As time went by, I slowed down a bit. Gave up Saturday nights, then dropped Friday night for Sunday. My two big money-earners gone, but with them most of the drunks, and I got to spend my weekends with my family.

In particular Kerri and I enjoyed our Friday nights, when I’d cook dinner, having it ready for her when she came home at the end of her working week. And the family didn’t have to tiptoe around the house on their days off while I tried to sleep.

Then the Wednesday Philosophy Club came into my life, and I’d stop work about six-thirty of an evening, and be so deep when the class finished at nine-ish that I’d rarely feel like starting up again. Kerri and I would drive back home together, discussing the topics raised in the class. Climbing back into uniform and going out into the quiet streets for a few more fares seemed pretty hard. Besides, the late evenings usually consist of sitting around on various deserted ranks, and about two in the morning after being idle for ninety minutes, I’d start to wonder if maybe there was something better I could be doing with my life.

Then I lost my beloved day driver, PeskiePete, to the taxi base.

And above all, there were more drivers on the road, competing for the same business. The government had released another hundred taxi plates. It’s easier and cheaper to do this than to improve public transport, which loses money.

Most of the new drivers were Indians, up from Melbourne, where they were the target of abuse. They quickly became the target of strong criticism here, from the established cabbies, for stealing fares, setting up illegal ranks outside hotels and clubs, passing other taxis en route to a rank. Not to mention the various scams, such as taking the long way to a destination, aiming to hit as many red lights as possible, setting the meter on the night rate during the day, refusing short fares and so on.

Kerri was complaining that I’d crawl coldly into bed in the early morning and do nothing but whinge about the lousy shift I’d had.

It just wasn’t worth it.

The owner wasn’t making any money out of his cab, and he sold it to one of the new Indian “cabfathers”. With it went myself and my day driver Rhys, but when Rhys got up at three in the morning to begin a new week, he found that he was out of a job.

I couldn’t work with people who’d sack good drivers without notice, so I took a regular passenger to the airport, let the peak hour wind down, and drove Betsy back for the last time.

I’ll be a part-time driver now, if anybody wants me, because I really do like cabbing. But I’ve got other things to do now, not least helping to move house and to get back to what I really enjoy – blogging and game design.

It’s been a fun five years, but it’s time to move on.

At least until some hound of a passenger interrupts me, wants me to drive him somewhere and accept money. Better than ad breaks, I suppose, but it sure cuts up the flow.

Anyway, I’ve been watching a movie about a heroic taxidriver. He saves hundreds from certain death, gets his passengers home safely – apart from one, who enters the cab in the first few minutes of the film and is still there at the end – battles with self confidence, makes love in the surf, and goes out to win one for the Zipper. It’s great stuff – a day in the life of a cabbie.

There’s singer Maureen McGovern, basketballer Kareem Al-Jabbar, people holding the sets together, an amazing juggling scene, and Girl Scouts fighting for their lives.

Our cabbie hero takes it all in his stride. Sweating buckets along the way, he does the job and gets the girl. It’s one of the ten greatest films in a crowded genre. Made on a shoestring but spawning a string of sequels. Thirty years later, there are people who can recite every line of the script. It’s a classic, and I love it.

I refer, of course, to Flying High. A jetliner with propeller sounds, no aircraft ever endured so much, or crammed in so many gags – in every sense of the word.

Robert Hays plays Ted Striker, Los Angeles cabdriver with girl troubles and a bad wartime experience as a fighter pilot. He boards a flight to Chicago to win back his stewardess girlfriend, the flight crew are dragged off with food poisoning somewhere over the Hoover Dam, and the only person on board who can bring the four engine jetliner in safely is Striker.

He’s a troubled man, and the audience feels every moment of his personal struggle. Taxidriving is like that.

And the best films show a hero overcoming adversity and internal conflict to win against the odds and find romance. This is one of the greats. This is a film to base a doctoral thesis on. This is what a cabbie does when he’s not driving.

Next week, playing on Cabbie Cinema for your viewing pleasure: Gone With The Wind – the story of lost property.

Much as I appreciate a three day weekend – and the probability of further extensions until the cab is repaired – I am in sore need of money to fund my upcoming trip, and the pleasure of leisure is balanced by the the sad thought of my bank balance.

I’ve been reasonably discreet with the news, but I was involved in yet another cab crash on Friday morning. Just after midnight, on the way in to the Alinga Street rank with the city centre full of young folk and the prospect of three hours of work, a young lady made a right turn across traffic, imagining that the green light freed her from the duty of giving way to oncoming traffic – me.

To be fair to her, it’s a confusing intersection, and the traffic lights control the pedestrian crossing, not the intersection, but still, she suddenly appeared in front of me and I was unable to stop in time. No injuries, but both cars had to be towed away.

The insurance will pay for the repairs, but the loss of income over the busy weekend, and likely the busy week with Parliament’s imminent return, will severely disadvantage the cab owner, the weekend driver, the day driver and me.

I’m getting rather cheesed off with this side of cabdriving. In the four years of cabbing, I’ve had more accidents than I ever did in the thirty-some years since I first got a learner’s permit. Nothing major, and one or two were my fault, especially that whole backing into a tree thing, but still it’s not good for the soul. Or the bank balance.

The job itself is a lot of fun. Long hours and short pay, but I get to read books and watch movies and surf the net between fares, and the people I carry are generally interesting. I collected a young lady from the airport the other night, a former Australian of the Year, and she was a total delight. In the middle of summer, she was carrying a heavy coat, and explained that she was off to Canada in a day or two. We talked about travel and Route 66 and the underground culture of generosity and service. There are so many people around who donate time and money to making the world a better place, and it delights me to hear of them. This lady was one, and knew many more.

Famous authors, leading public figures, artists – the list goes on and on. You never know who will jump into the cab. Or the ordinary people who will never make the papers, but delight me with their jokes or their good humour or their companionship in the night. A few days ago, I picked up four young people from a house in the suburbs, heading off for an evening at a nearby tavern. I looked at them, selected CD 1 which is Michael Jackson, and as “Billie Jean” thumped through the speakers, the three in the back seat began doing Mexican waves. I could see the hands rising and falling in the rear mirror, and I giggled happily at the sight. For some reason, we cabbies are supposed to be hard, crusty, unsmiling men, bitter at life and closed up in emotion. Not me. Something amuses me, I laugh.

I like the job. It suits me.

But the long hours and low pay aren’t sustainable.

In the meantime, I’ve got leisure to write, and to declutter. I went through my cupboards and put some stuff up on eBay. I’ll try to clear out a bit each day – the result should be a house less full of junk, and a bank that smiles at me.

An address in Ainslie, and when she came out in a light, gauzey green dress, telling me “Paviliion”, I wondered. The Pavillion is a nearby hotel, not a place for locals to go for a drink, but somewhere for visitors to stay. Bill Bryson, for instance.

But I didn’t say nothing.

It’s not at all easy to get to, and I had to head towards Dickson and back down Northbourne Avenue. When I indicated left to go in to the hotel entrance, she woke up, saying “No, the Carillon!”

Maybe she blushed, but I wasn’t looking.

We sorted it out and I promised to knock a few dollars off the fare. Down Limestone, Anzac, Constitution, and we see a sign saying that Wendouree Drive to the Carillon was closed. Something to do with the secret new ASIO headquarters building being constructed nearby.

So we had to go around the Kings Avenue roundabout – or rather the pot-holed temporary roads that mark the transition from roundabout to overpass – and across the bridge, under Kings Avenue, back over the bridge, and into the other entrance to the Carillon. I knocked off a few more dollars for that – I’d dimly remembered about the road closure from months ago – and all up it was a prime example of incompetence on my part.

The Carillon on Aspen Island is one of my favorite places. A beautiful elegant bell tower soaring white and pure above a small island, landscaped in a man-made lake, shores studded with monuments, showpiece buildings and grand vistas.

An open-air ninja concert featuring Amanda Palmer – Neil Gaiman’s brand new punk cabaret queen wife – and it looked like a merry scene as my passenger walked to join her friends, green gauze skirt brushing her thighs.

The clouds were darkening over Black Mountain as I turned the cab. Home was a few minutes away, and while I made a fresh cup of moka pot coffee, the skies opened. Heavy rain, lightning, wind – the whole deal, and I was glad that I was tucked drily inside Betsy.

Apparently it was an awesome concert. Umbrellas were not enough to shelter the crowd, and the lofty chamber of the Carillon can’t have provided much of a roof in the wind.

But the atmosphere! Reading Amanda’s twitter feed, it sounded like an incredible, albeit damp, time was had, leading to some monumental hangovers.

Me, I went off to hide in the underground carpark of Parliament House, to ponder whether I could have found any more roadworks and diversions on the way. I’ll be so very glad when they finish the current wave of construction!

A song about a cabbie giving grieving parents a free ride. A song that will resonate with every cabbie:
Into the stream, we pulled away
I know it well, this old ballet
Finding the flow, minding the sway
Catching green lights all the way

The comments on the YouTube video make it clear that this song is about 9/11, taking people home from the mortuary on 7th Avenue, where they gathered for news of the missing.

There’s hope and grace near the end – you’ll just have to listen, maybe check the lyrics on the singer’s site.

I downloaded a copy of the song from iTunes and immediately put it into my main playlist. If I get a chance, I’ll see if I can catch a performance on my next trip to the States.

I’m getting quite a collection of taxicab material. Books, memoirs, songs. Perhaps the best is Hack, by the New York Jewish lesbian nightcabbie Melissa Plaut. I heard her once, late at night, on NPR talking about her book and her first shift, which in one of those episodes of synchronicity, involved survivors of 9/11.

A great read of the stress and the joy of driving a cab. I read her blog for months before my own first shift – she inspired me.

“Airport, please!” he said, helping his wife into the back. Red remembrance poppies in their buttonholes, a row of ribbons over her right breast.

We paused at their hotel where he went inside to retrieve luggage. I turned to the wife. “Did you have a good look around the War Memorial?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

Oh? Visitors say what a wonderful, emotional place it is, how they could have spent days exploring the halls, how the bugler’s call tugs on heartstrings at sunset, the eternal flame lighting the long lines of names in the cloisters.

“We lost our son,” she explained.

Oh. The Governor-General had held a private ceremony that morning. Ten new names had been added to the thousands.

Her husband and I loaded the bags. I pulled out onto Limestone Avenue, past the War Memorial where the temporary seating was being packed away.

I had jazz playing: Tenderly and These Foolish Things mellow in the late afternoon. My eyes were brimming as I thought on the couple in the back. So very young to have had a son in uniform, who must have been of an age with the cadets from the service colleges who often piled into my cab for a night out with their comrades. A son now “lost” but cherished in their thoughts and their hearts.

We pulled up at the terminal. I cleared the meter, said “No charge,” held the door open, and lifted luggage from the boot.

He didn’t understand, pulling out his wallet.

“The fare’s already been paid,” I explained.

“What? Who by?”

There was a catch in my voice. “Your son.”

When I first had my taxi licence, I was working six twelve-hour night shifts a week. I was raking in the money.

Now, it’s different. There are about twice as many cabs on Canberra’s roads and it’s rare to have the sort of peak hour frenzy or Sunday morning cab queue that I cut my taxi teeth on.

I’m also paying a lot more attention to my family.

They warned us about it in cabbie school, and I’ve seen too many cabbies run into marital difficulties. The long shifts, the fatigue, the stress.

As the old lament of the shearer’s wife goes:

Friday night too tired,
Saturday night too drunk,
Sunday too far away.

Over the years of cabbing I’ve cut back a lot. Most recently, I’ve given up the lucrative Friday and Saturday night shifts. Nor do I stay out until four in the morning to hand over to the day driver. Sure, I’m missing out on money, but I’m better off for it.

I have a family.

It wasn’t fair for my family that they should spend their weekends tip-toeing around the house so that I could get some sleep. And that when I woke up, I’d get into my taxidriver uniform and head out onto the streets, coming home at dawn and falling into bed exhausted.

It wasn’t fair on me either. Taxidriving is unhealthy enough without adding constant exhaustion to the long idle hours, the junk food, the supernormal amounts of caffeine.

So now I have a life, and I have fun.

And, to be honest, with about a bazillion cabs on the road, there isn’t the financial rewards of staying out after midnight. I often spent a couple of hours sitting on the main cab rank, slowly moving up and then getting a fare that was only a few dollars.

I could do better than that. I could spend that time tucked up in bed.

I’ve given up my Friday and Saturday night shifts in favour of doing family type things. Shopping, browsing through galleries, having a family dinner with a bottle of wine and candles on the table. My two kids live at home and now that they are grown up, they are a pleasure to be around. Not that they weren’t as children, just that nowadays we can have grown-up discussions. Set the world to rights over a good bottle of Shiraz.

There are things in life more important than money, and nowadays I’m happy, my family is happy too, and that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it?

They got in on the main city rank, now re-opened at a third the original size. “Can we stop at a bottle-o first?” one asked.

“Right-oh!” I replied. “But where are we going?”

“Formule 1″

“You beauty!” I thought to myself. The Formule 1 motel is one of those cheapo deals out on the highway. $59 a night for a basic room and the dining room is a vending machine.

But it’s a nice long fare.

We went through Braddon, stopping at the Bottle-O there. That’s the trade name, and it’s a good one. Well-stocked grog shop, free parking outside, off-licence to print money, it is.

One of the two young men went inside and I hit the “Pause” button on the meter. It was going to be a good fare and people who stay at cheap motels are reaching into their own pockets to count the pennies. I look after them.

The guy in the back seat, a fairly chunky sort of fella, caught sight of the “Route 66″ keyring I have bluetacked to the dashboard. It’s one I bought at the Route 66 museum in Chandler, OK last year, and I keep it there for daydreaming purposes. That half day spent exploring the old road between Tulsa and Oklahoma City was a very happy one!

“I’m going to ride Route 66 next year with my father,” he said. “We’ll pick up the Harleys in Detroit, ride them to LA, and ship them home.”

Wow! What a trip! This chap immediately had my attention.

His mate got back in, with a six pack of Jim Beams to help the night ahead go down, and we set off on Canberra’s own Mother Road. Northbourne Avenue.

We talked Route 66 and the USA all the way. The food, the cars, the motels, the people. I mentioned that I’m planning my own father-son trip along Route 66 next year. From the other side of the generation gap. Myself, my son and my daughter.

I had lusted after a rental Mustang, but looking at the reviews it sounds like it wouldn’t be as much fun for the third person, sitting in the cramped back seat, peering out through a couple of tiny side windows. I’d be doing a lot of the driving, but some of the time it would be me in the back seat, and I wanted to enjoy the experience.

So we’ll likely hire something with a bit of size and a bit of style. A Chrysler 300C would be ideal. Lots of room for people and baggage, space for extras, a bunch of buttons to press and an image that is unmistakably All-American.

Not as much fun as a Harley, to be sure, but I’m not a Harley kind of guy. I wished my passengers the best for the trip, put my foot down and whipped off in a cloud of dust for the airport, where I watched the planes climb into the night sky and sent my thoughts with them.

Earlier that day, a package from Amazon had arrived, containing a DVD: Route 66: Producer’s Picks.

Not a lot to do with Route 66 as such, but for the feeling of driving through Sixties America in a classy car, there’s nothing to beat it. The black and white scenes, the corny live-to-camera adverts, the unforgettable theme music, the guest appearances of later stars, the thought-provoking plots, and above all the lifestyle, it’s a pleasure to watch.

I’ve got a bunch of maps and guidebooks, any number of websites, and all my dreams to keep me going until next year.

So after sitting on Dickson rank for half an hour, slumping into my seat and jumping when a chap opened the door and got in beside me, I decided after dropping him off that I’d have a snooze.

But first I had to take my guy home.

“Braddon,” he says, but he couldn’t tell me the street name. “I’ll show you – just a bit this side of the football oval.”

Hmmmm. Never a good sign when a passenger doesn’t know where they are going. I had Chet Baker going and this guy had his eyes closed and was making kind of gurgling sounds in the back of his throat. He was ringing a whole lot of alarms with me, but he didn’t smell of alcohol. Maybe he was just tired. Like me.

I asked him a question and he opened his eyes. Last thing I want is someone falling asleep when I don’t know where to take them.

We found his place and I dropped him off. $11.50 on the meter, and he just wanted five dollars back. I expected a twenty proffered, but he’s got a wallet full of fifties and he hands me one.

“Ah, just give me thirty back.”

Well, of course I didn’t. I gave him back thirty five dollars, because that’s the fare and a sweet tip. He seemed surprised, but didn’t argue the point.

Next stop was one of my little parkland hideyholes, and I locked the doors, turned off the meter display, killed the sound, cranked the seat back, put my cap over my eyes, closed them and just then the despatch screen lit up with a silver job.

Naturally I hit the “Accept” button. Silver jobs are an extra eleven dollars, and generally a class of passenger who won’t run off without paying, smack you in the face or throw up in the ashtray.

Senator Brown of the Greens. Actually quite a nice bloke, and I’ve given him a lift before, years ago in a normal cab. He may well end up being quite an important party leader after the election.

He hopped into the back seat this time, along with another chap, who I assumed was a party official, and they talked party talk in low tones, Chet Baker blowing over the top.

After I delivered them safely, I looked at the airport rank, and it was reasonably empty after the stats screen showing sixty cars or so out there all evening, so I raced out there, tailed onto the line and had a family sitting in the cab fairly quickly.

“Fiji,” I thought to myself. In Canberra’s winter, Fiji is a popular, cheap and warm holiday destination. They had the international traveller feel to their bags, and they didn’t say much after a long day of travel.

Took them to Kambah, and found another favorite snooze spot nearby, where I actually got a good nap.

Woken up by a job coming in from Woden, and when I arrived at the pickup point, there was a young lady standing there with enough helium balloons to make her light on her toes. She crammed them into the back seat, completely filling my rearview with red and yellow and white and red, and directed me over the ridge to Weston.

She’d had a farewell party. Her naval officer husband was off on a four year posting, and it was goodbye to Canberra. Having been a naval wife myself, I was able to swap a few yarns with her.

And then I was empty again, cruising the winter streets of the nation’s capital, just Chet Baker and I in a silver limousine, cool as you like in the late evening.