The Backward OX

I enjoyed writing this mostly-true tale; hope you get as much pleasure reading it.






As I was leaving the canteen, the manager saw me and beckoned me over.

“We’ve had a complaint from Star Cabs...”

“...And?”

“Maybe you’re a bit hazy on the regulations about picking up fares outside Brisbane?”

I grunted noncommittally.

“It’s just that complaints reflect badly on the company as a whole. Perhaps you might look over that section of the rule book, when you have a moment, refresh your memory?”

I stumped back to my cab shaking my head in disbelief. Fucking rules. Pages of ‘em. Do this. Don’t do that. Do something else. Do not pass Go.

Still, better have a quick shufti. Don’t want to lose my licence.

Transport Operations (Passenger Transport) Act 1974
74AB Prohibitions on using taxis
(2) The driver of a taxi must not use the taxi to provide a public
passenger service—
(a) in a taxi service area outside the area stated in the
licence for the taxi


1982

It was a typical Brisbane January evening. Warm and wet. I’d started work an hour earlier and had just done an out-of-area job, taking a fare from Aspley to Deception Bay. The guy had paid up front, and handsomely, and hell, it was only ten minutes drive back to the boundary anyway. Then, around six p.m., as I was approaching the Bruce Highway with my two-way tuned to channel four, Grumpy the dispatcher broke in on my thoughts.

“. . . . I’m not pulling a car off a rank for this! Is there an empty city car up around Burpengary by any chance?”

Never one to let an opportunity go by, and highly curious, I hit the Transmit button and responded.

“Double-five-seven, Anzac overpass, if it’s any use.”

“Stand by double-five-seven; another car?”

Silence.

“It’s up to you, double-five-seven. We have a Caboolture car on channel six with a fare to the airport. He wants to unload it to a city car, do you want it?”

“I’ll go for a run, why not?”

“Double-five-seven, meet the other car at the in-bound weighbridge.’’

“Double-five-seven, roger.”

“Roger, double-five-seven . . . . . Calling the Geebung rank. . . .”

Six or seven minutes fast driving north, a u-turn through a break in the median strip, and I met up with the other car. The driver seemed pleased to be rid of his fare, who turned out to be a weedy-looking and rather shifty-eyed individual carrying a thin black attaché case and overnight bag. He was dressed in the style of a typical swindler, or grifter, with a dark blue shirt, white tie, natty black slacks, and a black fedora with an extremely narrow brim pulled low on his forehead. He was altogether a most-unprepossessing creature.

He settled himself and his accoutrements into the back seat. “I want you to take me to a motel somewhere close to the airport. I have to catch an early flight.”

“Righty-oh.”

A lot of the time I’d talk to anybody about anything. But I’d met my match with this one. After a couple of attempts to start a conversation, which were met with grunts or single-syllable replies, the passenger finally said “Just leave me alone, ok? I’ve got something on my mind.”

“Fair enough.”

Then, as we approached the Gateway Arterial on-ramp, he spoke up. “Look, I’ve changed my mind. Just stay on the highway and pull up at the first phone.”

So I continued on into Bald Hills. Approaching the brightly-lit Caltex service station opposite, I flicked my indicator and changed into the right-hand lane.

Bad move.

“No, I don’t want to go in there. Find a phone out in the open.”

The Aspley cab rank was the next choice. While my passenger went to the nearby phone, I stretched, said g’day to another driver, yarned for a few minutes. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the grifter, gesticulating as he spoke. Hard to gauge if he was winning or losing. Then abruptly he hung up.

“Uh-oh. He’s coming back. Catch you later.”

“There’s been a change of plans. How would you like to take me to Sydney, wait for a day, bring me back again? Give me a price, I’ll give you half, in cash, now, the other half when we get back to Brisbane. And I’ll pay for your motel and your meals. What d'you say?”

I was stunned. This sounded like really big money. I’d cracked the odd pre-quoted job, from Brisbane to the Gold Coast, or from the airport to nearby towns, but never anything like this.

“Just give me a minute.” I went to the phone, rang my wife, who said it was ok with her, and got on the radio to Grumpy for a quote.

Twelve hundred dollars.

(Thinks. . . I’d need to work three weeks of normal shifts for the same amount. All in two days. Fishing trip coming up. You’ve got me.)

My guy said that sounded good to him. He opened his attaché case, extracted some money and counted out seven hundred dollars in crisp new fifties. “There’s some extra towards your personal expenses.”

Crisp new fifties? A grifter? Fortunately our mint has the world’s best anti-counterfeiting measures built into its products, and a quick check of a fifty showed the small plastic-like window in a corner that’s impossible to copy. He’d seen me look, and gave an almost-imperceptible toss of his head.

“My money’s good anywhere.”

True, I supposed. Ok, money’s money. Let’s get this show on the road.

The cab was refuelled, including the LPG, while I did some quick calculations. Say, six hundred and fifty miles – with luck, about eleven, twelve hours - although I’d need to keep an eye out for the Highway Patrol. Here, they cut me some slack, but the Gestapo on the interstate would be a different story.

We both grabbed a sandwich and coffee and I headed south-west.

The outside temperature dropped progressively as we climbed into the Granite Belt and I switched the air from cool to off, then eventually to warm. Crossing the state border and driving into Tenterfield close to eleven o’clock, I estimated we’d be on Sydney’s outskirts at around seven in the morning.

In my mind I’d re-christened the grifter. He was now Mr Silent. He just wasn’t a chatty guy. Anyway who needs him. I can think my own thoughts this way. Much more fun.

Around two a.m., coming down the Moonbi Range north of Tamworth, my old trucking instincts kicked in and I shifted into angel gear. The break from the tired whine of the Falcon diff was refreshing. My fare was dozing, but was jolted awake when I braked suddenly, swore, and swerved to avoid a ‘roo as we were levelling out at the bottom of the range.

I looked in my mirror. “Sorry . . . . .Feeling hungry?”

Getting an affirmative nod, I continued; “We’ll duck into the Peel River Shell, then. The truckies say they they’re the best for miles around for a feed.”

After a quick snack and re-fuel, two hours more driving saw us at Branxton as the sky was starting to lighten. I wondered if I could remember the back roads through to Wyong that avoided Steel City and decided to chance it.

And so on to the Newcastle Freeway for the last fifty miles or so of the run into Sydney’s northern outskirts. Traffic was becoming noticeable now. Early commuters, trucks, coaches, work vehicles, all the detritus that helps clog a city of four million.

Another hour and we were climbing the long hill from the Hawkesbury River to the toll-gates. Passing through Hornsby and approaching Pearce’s Corner, I said “Which way now, squire?”

“D’you know Sydney at all? I have to get to a meeting in Parramatta.”

“Yeah, I reckon I do. I drove a cab here for years before moving to Brisbane.”

With this, I turned into Pennant Hills Rd and fifteen minutes later was crossing the Lennox Bridge.

“Ok, let's find the Woolpack Hotel” my fare instructed. “You can drop me there, and pick me up again tomorrow morning – say around seven thirty.”

“I know the Woolpack. It’s on George St, right at the cab rank.”

Three turns in quick succession around the one-way streets, and there was the rank, empty. I drew up outside the hotel entrance and, as my passenger was alighting, I saw in my wing mirror a Red De-Luxe pulling in behind me. Its driver was taking a long, hard look at the strangely-liveried cab with its unfamiliar number plate. Before I could pull away he got out, walked up to me and, with a grin, said; “G’day, mate. Is this one of the new unrestricted cabs we’ve been hearing about?”

But, for once, tiredness beat me. “Mate, I’m stuffed. I’m heading for the Travelodge for some shut-eye. Hoo-ray.”

I slept most of the day. Arose, showered, watched Brian Henderson read the Channel 9 news, decided to go to the motel restaurant for dinner, came back to my room, watched Lee Van Cleef, Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach being good, bad and ugly, then fell into bed again.

Next morning, bright and early, I had a hearty breakfast, paid the bill, and went looking for my fare. I pulled on to the back of the rank and entered the hotel.

There he was, waiting in the lounge.

“About time. Let’s go home.”

The return trip was more or less uneventful. Still no conversation to speak of. One comfort stop. That evening, around seven o’clock, as we were passing through Gailes, I was instructed to stay on Ipswich Rd and head for Kangaroo Point. “I’ll be stopping in town for a day or two, and you can drop me at the Kangaroo Motel. I’m hoping to meet up with a guy there.”

When I turned into Bell St and the motel parking area, the passenger opened his attaché case and removed some money, saying; “Well, that’s probably it then. Here’s another six hundred . . . . but don’t go yet . . . I’ll just make sure my contact’s here first.”

I quickly counted the money - all there. Out of habit I turned on the hail light. My recent fare meanwhile had ducked into the motel office, where he had a few brief words with the receptionist then hurried back to the cab, and bent down to speak to me through my window.

“Nope. He won’t be here ‘til the morning. I’ll re-hire you to drop me off at my sister’s.”

“Ok. Where does she live?”

“Oh, not far. Only thirty minutes or so. Just over the bridge in Redcliffe.”

“Redcliffe! I’m not taking anyone to fucking Redcliffe! I’ve got to come back empty!”

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sardpete

What a Shaggy dog story! But nicely paced, and well written. Why don't you do more of this instead of trying to wind people up in the lounge? I think you should take out your intro as it rather gives the game away. Thanks a lot.

The Backward OX

Thanks Pete.
I’d agonised over that same thought – leave it out or put it in. You should have seen my original “explanation” - I’d found the minutes of a House of Lords discussion on the same topic and was tempted. I’ll reconsider in view of your idea.

Re the dichotomy in my nature – I reckon we all have at least two sides. Who am I to deny my own self-expression?

And re your TEFL – we couldn’t tempt you I suppose to come and work for WF? There’s plenty here need it as a mother language never mind foreign

Thanks once again.

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sardpete

By the time I got to the end I had forgotten your comment. I think I should say more. I like the different styles. The Legalese at the start, the excellent dialogue, which I find the most difficult thing of all to write, but most of all the way you led me up the garden path. It's great that we never learn what the scam was, which is what we are wondering the whole way through. WF lost we. When I googled it I got Wheelchair foundation. TESL is very different from TEFL, and anyway I tend to be quite radical. If the language gets there how it does it who cares? At the same time it frightens me when people think that "would of" is correct. But this is getting seriously off topic! I look forward to your next short story.

The Backward OX

Wallis & Futuna islands?

Umm……look towards the left-hand top of the Reply page:

WritingForums.com

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The Backward OX

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