Colourful night

I’d had a hard day. No nap. I was tired, even before the meter rate swaps over at nine.

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.