Cabbie

I got into a cab just off Trafalgar square at around noon on what I recall was a Wednesday. My trench coat was appropriate for the season, and my umbrella shook off the light rain as I packed it up, at jogging pace, to reach the black taxi. I hadn’t had lunch – well, I didn’t have time to. Actually that’s not true, I’d had a coffee around 11ish I think. London stank of people. My superiority was sickening, their inferiority blindingly obvious. I had to be home for my daughter’s parent’s afternoon, not evening, afternoon. This was a rather shrewd call on the school’s part. I had already made a joke to Harry over at education about this. I, as I always did, asked the fare before the cabbie drove on, which on this particular occasion was £13.60, which was a little pricey but I was already late. We drove on.

On my phone, I failed to notice that the cabbie appeared to engage me in conversation, something I had not witnessed since the credit crunch, when of course I was shouted at everywhere I went.

“You see the thing is, there’s only one kind of folks. Folks.” His tone was soft, his words clear and well-defined.

At this point, I studied his appearance. Long, dark, grey hair with a pink bobble tying the locks together at the back, a bizarre colour contrast. He wore a dark grey pinstripe suit with a purple tie, perhaps the least interesting item of his attire, when taken into consideration with his patterned socks, which had caught my eye in the numerous mirrors he had positioned around the car, as though he was a driving instructor by night, cabbie by day.

“People will generally hear what they listen for, and see what they look for. And I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it works.” I think he said something along these lines, but I didn’t quite hear him properly.

Why did he apologize to me? I wasn’t questioning the freak. I started to glance around my surroundings and look up from my phone and study the world around me. It was at this point I noticed the unusual décor of the taxi, with the blue and turquoise stripes along the seating beyond the realms of unusual. I had failed to notice these when I sat down in the taxi, preferring instead to sift through my WhatsApp messages. They mainly consisted of my aides informing me of the hate I was receiving through social media - I had just voted against gay marriage. This was on the order of my conscience, and how much they annoy me.

“Human rights for everybody, there’s no difference – that’s what I say”. This was in a more end-of-the-argument tone, as though he had said all he wanted to, and he had won – equality was this simple. This guy knew who I was.

“Look, if this is about this morning…” I interjected politely and harshly.

He didn’t turn when he spoke, in fact the back of his head resembled a silent man when he was in voice. He was simply speaking, there was no expression or emotion there. I noticed the letters ‘yhni’ tattooed on the right side of his neck. The cab smelt of heavy aftershave and deodorant, as though he’d made some effort to ensure the pleasant scent of the journey. The seats weren’t sticky either, and didn’t smell of burger king, piss or sweat.

“It’s just up here”. It didn’t seem a suitable response to have simply offered directions now. I had nothing to say to the judgmental so and so.

He drove me up to my door, and with his hand gestured for me to get out. I offered him the fare and he refused it completely. I insisted, but he didn’t respond. As I was just getting out of the cab and organizing my keys to open the door, he finished the journey.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.”