Driving a Brisbane Cab (co. no longer in existence) was fun. It was a radio despatch cab, absolutely unheard of these days with GPS and all, and fast becoming a rare thing in the mid 1990s, which is the period when this story was originally written by me. I took detailed logs at first of each fare I took in my taxi. Later these notes descended into highlights packages after the novelty of dealing with the public on an intimate level became more tedious than interesting
Written on a Wednesday in February 1996…
At 630pm I was sitting in Vulture St. West End. I was finishing off a kebab from King Akrim’s across the road from the taxi rank when a nervous man jumped into the back seat and asked how much it would be to get to Enoggera. I told him it would be around $13-$16 depending on the traffic. He had a black bag that looked heavy – I was a little suspicious. One thing that made me feel more comfortable was that he spoke very softly and calmly with a lisp – not exactly a criminal type so I started out by turning right at Boundary St. and heading north.
About 1 minute into the journey the fare informed me of his destination street. I knew it well and asked if he had a preferred route. He asked for the cheapest which I didn’t hesitate to agree to provide for him. No problems.
A couple of minutes later as we headed up Kelvin Grove Road past the Normanby Hotel, I heard some rustling, jingling of metal on metal and un-zipping in the back seat. I stopped at a red light opposite the Red Rooster and looked back over my left shoulder. The fare had removed his jeans and put on leather chaps and was strapping on the biggest dildo I had ever seen – to be honest it’s the first dildo I’ve ever seen actually. There was chains, leather straps and buckles jingling. I shook my head and he smiled awkwardly and told me that he was worked for flim-flam telegrams and was going to a bikie gang birthday party. I chuckled to myself and hoped he was getting paid well.
By the time we got to the destination address he was in full dress. Leather police hat, leather chaps, leather vest, make-up and of course, his huge plastic cock. He paid his $14.20 and asked if I could hang around for 15 minutes. I said I would seeing as it was a quiet Wednesday night and another $14 to take him home made sense. He was visibly nervous and I wished him luck. He didn’t answer – he just let out a long sigh.
I drove up the street about 20 or 30 metres and turned off all the lights before hopping out to have a cigarette. As I watched he walked down the concrete driveway though a few rows of parked Triumph and Harley Davidson motorbikes. Some burlesque style ’stripper’ music started and there was a deep, throaty and raspy cheer from the garage that my fare walked into. There were female screams and male laughter for a full 10 minutes then silence. I was worried for my passenger. Another 15 minutes passed and still, he hadn’t emerged from the now silent party. Exactly 30 minutes after the drop-off, he returned looking relieved. He told me to get out of the street and do it quickly. As I started up and butted out my third cigarette of the wait, a large hairy man approached. He threw a $50 note wrapped around a small plastic bag onto the roof of the taxi and told me to give it to my fare. I could smell what was in the package as I retrieved it from the roof. I jumped in the drivers seat, took off and gave the package to the fare.
He dressed himself in his original clothing and packed away his plastic member for the next 5 minutes. He then told me of the lurid events of the past half hour . Men and women using his temporary appendage for pleasure – apparently that’s not supposed to be part of the show. My mind boggled. He just went silent until I got back to the taxi rank where our journey started. He paid up and told me that he earned $100 for the effort. His bonus was $50 and a bag of very stinky marijuana.
I bid him farewell and wrote down the fare details on the trip slip underneath my sun visor. As I was doing that a bald man jumped into the seat next to me. It was none other than Bernard King. He asked to go to the Sportsman (gay pub in Spring Hill). Ha! I thought of telling Bernard about the last fare I had. He probably would have liked it. I shut my mouth and drove on into the humid, hot and stormy evening.
Another night another few dollars.
Said…