“I know,” he said. “But we had to do what we had to do.”
The Crown agreed to half the fines and no points. But it went on my record. I ended up paying $250.
Cab drivers are out all hours of the night, and we like to keep an eye out. Up off Stavanger Drive, I saw a guy on a pedal bike dressed all in black with a knapsack on his back. He was creeping around the neighbourhood. I phoned the police: “I just wanted to give you a heads-up, a tip.”
You know, they were more concerned about who I was and what I was doing than what that guy was up to. Can you believe that?
Another time, my kid’s best friend’s pedal bike got stolen. I was sat in the car and watched some guy ride right past me on it. I was looking straight at the bike—it’s an $1,800 pedal bike. It’s not cheap. I phoned the police and said, “My kid’s best friend’s bike was recently stolen. I don’t know if it was reported stolen or not. But I just saw it go across the street right in front of me.”
They said, “Who are you? Where are you from? What’s your name? We can’t take you at your word that that bike was stolen, unless it is reported.”
“I’m telling you that bike is stolen. I know that bike. I did the brake lines on it myself, and there are tire wraps on it. I put them on. It had fluid brakes in it. I had to turn them off because they weren’t working right.”
I gave them all the information so they could phone me back and let me know what they were going to do about it. I watched buddy go right by two cops. I thought, What the hell is going on?
Finally, I called the police back. “The guy went right by two police officers.”
They ended up doing nothing.
I know they got their hands full, but when people are reaching out for help or asking for assistance they should help them. Don’t ignore the call or investigate the person who is calling.
They got that guy on Craigmillar Avenue who was breaking into houses. He had over 12,000 material items. Who’s to say it wasn’t the same guy on the bike dressed all in black? I used to do a little bit of robbing when I was younger. That’s how you do it. If someone goes out late at night wearing dark cloths, a knapsack and got no identifying marks, it’s a dead giveaway. That person’s not going to work four in the morning.
I was coming up Monkstown Road on a Thursday night. A girl jumped out onto Monkstown Road trying to run away from her boyfriend. I slammed on the brakes, and I just missed her heels. If it had been a Friday night I would be in jail now because I would’ve been going twenty kilometres faster, and I would have nailed her. She was screaming in the most frantic voice you could ever imagine: “Help me, help me! Call the police!” Meanwhile, her boyfriend stopped, and there was another guy with him.
I told her to get in the car. I hauled out my cellphone, and held it up so buddy could see it. “That’s the police; they’re on the way.”
I don’t want to beat a guy up, or get beat up. I could get stabbed, or I could lose my life.
When she got in the car, her boyfriend ran over and kicked the door. I gave him a shove, and then he took off. I looked back at the girl. Here she had a shiner on her face.
Her friend was just there by Bannerman Park in a parked car. “Stop, stop, stop,” she said. “That’s my friend.” She just jumped out and went on.
Where were the police when she was getting the guts beat out of her? They’re walking up and down George Street talking to the girls—that’s where. There are chicks hanging out of the two cruisers, tits and legs hanging out of the cruiser. What kind of message does that send? It sends a bullshit message, that’s what it sends.
A People Person
Leonard, driving for four years
I like the people. I’m a people person, buddy. Yes, sir. I’m a 100 per cent people person. If you’re not, you shouldn’t be in this industry.
I get people in the car that I drive regularly. They have ADD. They want to go from point A to point B. They want to make sure you stop at every stop sign. They want to make sure you make a left when you’re supposed to make a left and a right when you’re supposed to make a right. If there’s not exactly $5 on that meter, buddy, they go right off the deep end. When I get those people in the car, I don’t turn on the meter. They say, “You never turned on the meter! How much is it?”
They’re afraid you’re going to say, “$5.25.”
“How much did you pay last time?”
“$5.”
“Well, $5 is fine.”
I had a person in the car years ago. I got him down by Adelaide Street; he was stood up around a lot of people. They were intoxicated, basically. He looked like he was intoxicated, but he didn’t fit in with the bunch stood up. People were waving and stuff, and I saw him. I knew he stood out for a reason. I picked him up and dropped him off at St. Clare’s. I knew there was something wrong. I knew he wasn’t drunk because he didn’t fit in with the rest of them. I can’t explain it to you. I just knew that. He ended up being a severe diabetic and almost died. Some guys will recognize that, and some guys won’t.
Just to give you an idea. Do you remember that autistic kid that got arrested by the cops a few years ago? He was walking up Pennywell Road. Whatever way he was walking, the cops thought he was drunk, or something. They went over and confronted him. He was autistic; the cops were foreign to him. Whoever arrested him, and there were several involved, just couldn’t get it. The cops didn’t know, didn’t care, had no training, or couldn’t recognize that this young guy had some issues. They must’ve grown up under a turnip. Those people have no life experience, those young cops. We give them a gun and a badge and they start going around arresting people.
Hotheaded
Francis, driving for two years
You can’t be confrontational with customers. That’s what I’ve learned. When I first started, I ended up quitting three times because I was confrontational. You get people screaming in your face: “You do what I tell you to do, you dirty maggot.” Stuff like that. I had four older brothers. The way I grew up was if someone gives it, you got to give back twice as hard—no matter what. Do you know what I’m saying? So driving a cab was a little bit of an adjustment for me. I ended up doing a few courses at MUN, philosophy courses. It chilled me out quite out a bit. But if you’re not good in stressful situations and you’re unable to problem solve or to negotiate then driving a cab is not the job for you.
I dropped my buddy off at a wedding up in Shea Heights. Him and his girlfriend are regulars. I noticed there were two cop cars and two supervisor vehicles in the parking lot. I pulled in and said to the police officers, “Do you need a hand with anything? Do you want me to take someone out of here?”
“Sure, no sweat.” They turned around and started talking to a couple and some other guy: “Your best bet is getting in that cab and going home out of it.”
I ended up driving them from Shea Heights to St.Phillips. One of them was after getting into a racket with a nineteen-year-old. He himself was a forty-odd-year-old. I call people like him “repeaters.” They keep saying the same thing over and over and over again. Right from Shea Heights to St.Phillips, he kept saying, “Would you let anyone say anything like that to your wife or kid? Would you let anyone say anything like that to your wife or kid? I’ll beat his head in; I’ll kill him. I’ll beat his head in; I’ll kill him.” He just kept saying it over and over again.
The guy in front was a local businessman—I knew who he was. He was just rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
Buddy in back then started classifying everyone from Shea Heights as scumbags.
His wife said, “Shut up out of it! Shut your mouth! That cab driver might be from Shea Heights.”
I started laughing.
Buddy in the front asked, “Where are you from, cabbie?”
“Shea Heights.”
The repeater said, “Where are you from, cabbie?”
“Shea Heights.”
“You’re just saying that now because I said everyone from Shea Heights is
scum. They’re all a bunch of scumbags up there, aren’t they, cabbie?”
“I suppose. They’re all scumbags.” You got to agree and have fun with them. What are you going to do, disagree with them? You’re not going to get anywhere very fast with that type of attitude.
You got to understand that there are people like that. I mean, he never directly insulted me. He never said, “You’re a scumbag cab driver.” He was just generalizing. It just so happened that he got into a racket up in Shea Heights. It could’ve been Paradise, Torbay—anywhere. Even then, you can turn around and tell him to shut his mouth. But that’s only going to lead to more nonsense. The best thing is to take your cellphone, dial the police and show him the number. That usually takes care of everything.
That same weekend, I could’ve had another altercation. We don’t like to pick up groups of guys. They’re too much trouble, especially if they’re buddies. There’s strength in numbers. When you come down over Queen’s Road you look for couples. You don’t want to be picking up three or four guys. You can pick up a bunch in suits, and it’ll be the same thing. Just because they’re in suits doesn’t mean you’re not going to get trouble. I passed a group of four guys, and this girl was stood out on the corner. I stopped, and she said, “Come on!” She’s what we call a “baiter.” She stands up and gets a cab to stop, and the guys get in.
They got in the cab, and I said, “Where are you headed?”
“Empire Avenue.”
There’s four different Empire Avenues. You got the one by the Taxation Centre, and you got the one by Columbus Drive. That breaks off and goes up by Mundy Pond and Blackmarsh Road. Then there’s one down by the stadium. I knew they were headed up by the crosstown, but I didn’t know which side. I said, “Can you be a bit more specific about where the house is to? Can you name anything around it?”
The guy in the back said, “It’s Tucker’s Superette. Come on, dumbass. You don’t know where Tucker’s Superette is? Do you know what I’m saying, dumbass?”
I looked in the mirror and as I made eye contact with him he looked away. I don’t take personal insults. I’m pretty easygoing; I get along with everybody. But I don’t take personal insults.
One Friday night, a driver radioed in and said that he needed help on Kenna’s Hill. It’s just down by the stadium. I stopped, and another of our cars stopped. Then a Newfound Cab stopped, and then a City Wide and a Jiffy stopped. Cab drivers help each other out. Remember that old guy that got that real bad beating? He ended up in critical condition. He was smashed up, and he was just an old guy. Some people have no bones about it. They don’t care if you’re young or old. We got to look out for each other.
Our driver was stood up outside with four young guys. To be honest, I don’t know how to take this guy. He’s had a bit of a history with altercations. A few times, he even drove people to the RNC building and got them arrested. He’s a hothead, but he’s harmless. What ended up happening was two of the customers were arguing and were about to get into a fistfight in his van. So he stopped the van and told them to get out. We were all stood up in the parking lot, and he was screaming, “I want my $10!”
The Newfound guy said, “Boys, it’s either pay the $10 or you’re going to jail, and you’ll be in jail until Monday morning.”
At this point, an undercover cop came along. She saw the ruckus, jumped out and flashed the badge. The boys paid the ten bucks.
I was walking to my car, and another car pulled up. There were four of them inside, big brutish, grizzly bears. They were screaming, “Get the fuck off the road! You cab drivers are all a bunch of scumbags.”
They were obviously impaired, and they were driving. I tried to ignore them, and one guy said, “Get off the road, you fucker.”
I said, “My car is off the road.”
“Well, then, get them off the road.”
“That’s none of my business,” I said. “Go around.”
Then he jumped out and started walking towards me and pointing his finger: “I’m going to rip your head off !”
“You can go right ahead, but there’s a cop right there.”
As soon as I said that he went right into the ruckus.
I jumped in the cab, and then the three guys that were into the first altercation ran over to my car: “Any chance for a ride home?”
I was like, “Boys, are you serious? You were just giving that other driver a hard time, and now you want a run home?”
“We don’t want to walk. It was his fault. We got a story to tell, too.”
“Give me twenty-five bucks, and I’ll give you a run. I’m not messing around.”
“No sweat.”
They paid the twenty-five right off the bat.
On the way, they got to telling me that here they were just carrying on with each other, and the driver thought they were serious. When I drove them, you couldn’t have asked for any better. They were hugging me and patting me on the shoulder. To them, I was the best thing since sliced bread.
You got people beating up your car and slamming your doors. How are you supposed to deal with them? Get out and punch them in the head? Then you’re on charges. We had a guy who got out after some teenager, and now he’s up on charges. The teenager was throwing snowballs at the cars, and the driver got out. The teenager came over and made a swing. The driver is a boxer and made short work of him. The teenager saw the car number and the company name, and his parents phoned the police, pressed charges and took him to court. He’s looking at honorary discharge and two years’ probation.
He told me last week, “The judge asked me if I had my time back would you do it all over again? I would do it over again. If anyone makes a swing at me, I’m swinging back. Straight up self-defence.”
The judge said, “It didn’t occur to you to run? Why didn’t you run away? Why didn’t you call the cops and press charges?”
I know plenty of drivers like that. But that only leads to trouble. You got to feel people out. If you’re hotheaded it’s not going to work. For a good while, I was like that. I’m back at it full-time now, though, and I’m doing okay. But the major adjustment was with me.
Violence is Not the Answer
Bazil, driving for twelve years
It’s getting to the point where someone is seriously going to get hurt for stiffing a taxi driver. It happens so much that the frustration level is growing and growing and growing. The taxi drivers are going to say, “We’re fed up with getting beat up, picked on, used and abused. We’re coming to our buddies’ rescue.” Now maybe these guys will never rip off a taxi driver again because they know what’s going to happen to them. Guaranteed that’s going to happen. Guaranteed.
It’s quicker for me to get a couple of my buddies to come by and beat the shit out of you than it is to get the cops. And sooner or later, that’s what’s going to happen. The cops aren’t going to get there in time and someone is going to end up in the hospital with a serious injury, or someone is going to end up dead.
Violence is not the answer, but it’s getting to the point where something’s got to be done to tell people to stop fucking around with the taxi drivers. You can’t be ripping us off. Someone is seriously going to get hurt. Some taxi driver is going to haul out a baseball bat and beat the fuck out of someone. Internal injuries, broken legs. I can see it happening. But taxi drivers got to remember one thing—that if you take it out you better be prepared to use it. If you don’t, they’re going to use it on you instead. That’s why I don’t carry weapons. You’re better off talking your way out of it.
Epilogue
Honesty is the Road to Poverty
Theodore, driving for thirty-eight years
The neighbourhood stands are practically gone; they were gobbled up by the fleets. Some were sold wholesale, while others died a slow death. Some taxicab drivers might call this progress, or the inevitable consequence of increased professionalization, while others would say not much has improved and that the industry has lost much of its personality.
According to this driver, the stand owner he drove for didn’t keep up with modernization—marketing and the pursuit of lucrative contracts which lure and retain brokers, the backbone of today’s taxicab industry. An earlier monologue was more scathing in its reproach: “The owner didn’t care. He was half-cracked. They never had a psychiatric assessment done on him, but he wasn’t all there.”
I was thirteen when I bought my first car. I quit school and bought a 1961 Valiant for $31. My mother nearly killed me with the heel of her shoe. I’ll never forget it. I’ve had dozens of cars since then, but you never forget the first one. One night, I picked up two girls, and I had to push it down past the stadium because it wouldn’t start. There was smoke going everywhere. You never had to have insurance, but you were supposed to have a licence. I didn’t care. Most of the cops walked the beat, and you’d never haul in for them. They’d be waving their flashlights and we’d just go on. The car you were driving could be in some buddy’s name from four owners ago. You can’t get away with none of that now. Those were the good old days, buddy.
When I first started taxiing it was for Will Snow on Pearce Avenue. It was called Snow’s Taxi. That was in 1973, I think. He probably had five or six cars, him and his brother, Jim. The dispatch was in behind his house in a shed. They used to call him “Dollar Will” because he used to drive his regulars for a dollar: “Give us a dollar. Give us a dollar.” I wasn’t allowed to charge you $2 if you were one of his regulars: “Well, Will only charges me a dollar.” I didn’t know the difference.
I worked down to Burgess Brothers’ Cabs when old Jim Burgess was on the go down on the east end of Duckworth Street. That’s going back thirty-five years. Jim Burgess was a well-dressed man and right proper. I used to clean their cars for 50 cents, and then I’d hop in a taxi to go to work. Burgess Brothers’ Cabs was a good stand. They never did anything out of the way down there. There was no bootlegging—nothing like that. Certainly drugs weren’t heard tell of. But I remember Crown Taxi on Springdale Street used to bootleg right on the side of the road. Buddy had a box that was as big as an outhouse. He had it stood up alongside a pole all the while when I was a kid. He used to bootleg from it. He didn’t care if he drove a passenger or not so long as he sold a few bottles of liquor. The liquor store was just right there on the corner. When they closed, he’d open.
The Other Side of Midnight Page 16