it was only a short journey. i had been having a naughty early afternoon prosecco at hoxton square bar with my mate nicola when i realised i may have lost track of the last twenty minutes which meant i may be running late to meet my friend’s fiance’ to give the keys back for the house i’d been staying in. the cab driver could tell i was in a rush, and without mentioning the matter, duly drove through a number of crafty east london short cuts. we were making brilliant time and perhaps this is what caused him to be suddenly chatty
“ good weekend then?”
“yeah... and yours?”
(I love when cab drivers ask you a question that is really a prompt to allow them to talk about themselves)
he goes into how he usually doesn’t drive, is usually in the cab office, how he works for four days and then has four days off. he then tells me that he’d taken up more driving shifts of late “to get ahead of christmas” as he was “behind last year... know what I mean?”
(uh... no?)
He’s very glad its the weekend. It’s been a very long day. At four in the morning he had a heathrow pick up. For those unfamiliar with london, heathrow airport is over an hour from the center of town, two hours from east london where his office was based. There had been a mix up. The cab was actually booked for four thirty in the afternoon, but the controller hadn’t realised the mistake until the driver had got there. Was he paid for the trip anyway I asked?
“No, but these things happen some time” He shrugged. I was genuinely sympathetic. He asked me what I did for a living. I gave the answer i generally do in situations where i don’t know the person so well. I told him I was “ a writer” (which sounds slightly more employed than “poet”)
“What do you write?”
“Stories and poems mostly”
“What about?”
“Strangers, Cities, brief encounters”
“oh... such as?”
My brain races through a series of scenes and images. dark corners in night clubs, kissing along walls of bars, dancing at open air parties, more kissing, the sudden moment of making eye contact across a room, walks home across bridges at sunrise. a girl passing out from a drug overdose being carried out a door, more kissing, sex... I then realise i’ve paused too long.
The cab driver is still waiting for me to say something.
“Well...?”
I don’t want to tell him anything i’d been thinking about. what fits to tell him, what suits the situation? what have i? cab.... cab driver... ah... I tell him the story of my graduation film, about a woman who’s relationship is unravelling, who is given advice from a number of strangers in the city of london, including a cab driver. He likes that.
“Yeah cab drivers are generally an opinionated lot.”
“Yes.”
“ you’re lucky, you’re doing what you love. how’d you get into that then?”
I tell him how i used to work in kids animation. and that I hadn’t really been operating with much of a plan, and somehow had ended up in berlin.
“ why berlin?... Love? “
“No...”
“Why then?”
“ Why not?
“Say you’re a very good looking cab driver in German”
I realise I have no idea what the german word for cab driver is. all i can hear in my head is the word for car: auto. and i’m going through words i know for profession, and i get stuck on “autorin” (writer). hmmm well, he’d never be the wiser.
“Du bist ein sehr schönes Autorin”
This feels like an in joke with myself. I also feel cheeky for adressing him in the informal. In any case he’s made up.
“Wow. whisper that in my ear any time you like” he laughs. “ next time you’re back and fancy taking a ride in a cab from a short fat cockney driver, you know where to find me.”
We pull up to the door.
“Great things are ahead for you. I wish you all the best”
I thank him, pay the fare and walk out and close the door. before he drives off he calls out
"hey maybe you'll write about me one day?"
I smile.
"maybe..."
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