"You know what our number one threat is? Heart disease.”

"The thing people have to understand is that we don't hate men."
"Of course you don't! If feminists hated men, I'd be praying that you didn't bring a knife with you into my cab."

I try to avoid being explicitly political in my entries. While I have not hidden where my values lie, I think it would distract from the point of this record, if the reader was constantly aware that I am a communist. Or an objectivist. Or an anarchist. Or a libertarian. Or conservative. Or whatever.

However, I can say that I am a feminist. Which is to say this:

I believe in equal rights for everyone, regardless of gender, creed, etc.
I believe that there are structures that inform and underlie many of the things we take for granted in society.
I believe that many of these structures are harmful, regardless of your gender.
I believe that the harm these structures do to women is greater than the harm done to men.
I believe that (much like Abolition after the outlawing of slavery) feminism will cease to be a relevant movement once equality is achieved.

All of this can be debated, expanded, extrapolated to an insane amount of detail. I will not do that. Suffice it to say, these are my core beliefs when it comes to the sex war. And once I realized this, however reluctantly, there was no way I could not call myself a feminist.

And after all, how could I not? I come into contact with sexism on a daily basis. Name your brand of sexism, I have encountered it in my car. Though most of it is the everyday boys-are-playas-girls-are-whores kind of bullshit, every once in a while something truly awful rears its head.

What I am talking about specifically is that of abusive relationships.

"But Crabby!" I hear some of you cry. "Men get abused in relationships too!"

Yes, yes we do. We also are more prone to getting beaten up, robbed and murdered (sometimes in that order). We are also taught to repress feelings, and to constantly measure our dicks with friends and foes alike. But none of this informs the way we as a gender take on the world. None of this polices our behaviour or keeps us from seizing opportunity. Men, as a rule, are not afraid of walking home alone. This cannot be said for most women.

So, where was I? Abusive relationships. All right.

I've seen my share of battered women. On my very first week, I helped a particularly awesome one to flee her home (though that's a story for a later date). I've driven biker chicks with bloody clothes and busted lips channeling their pain into some truly astounding and ghoulish gallows humour. And I've been begged to pretend to be the New Boyfriend when the Abusive Boyfriend makes a phonecall (which I declined).

Tonight I want to tell you about Amanda.

I like to think this was a few months ago, but it could just as easily have been a year ago. I was out in the western end of town where I received a fare from the harbour in Kingstone. I arrived, and there she was.

She was tall, blonde, and hid her middle age well beneath her tan. She wore what I first assumed was a sweatsuit, which was stained with what I assumed was wine. Around her eyes, she was heavily, but sloppily painted. As she approached the cab, I noticed a wobble in her step, and when she opened her mouth words slurred out, I understood exactly what I was dealing with: a fading beauty who escaped her oncoming age through excessive, pathetic partying.

I can be a judgmental fuck at times.

She stumbled into the cab and sat down next to me.

"You're gonna take me to Linnaeus Street".
"Sure thing."

And thus began our trip. We kept up a disjointed conversation, which mostly was her rambling damn near incoherently and me nodding and muttering in acknowledgment.. But as the trip went on, a darker, more sinister picture emerged:

Amanda had spent the past two days at sea with a man. This man was your typical landlubber, the kind of asshole who gets a boat and automatically assumes he's fucking Admiral Nelson. The kind of guy who thinks that the sea is nothing more than a great big swimming pool. Amanda knew differently. She had (much like myself) grown up around boats and the ocean. She knew that whether the sea is calm or rough, you do well to give it the respect and fear it deserves. Or at the very least, not be a dumbass around it.

Admiral Nelson, however, did not share her sentiment. In fact, he thought it jolly good fun to get hammered and then take on the huge ocean waves head on, laughing at her for insisting he wear a life jacket. All of these things are fun in their own right, but none should ever be combined. When she finally put her foot down, he flipped his lid. They argued, and the argument ended when he lifted the anchor and smashed it accross her face. He then had taken her back ashore and dumped her there, wearing nothing but a blood stained pajamas and a rapidly blackening eye.

That's when she called for a cab.

I wasn't sure what to make of this. Or rather, I wasn't sure of what to do, aside from assure her again and again that what he did was wrong and that he was an idiot. As we approached the area of the city called Linnaeus Town, she started staring at the people around her, all of them dressed to the nines and on their way to various pubs, clubs and bars.

"I wanna have fun," she said. "Look at those lucky bastards, they can go out and have fun. Me, I gotta go home. They won't let me party."
"Who?," I said.
"I live in a sheltered housing. They don't let me go out..."
"Really?" I said, finding it harder and harder to keep up with her rambling.
"Drop me off here! I wanna go out and have fun!"

Fearing that she might wander off (without paying), I insisted I take her to Linnaeus street, so she could get changed before she went out. She reluctantly agreed, except
"I don't live on Linnaeus street."
At this point I was beginning to lose my patience. "And where do you live?"
"In a sheltered housing. In Maytown."

Fortunately Maytown is right next to Linnaeus. So I nodded and changed directions. "So how come it says Linnaeus street on my screen?"
"Because that's where he lives."
"Who?"
"My man."

She didn't say much after that. But as we approached the shelter in Maytown, she fished out her phone and called a number. She started talking, angry and anxious. I gathered that she was talking to her abuser, the one who lived on Linnaeus. I assume that he was (though I am in no way sure) Admiral Nelson from before. She angrily told him that he was an asshole for mistreating her, and that she could consider coming over to him if he straightened up and paid for the cab. By now, we had stopped at the shelter and I was patiently waiting for her to hang up.

She did. And she looked at me with dead eyes and spoke in a dead voice: "Take me back to Linnaeus."

At this point, I knew too much. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes."

And so we began the trip back in stone cold silence, and I was stunned. I wanted to do something, but what? Bravely take her away? And go where? Call the police? And tell them what? Take her back to the shelter against her will? With her abuser within walking distance?

She sighed.  "He is not nice to me. He is not nice at all."
"You sure you want to go to him?" I asked. "We don't have to."
She smiled sadly and shook her head. "Let's just go."
So I began driving. And she began whimpering, saying "I'll be good, I'll be good this time" and "Stupid girl. So stupid. No more than you deserve."

Again and again I made the offer to turn back, that she didn't have to go to him, and again and again she declined. Finally, we arrived and my heart was bleeding.

"How much?" she asked, rifling through her wallet.
"No," I said. "I can't take your money."
She looked at me, almost fearful. "Please-"
"No," i said. "I've already driven you to someone I know is going to hurt you. I can't accept payment for that."
"But its your job," she said. "Compensation..."
"Let me take you back to Maytown."

She looked at me, and for a moment I thought she'd agree. But then she shook her head.
"I can't," she mumbled. "Not now."
I sighed.
"Help me get my bag from the trunk," she said.

At this point, its kind of a blur. I suppose I did help her open the trunk. What I do remember clearly is that she wanted to give me a hug goodbye because I was "so nice" to her. So I obliged.

Something broke, and she started crying. She wrapped her arms tightly around me and clung to me,  as violent sobs tore through her body and shook us both. I don't remember how long we stood like that. All I remember are hot tears streaming down my neck and how clumsy my hands felt as I stroked her hair. I like to think I whispered that she didn't have to go through with this. That I'd take her back to Maytown.

Finally, she let me go and she squeezed my hand.
"You are a nice one." she said. Then she went over to the door and rang the bell. It was opened by a fat man wearing a wifebeater and a sour scowl. He let her in and gave me a quick, dismissive look.

Numb, I clocked out for a moment and took the cab up a nearby hill, where I sat with a view over town.

Once I had regained my senses, I called the police and reported the situation, that one of my customers was probably being abused. They thanked me for my report. And I asked them if what I had told them was anything to go by, if there was anything they could do.

"No. Not without further evidence."
_______________________________________________

There is no punchline to this entry. No bombastic declaration of war against injustice or some defining turning point to set you on the course to better living. At best, I suppose, this illustrates the disconnect between values and reality. We can all agree that it is never enough to merely state your values; you have to live up to them and, if possible, embody them. But how exactly do you do that?

To this day, I really don't know what I could have done for her. Sure, I'm a "nice one", but how the hell does that help the Amandas of the world? Would the pain and humiliation she suffered at the hands of that fucker be in any way less awful, just because the guy who took her there was nice to her?  And yet, short of forcing her, I really don't know what else I could do. She already had sheltered housing. If I had refused to take her, would she have stayed in Maytown or was she too far gone to break the pattern?

A friend of mine says that I had encountered her too far down the line. That there was nothing I could be expected or able to do at that point.  Maybe she's right.

But there it is. Amanda's story. She is not unique. She and all others like her, are merely symptoms of a sickness in humanity. And while we're beginning to realize just how sick we are, we are still far from a cure.

Ad nauseam.

"Don't worry, I never throw up when I'm drunk."
"Nobody ever does until they do."

One of the occupational hazards I have to take into consideration when I ply my trade is the human body and its fluids. While most people have the decency to keep their precious bodily fluids on the inside of their bodies, every once in a while things get messy.

Jared Diamond suggests that the human habit of consuming things that are obviously toxic has an evolutionary benefit. He compares it to the peacock, whose spectacular tail is its way of telling the world that its so badass that it can have such an idiotic and ungainly thing and still survive.

 "You do not fuck with me... unless you intend to fuck me, in which case, you're welcome."

By this logic, the attitude and headaches I suffer in my line of work are all part of an elaborate mating ritual. And when somebody's insides finally have had enough and spill out all over my workplace, I should tremble in awe at the culmination of such an intricate, strange dance which began millions of years ago.

I would, but I don't. I'm as transcendental as the next guy, but the moment the cosmic ballet fucks up something specific in my life, it can go hang. Because if you vomit in a cab, the cab has to be sanitized, effectively taking it out of comission for the night. Thus, by vomiting in a cab you can and will cost the cabby his entire shift. Throwing up in a cab is not causing a minor inconvenience; it will really fuck up someone's life.

Now, I am one of the lucky ones. Nobody has ever thrown up in my cab. They've thrown up down the side of it, I've stopped so they can throw up outsíde, and I've offered water and mints to more embarrassed party people than I can count. But so far, I've never had the displeasure of someone actually throwing up inside-

Ok, that's a lie. There was this one time. But thinking about it makes me feel like throwing up.

However, it can't all be glamour and righteous fury. Let's get this over with.

A few months ago, I was given a fare from Galileo Street to Catchfly Street; a good, long trip worth at least 270. So I arrived and waited. Then I saw them;
a man and a woman, looking ragged and worn, carrying shopping bags full of stuff. The wheels of paranoia started turning in my head and I remembered what my colleague Bert had told me a while back; about a couple of junkies, male and female, carrying lots of shit in paper bags, whom he had driven to Galileo street. They had then run off without paying.

I called him.
"Bert, you remember those junkies you told me about? The ones on Galileo street who didn't pay their fare?"
"Yeah, what of them?"
I looked at the screen, at the name that had been given. "What were their names?"
"... why?"
By now, they were nearby and coming closer.
"I might be driving them right now."
"What, are they in the car?"
"No, they-" the woman knocked on the window. "Fuck it, I'll call you back."

I hung up and turned to them and made a decision. If they ran off without paying, I'd write off the trip and not be pissed off about it. More out of preserving my own sanity, than out of any charitable feelings. I let them into the cab and off we went.

They didn't seem to have much to say to me, and I didn't have much to say to them. But the man seemed to have a problem with his lungs; he was coughing. A lot.
Deliberately.
And there was a distinct, splashing sound following every third cough or so.
A cold, indignant fury came over me, and very softly I said:
"What in the name of hell do you think you're doing? Are you throwing up in my cab?"

"It's cool, man," said the woman. "He's got a bag."

A bag.
A fucking bag.

I didn't say anything. I just very quietly, and very methodically pulled over at a gas station. Then I said:

"This is where you get off."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Get out and throw up in someone else's cab."

"But I have a bag!"

"It would've been so easy for you to give me a heads up when the trip started. That would be the polite thing to do. Instead you sit there, throw up, and try to justify yourself by saying that you came prepared-"

"But I'm sick!, you asshole!"

"Damn straight you are -"

"Will you shut up?" said the woman. "He's got cancer."

"Did you just tell-" I froze. "Wait, what?"

"Yes! The chemo makes me throw up."

There was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. And in that moment, things started to add up. These people did not smell. Junkies and boozehounds tend to have a scent about them; a constant miasma hovering about marking their presence. What's more, these people looked tired, worn, and furious, but they did not have that look of ruination that's typical for someone stuck in substance abuse. And finally, and most damingly, despite sloshing contents of the bag and the foul dribble on the man's chin, there was not even a hint of vomit in the air. Completely odourless. Like the vomit of someone who hasn't eaten. Like the vomit of a chemo-patient.

All my cold rage and righteous indignation drained away, leaving a stagnant pool of shame. I turned off the meter.

"... I am so very sorry."

They were surprisingly understanding about the whole episode. I took the bag and threw it away. Then I went into the gas-station and got a new bag, which I lined with yet another one, which I presented to him. He accepted it and my apology graciously.

At the end of the trip, when they paid me, I tried telling them that the ride was for free, that it was the least I could do for their trouble. The man wouldn't have it. So I accepted his money, and watched him and his lady friend disappear into the night.

Despite the bag, there was a puddle of clear, odourless slime on the floor in the back. I cleaned this up without so much as a groan of displeasure.

Papers of leave.

This is just to inform you guys that it is now official: I have been accepted in the teaching programme at local University. Starting this autumn, I will be studying full-time.

Do not fret, however. Until I'm done, I will still need money. And in order to get that money, I will have to keep on cabbin'. 

But yeah. The light at the end of the tunnel is now officially visible.

Give me your answer, do!

"Some people are idiots. This is an inescapable fact of life. Accept this, and move on."

The past few days have been miserable. Not because of work (in fact, I had the weekend off), but because of the weather. Its been hot, humid and horrible. When the sun isn't baking the world, the sky erupts in lightning storms so fierce, it is clear that God is sick of humanity, but unsure of what to do about it.

Conversely, work has been good. Summer is always good. In a country that spends nine months out of the year in gloom and darkness, every moment of sunshine is precious. And so, during summer, people crawl out of their holes. It also helps that people tend to take their vacations during this time. And we all know what happens to Johnny Swede when he has a day off, don't we?

That's right, he gets drunk. And in order to get drunk, he needs a bar. And in order to get to the bar, he needs transportation. And that's where I come in. I bring them, the bartender fills them, and I take them away. And with the drunks returned to their homes, the circle of life is complete. Summer is lucrative and really the only time of year driving a cab is worth anything.


"All right, Crabby", I hear you groan. "We get it. You make money off drunken party people. What else is new?"

There will be no insights tonight. No musings. Just a story.

The shift had been good. I usually don't work on tuesdays, but this week (and the next few to come) I've resolved to milk July for all its worth. I started late, yet somehow managed to keep an excellent pace, pulling in an average of 500 sek / hour. Aside from an incident with a female passenger who was so drunk she couldnt do anything but lay in the back seat crying hysterically (thank GOD for her boyfriend who carried her out, saving my spine in the process), things had been cool, fun even.

And the end of the shift was approaching rapidly. I was down on Frigga Street to pick up some fellow who was going to Gold Heath. I was a few minutes early, so I settled into my seat and resolved to make the minutes pass in any way I could.

Suddenly, in the gloomy distance, I saw a bike; one of those big, three wheeled contraptions used by newspaper delivery men. Nothing too strange. After all, drunks and cabbies aside, the paperboys (and girls... paper people?) are a common sight in the small hours. But something was not right about the people riding the bike. First and foremost, it was people riding the bike, not a person.

A quick note about the paper people (Yes, it's a term now): These are not kids biking through the neighbourhood, throwing papers at people's doors. They are men and women who will drag their sorry carcasses through snow, wind, slush and brimstone, climb a million stairs to make sure that each household, each apartment gets their magazines. They are also paid peanuts.

Thus, the people you find doing that job is the same you'll find at any bottom rung: the fuckups, the inexperienced, the racially discriminated, all the unseen losers that keep the wheels of society greased and turning.

So. Back to the story.

Riding the bike was a girl and a boy. A regular Daisy, looking sweet upon a seat on a bicycle built for one, while her boyfriend rode on the carrier behind her. This was my first bell.
 None were wearing any kind of uniform. Second bell.
The guy was your typical wealthy, healthy brat prince of the world; coasting along on his parent's money (and his girlfriend's pedalling), while wearing Ralph Lauren and sunglasses. At night. Because he was a fucking douche.

A story quickly took form in my head: these two brats had gotten drunk, found a bike and decided to have fun. I rolled down the window:

"Hey, is that bike yours?"
"Yeah!" Sundouche replied, as they whizzed by.
I threw the cab in reverse, followed them.
"You guys paper people?"
"Sure!"

At this point I had to stop, or I'd hit a tree. So I stopped and mulled this over. I could dash after them, which would lead to righteous conflict, but I'd probably lose my fare. Or I could do my job and hope Karma would take care of Daisy and Douche for me.

Well, suddenly the choice was made for me. Running, wearing a uniform, was a young african fellow. As he passed me by, I shouted out: "Hey!"

He stopped, and was about to run again.
"HEY!"
"Look mister," he said. "I can't stop. My-"
"Is that your bike those people took?"
"Yes!"
"Then get in the fucking car!"

He hopped in, and I made a sharp U-turn. We caught up with Douche and Daisy at Odin Plaza. I pulled up and the paper man dashed out of the car. He caught up with them and stopped them, physically. I left the cab, not really thinking. I followed Paper Man who was trying to wrest the bike from Douche. When Daisy saw me, she made like a tree. Douche remained.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Whaddaya mean, bro?"
"This man is trying to do his job. Its shitty, backbreaking work and he doesn't need some worthless twerp making his job harder by taking his bike."
"How was I supposed to know it was his bike?"
"Are you really this stupid?"
"Are you?"

Charming fellow, no?

"I don't know what the big deal is," he continued. "Lots of bikes get stolen all the time..."
"Lot's of people are assaulted all the time," I snarled. "But does that give me the right to smash your teeth in?"
"Sure," he said with a grin. It wasn't even a challenge, he was just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. I was reminded of the golden rule of arguing with drunks: "Whoever wins, you lose".

He turned to Paper Man: "Look, we didn't mean to steal your bike-"
I exploded: "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! Not one more word from you, you disrespectful piece of shit. Do you think he's so stupid, that he will accept your half-assed, and retarded excuses? If you have any fucking decency at all, you leave right now."

And he did. He looked back once, and I spat in his direction. The fact that he didn't give me the finger either shows that he had some kind of remorse, or that I had managed to scare him somewhat. I dunno.

Paper Man was very happy.  We shook hands, wished each other well and went our separate ways.

 Looking at it, I can say this: this wasn't about me wanting to be a hero, or wanting to stand up for the little man. There are elements of both, but really, at bottom, it is because I can't stand bullies. I cannot stand those who would find joy at the expense of others. Those who need to spit on others in order to assert their own worth. And I am well aware of the irony that I find these people to be without worth or value, except perhaps as fertilizer.

So I could count all kinds of noble reasons for doing what I did, and none of them would be wrong. I do believe in doing the right thing. I do believe in acting when possible. But there's also another motivation, which is just as strong and that is this: the satisfaction of taking another douchebag down a few pegs.

Not exactly noble, but it gets the job done.