GTFO!

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For some reason, I am thinking about people I kicked out of my cab over the years. With each passing year, I ended up kicking more people out of my cab than the year before. There was something about ignorance, mixed with stupidity, and a dash of hubris -- repeating itself over and over again, day in and day out, year in and year out, -- that became increasingly painful to me.

During my first summer, I picked up a car load of women from somewhere in Hamilton's north end, wearing clothes they bought at BiWay. They were going to Burlington... probably to play bingo. As I drove along York Blvd. they started complaining about the taxi meter. I was green as grass but I was already sick of hearing complaints about the taxi meter. Then it went to the next step: "This trip only cost $3 last time I took a cab."

Last time? When was that? 1926? Without a reference time, the estimate is meaningless.

So, on it went. I developed the impression that, regardless of whether the meter was accurate, my passengers intended to dictate the fare to me. I wasn't in the mood for such a one-sided negotiation. I pulled to the side of the road and told them to get out. I don't know if they complained to the office or not, but I never heard a word about it. That was one advantage of driving a taxi before cell phones, I guess.

Then there was this White guy, about forty years old. As soon as he got in the back seat, he started barking orders at me. "Turn right on Hughson, then right on Jackson, then right on John and take me up the mountain." I don't know what his problem was. Maybe he thought all cab drivers took "the long way around" to inflate the fare, and coming off like a drill sargent would prevent that from happening. The alternate route he demanded was no shorter than the usual route. It was a six of one, half dozen of the other situation. But I didn't argue. The customer is always right.

On the way, he ordered me to stop at the KFC on Concession St. so he could buy food. I told him there was no KFC on Concession but he ordered me to believe there was a KFC on Concession. So I drove along Concession. There was no KFC. He finally admitted there was no KFC there.

After this, I gently offered him a suggestion. I told him about the KFC at Mohawk Rd. and Upper Gage. He must have already known it was there because he didn't argue. "Okay, take me there."

When we arrived at the destination on Nebo Rd. the meter read $19.90.

"Make it $20," he said, "And give me a receipt."

Tipping is optional, of course. But after putting up with this guy's snot-face attitude, ten cents is not a tip. It's an insult.

I made out a receipt for $19.90 and handed it, and a dime to him. He said, "I don't want that." I replied, "Neither do I."

Some time later, I got the same guy from the GO station. I didn't recognize him at first, but when he went into his "Turn right on Hughson, then right on Jackson, then right on John and take me up the mountain," routine it all came back.

I pulled away from the stand and started to drive toward James. That was always the route I would take to ascend the mountain via the Jolley Cut. Muscle memory took over and I forgot the sargent's specific commands. As we entered the Hughson intersection he started yelling at me.

"Turn right here!"

By then, it was too late to make a right turn. I would have had to turn across the right lane which would be a dangerous maneuvre, and almost certainly illegal.

But he became more enraged. "T U R N R I G H T H E R E ! R I G H T ! R I G H T !"

Something clicked in me. I had had enough of this guy.

I pulled over to the left and told him to GET THE FUCK OUT!

And, "Do you think you own me?" though not in exactly those words.

He complained to the office and I had to speak to the boss. After a two-minute conversation with the boss he said, "Sounds like that guy has a problem."

And I drove back to the GO. To "Work."