Tuesday 3 April 2018

A nice trip together. Part 1.

"How would you handle someone, like... trying to rob you?"
"Very carefully."


I've been working sporadically for the past few months, mostly the day shift, so very few interesting things actually happen. Mostly old people who putter around from A to B, complaining about their hips and complimenting me on my manners.

Not a whole lot of blogworthy material, is what I'm saying. The fun stuff happens at night, after all.

Well, this weekend, I decided it would be a good idea to make a lot of money in a short amount of time - Easter being a major holiday and all. And things went swimmingly. No fighting, no puking, little if any haggling about prices. That is until last night.

Enough with the introduction. Let's get to the meat of this, because this was the single most terrifying experience I've had during my time behind the wheel. So without further ado, let's get to it. This is the story of how my cab got hijacked by a psychotic speed-freak.


About two hours into my shift, I received a fare from Television Street, out in Iron Quarry. The fare would go from there to Parthaella, which is a small community (which almost, but not quite, manages to define itself as a town) just outside the city. Not a bad one at all.

So I arrive at Television Street, and there he was.

My cabbie-sense started tingling immediately. He was somewhere between 35 and 47, overweight, with sores on his face, and an unhealthy sheen to his skin, dressed in a pair of old sweatpants and a worn parka. I knew he was bad news from the get-go. It wasn't a single thing that stood out. Maybe it was something in his posture, maybe something in his expression. Or maybe I was just being judgemental. Either way, I had a fully formed idea of just what kind of a person this guy was:

criminal, down on his luck, probably a drunk, possibly some kind of junkie, highly suspicious of everything and with little or no regard to what society deems sensible. I've driven a hundred of them, and usually, at worst, you get some grumpy pissy behaviour. It is the kind of customer where the smartest course of action is to shut up, nod thoughtfully, and every once in a while throw in a jab at The Man just to show you're on their side.

In the far future, this problem will persist


Still, I'd driven worse. Most of them are harmless, provided you treat them with a modicum of respect. At worst, I could always throw him out.

"Hey."
"Hi," he said. He was stressed out, twitching. "I'm John."
"Hop in."

Once inside the car, he kept looking around.

"How long are you working for tonight?"

"Until sunrise, I suppose."

"All right, all right," he said, tapping his knee incessantly. "What time is it?"

Before I had a chance to answer, he pulled out a huge wristwatch. Huge, in gaudy metallic colours. His hand was shaking as he looked at it.

And who's the poor bastard you stole that from? I wondered quietly.

"Its my brother's watch," he snarled. "I got it from him. Let's go, let's go."

So I drove out.

Now, from Iron Quarry to Parthaella there's two roads, both of them take just as long. One goes through the city, the other goes south of it, along the highway. I decided to take the highway.

"Why are you going in this direction?" he asked, in the same tone one might use when asking someone about how many bodies they have buried in their back yard.  I explained the situation to him and he nodded and kinda waved me off.

"Sure, sure, as long as we get where we're going."
"Parthaella, right?"
"In that direction, sure."

Well, that sounded weird, huh?

"So..." I said. "What's the address?"

"I'll tell you when we get there."

All right. Not exactly kosher, but I can chalk that up to general low-life paranoia/existential frustration.

The com burbled.

"Is that a police radio?" he said, in a tone that said that it better not fucking be a police radio.

I'd heard that question before. Usually from junkies on the run. I laughed in what I hoped was a friendly manner and said: "No, man. It's the com. A taxi radio."

"Ah!" he laughed. "I just thought you might be like a trucker, sitting and listening on the police wavelength."

... Okay.

"Wouldn't that be nice?" I said. "I'd be able to hear whenever they were doing speed checks on the road."

He grunted a laugh, and went silent again. Still tapping his knee. Still twitching. He talked - not mumbled mind you, but talked. It was still difficult to follow what he was on about. He talked about serving in the army. Or that he had known someone who had served in the army. Possibly his brother. or that he'd been to war.

"Are you a veteran?"

"What?" he said, surprised and confused. "No, I'm not that old."

By this time I had realised that he was crazy. So far, he seemed like the harmless kind of crazy.

I reached for the com to turn down the volume a bit.

"Keep your hands on the wheel!" he snarled. "Ten o'clock and two o'clock. That's how we do it in Sweden, or am I wrong? huh? Isn't that how we do it in Sweden?"

All right, he was most certainly not the harmless kind of crazy.

I was pondering my situation. Most likely, I'd be able to take him where he wanted to go, he'd pay (or not) and we'd part and never See each other again. This is true in 80% of all these kinds of fares. Of course, within the remaining 20% the scenarios ranged from being yelled at, to being mugged, to getting strung up on a meat hook in some dank cellar.

He said something.

"Pardon?" I said.

"Don't fucking ask me to repeat myself," he shouted. "I'm used to giving fucking orders and I expect people to listen, you got that?"

"Sure thing, man."

"I'm me, and you are you, right? Right??"

"Right."

By now, it was time to consider what options I had. I didn't want him in my cab anymore, but my usual tactic of calmly stopping the car, explaining to the customer just what kind of subhuman scum I think he is and then kicking him out would not suffice. My usual tactics rest on the assumption that me and said asshole share a fundamental view about the nature of reality and social norms.

This guy was from outer space. I couldn't be sure of any of his reactions. So I would have to come up with some kind of plan.





Now, as far as security measures go, it works as follows:

There's a hidden alarm button in the car. When I press it, dispatch gets the alarm. it will also open up a channel on the com, and so they (and the entire fleet of cabbies tuned into that frequency) can hear exactly what's going on in the cab. They will attempt to contact the cabbie via telephone to assess the situation. If the situation is dire, they call the cops and give them the GPS-coordinates of the car.

I discovered all this by mistake a long time ago, while arguing with a friend on my phone and pressing the mysterious button that I'd never seen before. But that's another story.

I figured that I'd keep things cool and easy. If the situation escalated, I could always hit the alarm button. And, at worst, I could always slam the brakes. After all, he wasn't wearing a seat belt.

But I began to prepare for trouble. I felt for the alarm button, so I could reach it quickly. I also reached into the storage compartment between the seats to fish out my phone and put it in my -

"What's that?"

Fuck.

"Just my phone, man."

"Hands on the wheel," he said, a cold warning in his voice. Fuck it, I thought, and put the phone into my pocket. No use sneaking about the phone. If he was going to rob me, I wouldn't be able to just hand him my work-phone. Oh well.

I settled on treating him like any drunken idiot: with friendly, professional patience.

 We were approaching Parthaella, and he kept talking somewhat disjointedly about ... his brother, the army, and he was he and I was I and that was the truth, right?

Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the meter. "What tariff are you running? Getting awfully expensive."

"It's Easter, so we're doing the holiday tariff. But if you feel like you're going to be paying more money than expected, I could pause the meter. We're approaching Parthaella after all-"

"No," he said. "No, you'll get your money. We're going to have a nice trip, right?"

"Right."

The exit to Parthaella was coming up. I asked if he wanted me to take it.

"No. Keep driving."

"I'm going to need an address."

"I'm not going to tell you the address."

"All right..."

His voice went cold, all business and blood thirst. "I will show you the address. You will read it. You won't say where it is, where we're going. Just read and take me there. Got that?"

This was turning into some serial killer shit.

"All right..."

He showed me his phone. It was open to Google Maps. And the address was the US embassy in Stockholm. On the other side of the country. Easily a five hour drive.

Five hours. With this lunatic.

"I can't take you that far."

"Yes you can. And you will. I will pay you good."

"But I'm getting off the shift soon."

"Don't fucking lie to me. You said you'd be working all night. So you're going to keep your hands on the wheel, turn up the music, and we're gonna have a nice trip together. Got that?"

This was where I began fearing for my life.

 CLICK HERE TO READ PART 2


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A nice trip together. Part 2





(This is part 2 of a two-part entry. Read Part 1 )

My cab had been hijacked. Like the world's most ridiculous pirate, my insane passenger had commandeered my vessel and set a course for the nation's capital. And who fucking knew how long his deluded idea of visiting the US-Embassy would keep running in that twisted brain of his?

Maybe somewhere down the road, he'd decide it would be easier to rob me. Or maybe he'd decide that I was Satan and he had to do the Lord's work on my face.

We're going to have a nice trip

I realised I had frozen in place. And he was staring at me, expectantly. I wasn't looking at him, but it felt like he was looking at my fear and seeing it was good. Because I was terrified. A sickening, cold, sinking feeling washed through me, turning my guts into water.

I was stuck in this cab with a maniac. I was going to have a nice trip with this maniac. He was on edge and he wasn't going to let me go. I'd been doing this job for seven years, and I realised with horror that I might die in this cab.





Two distinct possibilities formed in my head.

1. Keep things cool. Keep treating him like any other customer. And whenever possible press the alarm button. Whatever happens, keep shit from escalating. Play nice and trust in the system.

2. If things got really, really hairy -say, if he started threatening me directly, pulled a weapon or whatever- slam the brakes. The idiot, like most of his peers, wasn't wearing his seat belt. They never do. Maybe it feels too constraining. Maybe they simply take whatever chance they get to rebel. Either way, he's not wearing his seat belt and we're barrelling down the road. Speeding a little, in fact. Slam the brakes (or hit something) and the bastard will go flying through the window.

Things would have to go really, really bad for that to happen. Because I wasn't sure I had the guts to do something that directly to him. Big risk to myself, as well as the moral component. I wasn't sure if I was prepared to hurt another human being.

Of course, should things go that far south, I'd find out.

However, for now, I decided to stick with plan 1.


But the man had been really particular about me keeping my hands on the wheel, so a certain amount of subtlety was required. Luckily, after we'd left Parthaella way behind, chewing miles and miles past Greyhome and further down the road towards Aling's Ridge, he made the job easy for me.

"I want you to turn on music. Its going to be a long trip and we're going to need music. The Champion, by Carrie Underwood! Play it!"

The lyrics are fucking chilling 
considering the context. 


 "I don't have it... Want me to turn on the radio?"

"Don't you have an AUX-cable? Connect it to your phone!"

"That's my work phone... We use it for cab stuff. I don't think it has youtube."

"So use the phone you hid in your jacket."

FUCK

"No, no, I've used up all the bandwidth. Sorry."

"Fine, fine, we'll use my phone!"

So I handed him the cable (an FM-transmitter, rather than AUX) and he started fiddling with it. And he was making a pig's breakfast out of the whole thing. I saw my chance and started pressing the alarm button.

Dispatch hailed me on the radio

"Car 62? Car 62, come in?"

Of course, I couldn't respond. Instead, I pressed the alarm button again to show them it wasn't an accident. Suddenly my phone started ringing.

Shit

I clicked my earpiece, but didn't say anything. On the other end was Suze.

"Crabby, are you there? Can you hear me, Crabby?"

I couldn't respond. I couldn't say shit. Instead, I pressed the alarm button again, praying they'd get the message.

Next to me, my insane passenger was having trouble with his phone. He snarled.

"Look at this shit!" he said, showing me the screen. I saw a 404-error. "You see that? They did it again!"

"Who?"

"The ISP! They hacked me! The bastards. I have a thousand phones at home, and they've hacked every single one. Now they got this one too. Fucking bullshit!"

Suze again: "Crabby, can you hear me?"

Here was another chance.

"Oh I hear you, man!" I said. "Freaking phone companies, always screwing people over. Hacking phones. Yeah, I hear you just fine. Assholes."

"Damn right," said my insane passenger.

"Crabby, can you hear me? Please confirm." Suze was sounding increasingly worried. I hung up on her. If communication was impossible, I didn't need the stress of her in my ear. So I clicked her, and hit the alarm button again, all the while maintaining a calm, disjointed, friendly, tense conversation with my insane passenger.

The phone started ringing again. And again I clicked it on.

"Crabby, don't hang up. If you hear me, cough."

I coughed.

"All right," said Suze, relieved. "We've notified the police. They have told us that they'll be sending squad cars from here as well as from Aling's Ridge. They'll catch up with you. Just keep calm and stay on the phone, all right? Cough if you got all that."

I coughed. And a small sense of relief dared to flicker in me.

The cab kept rolling and my insane passenger kept fighting with his phone, kept rambling. We were having a nice trip. I don't know how much time passed. It could have been minutes, but it felt much longer. The meter was running steadily, and now we were up to almost a thousand SEK. That's a full third of one day's pay.

So we'd been on this nice trip for some time. And there they were. Standing by the side of the road was a squad car. Only once before have I been this happy to see cops on the road.

"Of course its the cops," sighed my insane passenger. "I bet they're here for us. You did this."

"How could I have done anything?" I said "I've just been talking to you, remember?"

He seemed to accept this. "Ah, nevermind, nevermind. We've not done anything illegal, right? Just you and me, on our way to Stockholm. A nice cab trip."

"Sure," I said. I passed the cops and I could see them pulling out behind me. I blinked the indicator to the right, trying to show them that yes, I'm your man, and yes I want to pull over.

"What are you doing that for? Don't do that!" said my insane passenger. "They're not here for us! We've done nothing wrong! Just keep driving."

The cops started flashing their lights at us. "He wants me to stop."

"He's not here for you! We've done nothing wrong."

"Okay..."

I started to slow down, and pulled over by the side of the road. My insane passenger sighed with frustration. Then he resentfully put on his seat belt. "Fine, fine... I got nothing to hide. I've done nothing wrong."

I forced myself to relax. I made sure I had my cellphone. I then sighed deliberately, and sank down into my seat, as if I was leaning back to relax. I unbuckled my belt. My insane passenger said nothing. Just sat there, sullenly.

I took my chance. I turned off the engine, grabbed the keys, threw open the door and hurried to the nearest cop.

I told him: "Thank God you're here. This guy, he's insane. He's trying to force me to take him to the US Embassy in Stockholm. He's threatening and if you could get him out of my cab before he grabs my ID and learns my name, I'd be very happy."

Of course, it probably sounded more like: "OH THANK GOD, CRAZY MAN HE WANTS ME TO GO TO STOCKHOLM PLEASE GET HIM OUT OF MY CAR I DON'T WANT HIM TO SEE MY NAME!"

The cop seemed to understand it, though, and he and his colleagues (they were joined shortly by two more cars. They had pulled no punches on this one) approached my insane passenger.

My phone started ringing. People from work; dispatch, my boss, the traffic overseer, all of them wanting to make sure I was OK.

Behind me, I heard the cops talk to my insane passenger. They checked him for weapons and found something.

"Why are you carrying a weapon in public, sir?"

"In my home country, its totally legal to carry a knife in public!"

"What home country is that?"

"The USA, damn it. I'm an American citizen! All I want is to go to the embassy, okay? I need to get back to my home country. Why can't you let me go home?"

"All right sir," said the cop.

"I'm me, I know I'm me! And you are you, right?"

All this while, I was talking to Tiffy in dispatch on the other end of the phone. Then my boss. And everyone.

Suddenly my insane passenger started screaming.

"I'M AN AMERICAN CITIZEN! I JUST WANT TO GO HOME TO MY COUNTRY! I'M A SOLIDER, I SERVED IN THE WAR! THE AMERICAN ARMY! PLEASE LET ME GO HOME!"'

I looked over, and I saw six cops in a pile on the man. The cuffed him and threw him into the car.

I simply stared at the whole thing.

One cop approached me and said:

"We've checked him out, sir. This man is very psychotic, and he's also high as a kite. He's seeing things. He is convinced you had a secret police radio, that you're undercover or something. "

"No shit," I mumbled. "So what happens now?"

"We're going to take him to jail. Then he'll be handed over to the state. This man is a danger to himself and others and needs psychiatric care. Do you wish to press charges?"

I declined. I figured that he hadn't threatened me directly, nor had he committed any violence. I just wanted to get out of this madness.

It was over.

On the way home, my head was aching and my fingers trembled. A colleague, Doug, drove up amidships with me and hailed me on the com.

"Are you all right, Crabby?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Jesus Christ."

"What happened!"

I gave him the cliffs notes version.

"Holy shit," said Doug. "The alarm went out to all cars. Ram said: 'calling all cars, car 62 in dire need of assistance. I drove out here at 130 kph, flashing my  lights and honking my horn... Good to see you're all right."

My boss told me to take the rest of the night off. The company would reimburse me for missed work. So I did. I went home and spent the next day in the tender care of friends.

I'm reconsidering my decision not to press charges. After all, this man might harm someone some day. And then, anything that weighs against his favour in the official record will be a good thing. Who knows?
------------------

I could end this with some rumination. Some moral of the story. But its basically this: When faced with a potentially lethal situation that you have no control over, your first instinct is to keep your head down. Again, if this guy hadn't been a lunatic, I would've happily thrown him out, cussing him out like a goddamn baboon. But he wasn't. He was crazy and (as it turned out) he was armed. I had no control over the situation - my first instinct was to keep shit from escalating. It turned out the be the right choice.

So far, people have been kind enough not to ask me why I didn't fight back, or why I didn't slam the brakes (aside from one friendly, but misguided, question about whether or not mace was legal and a suggestion that I should use that next time). The answer is simple: I had no control over the situation.

I've never felt fear for my life before. I hope to God I won't have to feel it again. But I'm okay now. The way I've been treated by my colleagues, and by my boss in the aftermath of all this makes me very proud and happy to work for Taxi M. But the real heroes in all this is Suze and Tiffy. I couldn't have made it, if the dispatch hadn't come through like the fucking saints they are.

Thanks to them, I won't have to spend the rest of my life as a cabbie.

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Here's My Stop has a facebook page! Join here for updates! Also, if you like what I do, please share it around! I'm always happy for new readers.
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