong with that picture? I get ripped off, and he gets a smack on the wrist.

  Another night, I had two kids going to Kelligrews of all places, which was another $60 ride. The last kid gets out and gives me all these coins wrapped up in dollar bills. There’s a $10 bill, and inside that $10 bill are two coupons. And they’re supposed to be two $20 bills. Here I am with a $60 ride, and I all got for it was $18. My employer doesn’t give two fucks about you ripping me off. He sees me with those kilometres, and I got to give him so much money. It’s an industry where you get fucked over, and you get fucked over, and nobody gives a fuck. Do you understand?

  Doing the Cops a Favour

  Dave, driving for twenty-two years

  Taxi drivers have a working relationship with the police. Come two o’clock in the morning cars are flying left, right and centre. Cab drivers don’t drive slowly. Most times, if you’re passing police they’ll flick their lights for you to slow down. Some of the rookie cops will pull you over and give you a bunch of tickets. But they don’t understand that we’re actually doing them a favour. I’ve oft
en pulled up on the back of Rob Roy on Duckworth Street, and there’ll be a riot going on. I’ll open my two doors and say, “Come on, boys. Get in. If you don’t come with me you’re going down to the drunk tank until Monday.”

  I was only at it two months and a cop gave me a load of tickets on Adelaide Street, George Street and Church Hill. All in one shot— one whole load of tickets. Someone must’ve called and complained about some of us using Adelaide. I passed by twice that night and never thought anything of it. That’s what I thought the cop pulled me over for. I had a customer in the car, too—a drunk.

  The cop said, “I got you for a signal light and two rolling stops.”

  The customer said everything to him. He called him a no-good bastard and a fucker. “This guy’s out here trying to make a good living, and you’re giving him a hard time.”

  The cop listened for a little while and then threatened to put him down in the drunk tank. That shut him up.

  I gave the customer a run home for free.

  I took the ticket to court. I never bothered with my own representative because I couldn’t afford one. The Crown attorney was like, “What do you want to do?”

  “I just want the fine reduced, and I don’t want any points.” The cop was a nice guy. I said, “I know you picked me up for those rolling stops and the signal light, but we do you guys a favour hauling the drunks away. Sometimes we can’t come to a complete stop. We got to sneak around cars to get out from around George Street. If we stop, we hold up the lane.”