On the importance of consummate professionalism.

"I'm an actress."
"Oh, cool. I considered it, but the starving actor lifestyle just didn't seem right for me. Do you work at the theatre?"
"Actually, I was in a movie recently."

Sweden doesn't have a lot of celebrities. And out of that meager pool, many choose to pursue their careers elsewhere. The rest of them are mostly found in Stockholm. But that doesn't mean that the dazzling diamond lights of fame and fortune never shine upon my humble cab. It just means it doesn't happen very often, and when it does it pretty much never involves anyone any of you non-swedes would care about (with one or two exceptions ).

I've also driven this guy:

There's no story to this. He's a nice guy, a regular customer

and just eccentric enough to make driving fun.

Avid listeners of Swedish public radio station P3 already know tonight's story. For the rest of you, sit back and listen to how I got a taste the nectar of fame and lost it in a heartbeat.

This was a couple of years ago, and I was down by Iron Square waiting for my fare. It was Saturday, with all the madness that entails. Out of the crowd comes a couple. They identify themselves properly and climb into the cab.

"We're waiting for another. She'll be here any minute."
"Sure," I said, turned on the meter and settled down, enjoying actually getting paid for my time. My customers were chatting with each other, mostly about how fun it is to be away from Stockholm and how awesome it is to be on stage. After a while, they grow restless, and the guy steps out to find their missing friend.

With the guy gone, an awkward silence fell upon the cab.
"So," I said. "I heard your friend mention being on stage. Are you guys musicians?"
"Haha, no," she said. "We're radio jockeys."
"Oh yeah? What station?"
"Morgonpasset, at P3."

(I know this means absolutely zilch to you international readers. But its a morning show that's broadcast across the nation.)

I wasn't star-struck as much as star-gently-poked. I knew these people. The lady in the back seat was Martina, the guy who had gone was Kodjo, and the friend he was looking for was Hanna. I have friends who are avid listeners and I relished the bragging-opportunity this fare would afford me.

Finally Kodjo arrived with Hanna and off we went. From the moment Hanna entered the cab and sat down next to me, it became very clear that this was no longer my cab. Hanna is a gigantic presence, and I do not mean this physically. The woman has an energy and a charisma not unlike that of an avalanche; love it or hate it, you better get out of its way when its rolling toward you.

Luckily, her attention was turned to her colleagues. They chatted, while she shouted. And none of them seemed to have any interest in me, and that suited me fine. Finally we arrived at their hotel and I made a decision. After all, how often do you get to have nationally famous radio-jocks in the car?

I turned off the meter.  "I'd just like to say that Morgonpasset is probably the only show on P3 worth a damn."

Luckily, they took it in the best way possible. Kodjo and Martina in the back were ever so grateful.
"Aww, that's so sweet of you."
"Thanks, man. Nice to hear."

But Hanna, who had been a social thunderstorm throughout the trip said nothing. She merely smiled and opened her arms.

Now, this was early in my career. I hadn't yet defined my role as a cabbie, and I still lived with the (completely unfounded) fear that every mistake might lead to me getting fired. Thus, I found myself wondering just how professional I could be considered, if I actually hugged a customer.

On the other hand, I reasoned, how often do I get to hug a nationally famous radio jock?

So I leaned in to embrace her, when suddenly reality turned itself inside out and shot out of the window. For as much arms were about to close around her, her hands closed around my ears. Before I had time to react, Hanna made her move and engulfed my mouth with hers, giving me the slobbiest, most violent kiss of my life. I'm talking lips, tongue, teeth, the works. Somewhere in the distance, small rational voice was wondering about the professionalism of trading spit with a nationally famous radio jock.

Finally, it was over. And a stone cold silence settled over the cab. Only Hanna seemed unconcerned.

"Oh my god," Martina whispered. "Did you just make out with the cab-driver?"

Clarity returned. I broke the silence.

"I'll be damned if I don't have the most interesting job in town," I said. "That'll be 129 sek please."
_________________________________________________

Hanna, if you're reading this, know that you'll always have a place in this cabbie's bitter lump of a heart.

Midnight rumble.

"I don't think I'd ever dare drive a cab. It doesn't seem very safe."
"Honestly, I'm more worried about what's going on outside the car than inside."

Cabbing is not all vomit and misanthropy. Sometimes it is violence and pants-shitting fear. Like what happened a few weeks ago. It had been a good one and I had been raking in the fares. My colleague Bert was set to give me a ride home as soon as I returned the cab to HQ, and most importantly, I wasn't utterly exhausted but felt  comfortably calm, singing along to the radio and chewing miles.

On my way to HQ, I passed through a rough neighbourhood right on the border of an industrial area. In the corner of my eye, at the mouth of a dark alley, I saw two figures (for the sake of simplicity, let's call them Stack and Billy). Stack had his hand on Billy's shoulder, who was leaning  up against the wall.  I was just about to pass on by, and leave the creatures of the night to their games when the truth dawned:

Billy wasn't leaning against the wall; He was pushed against it. And Stack wasn't holding his shoulder; he was throttling him.

Stack had one hand locked around Billy's throat, leaving one hand free to deliver savage strikes across his face. After a couple of strikes, Stack grabbed Billy with both hands and slammed him hard against the bricks.

I'm not going to lie; I actually passed by. Call it cowardice, apathy or survival instinct, but my first reaction was this: Not My Problem.

I drove on for maybe fifteen, perhaps twenty meters, when I changed my mind. I hit the emergency number on speed dial, made a U-turn and parked my car squarely in the middle of the road, turning on the high beam, flooding the alley with light. Stack didn't seem to care, but went right on working Billy over.

"112 What's your emergency?"
"Hi. I'm Crabby. I drive a cab. I'm standing here at Generator Street, and I'm witnessing an assault. Send cops and an ambulance asap."
"All right, let's take this in order."

The operator then connected me to the police, who proceeded to ask me specific questions about the where and when and how, all the while Stack was going to town on Billy's face and head. Billy himself was sagging against the wall, not really responding to the pain, which was perhaps a mercy. While my first impulse was to curse the police out, and tell them to send cars first and ask questions later, a more rational part of me realized the value in this. So I described the situation.

"Well... The perp is slamming the victim against the wall. And the victim doesn't seem to be responding. He might be unconscious. And-" I saw Stack pull his hand back and thrust it hard against Billy's side. Billy sank to the ground. "Oh shit, I think he just stabbed him. Guys, you better hurry the fuck up-"

"Don't worry. Cars are being dispatched. Stay on the line. What's happening?"
"The perp is ... crouching by the victim. The victim isn't responding. The perp is..." I blinked. "He's lifting the victim up in a fireman's carry. And he's moving this way. He's moving straight toward my cab. How long until-"

Stack reached the car, with Billy draped across his shoulders. And I have never in my life been so happy for my headset. Stack nodded toward me, and I rolled down the window a few inches, all the while ready to kick the car into Drive and get the hell out.

"You have any water?" Stack asked.
"Sure..." I gave him my water bottle, almost empty.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "That's not enough."
"That's all I have."
"Fuck it, it'll have to do," he reached out and I pushed the bottle out  to him. He then turned away from the cab and my conversation with the police continued:

"All right, you heard what happened... he's walking away from the cab and he.. he's placing the victim on the ground. He's... he's splashing water on the victim's face..." Pause. "I don't think this is an assault."

"All right, just stay with us."

Stack got to his feet and hurried back to the cab. And his face was twisted in anguish. "Call an ambulance! Don't just sit there!"

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm way ahead of you. The cops are coming too."
"Not the cops, just an ambulance."
"A bit too late for that."
Stack sighed, shrugged and hurried back to Billy. Warily, I got out of the cab. Already I could hear the sirens in the distance. While still keeping my distance, I asked what had happened.

"I don't know," said Stack. "We were drinking and suddenly he blacked out. I've been trying to wake him."

And then they appeared, in a hurricane of screaming sirens and glaring blue light. One after another they appeared, cutting off the street in both directions, some coming in so hot they skidded to a halt. Not one car, not two, but four, with two cops in each vehicle. I hurried to the first one to leave his car; a huge, clean-shaven viking of a man.

"Hi, I'm the one who called. I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think this is an assault."
"All right," said Officer Olaf Smoothskin, his eyes turned sharply toward Stack and Billy. "What's going on?"
´
I explained the situation and Olaf nodded. He turned to two female cops and told them to see to the situation. Then he took me aside to get my testimony, while the remaining cops stood to a side, setting up some kind of perimeter. As I spoke to Olaf, I watched one of his colleagues speak to Stack, while the other checked Billy for a pulse. Finding none, she started doing CPR.

It was around this time that the ambulance arrived. Having given my testimony, there was no reason for me to stay. I stuck around another moment, until I realized the awkwardness of the situation.

Thinking back, I seem to remember Olaf telling me that Billy was breathing again, and that I'd done all I could do. I hope that's true.

That wasn't the first time I called the cops, nor would it be the last. In fact, the relationship between the cabby and the cop is worth an entry of its own. So I'll save those stories for later.

...but I won't do that.

"Like... I really like you and this is totally not a one time thing... uh... This is kinda awkward to say when the cabbie is listening."
"Don't worry. I can't hear a thing."

There's something to be said for one-night stands.

If there is any doubt about mankind's animal origins, look no further than the weekend nightlife of the western world. Without really thinking about it, we (Straight men, that is. I can't speak for anyone else in this case) enact all kinds of rituals in order to get laid. We dance, we bring gifts, we try to impress with our great survival potential. We start fights and we get beaten. And we will not stop until the female is gone from view.

"Hey baby, what's your name?"

"Fuck off."

"Is that with one F or two?"

I don't know how may times I've had guys keeping women from closing the door of the cab, begging for the names, their number or for a seat in the car. And the ladies tend to simply grin and bear it until the person walks off, or until I start driving. I don't blame them. Spend most of your life being told not to raise your voice, and it gets hard to do just that in these situations. These days, I usually tell them to leave my customer alone in variously clever/uncouth ways. Hero complex aside, I don't really have the patience to listen to Johnny-Come-Early's desperation. 

I've driven guys who dread the evening because all their friends are "on the hunt", and so they don't really hang out as much as arrive at the hunting ground together and then split up looking for their prey.

"I just want to go out, have a beer, and shoot the breeze. All they wanna do is go out and get laid."

Now. I am not going to spend the rest of the entry skewering the male of the species. I know we're not all like that. But let's not kid ourselves. In our culture, men are expected to actively impress the ladies, who will reward their effort with the mashing of genitals. There are individual variations to this, of course, but from where I am sitting behind the wheel, it seems that a significant portion of the population (male and female) who actively take part in that structure. 

But that is not what I want to talk about tonight. Tonight, let's flip it around. Let's talk about female desperation. Or specifically, the story of a woman who knew what she wanted, and wouldn't let something as silly as consent get in her way.
______________________________________________

This was about one or two years ago. The shift was ending and dawn was rapidly approaching. I was out in Mountain Lake, when my com buzzed and dispatch offered me a fare from Angeheath. And what luck! This was a big one, a fare that would take me to a city over an hour's drive outside of town, to the neighboring town of Trollhat. This is the kind of fare we all hope for and weep for joy when we get. That is a solid 1000 sek fare (fixed rate); the average fare is between 90 and 150 sek.

Once again, the com burped and I heard the nasal voice Larry, one of the veterans of the company. He asked me to switch to channel two for a private conversation, and there told me to get them to pay me the rate in advance, as Angeheath was a rough place and anyone travelling from there at 4 am to a neighboring city should be viewed with suspicion. I had been in the business long enough not to dismiss his warning.

So I arrived at the place, and I sat down and waited. Along came a goth-girl with a gangsta-guy in tow. She knocked on my window.

"Hi! I'm Michaela. Are you my cab?"
I was. They climbed into the back seat.
"Before we get going," I said. "I'd like you to pay the rate in advance."
"Not a problem!" she said and did so promptly. And then we started rolling.
"Don't forget to make a stop at Yardstone," said the guy.
"Sure..."
"Why are we stopping there?" she asked with cold suspicion.
"Cause... It's late, you know..."
"I thought you said you wanted me?"
"I do, I do. It's just... I gotta get up tomorrow and..."

Poor bastard. I felt for him. Imagine having to do the walk of shame from one town to another. His lady love would have none of it, however. For the full hour that the trip took, she spent every minute breaking him down. I'll spare you the full transcript, but here's a handful of quotes, all said by Michaela:

(Huffy and indignant) "I'm offended. I take this as a personal insult. This is you saying I'm not attractive to you."
(Mean and challenging) "Is it your dick? Can't get it up? Is that the problem?"
(Sultry and promising) "I really like you. I really do, and I want you. Don't you want me? I can make every fantasy come true."
(Close to tears) "I thought you were not like the others; that I meant something special to you, but you're just like everyone else."

Etc, etc. All the while this guy (who did not in any way look like a softie, mind you) sat quietly, lamely protesting here, assuring her there and just seeming plain miserable. Finally we arrived in Trollhat, and she left the car. As he was about to climb out, I spoke up:

"Hey buddy.... For half the price of the fare, I'll take you straight back home."

He looked at me, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a twinkle of relief. Then he looked at her, who stood outside the cab with an expectant look on her face. He shook his head: "No, man... It's too late for me."

Provided society doesn't collapse utterly, I don't think I'll ever see a man walk toward his own execution. But if I ever do, I imagine that it would look a lot like the way this guy walked toward the waiting Michaela.

I sat there for a while, watching them disappear in the morning fog; she clinging excitedly to his arm, he with a hanging head and a broken spirit.