The Other Side of Midnight (9 page)

Just a Girl Driving a Taxi

Sandra, driving for four years

I used to work for an old answering service here in the city, the ones where you'd have to use the cord boards. If you called your oil company after ten o'clock at night you got one of us girls. Then we would call the oil man: “You got to deliver oil to old Mrs. Brown because she's froze down there.” I think when I first started, they'd deliver $50 worth of oil. That'll tell you how long ago it was I worked there.

I was at the university for a spell doing clerical work. I would have loved to stay there and grow old in a little office. Absolutely. It's probably the healthiest environment I've ever worked in. Mentally, physically—everything. But it was just getting harder and harder to get contract jobs. That's how I was working, on a contract, and they didn't want to hire any more permanent positions. Nepotism, or whatever you call it, was getting more apparent, too.

On paper, I should've gotten this one job. I had more seniority. At that point, I had Mom home, too, and she wasn't healthy. I had Jimmy who I was trying to raise on my own. The importance of that job, and then not getting it, was absolutely devastating. I thought because you were supposed to get a job that you would get it. I guess somebody figured a girl living in a basement apartment on her own with no cares in the world deserved that job more than me. It was overwhelming, not getting that job, because it was so important to my future.

Three days later, the union called: “We need to talk to you. We think you should file a grievance. We think you got a really good case.” But as grievances work, I didn't understand the process whatsoever. About a year or eighteen months later, I'm tortured to death. Everyone at my work thought I didn't want this young girl to have that job because I didn't like her. Through it all, I was the most unstable person ever. All you had to do was look at me, and I would cry. It was due to the bureaucracy of it all and the stress I had at home with Mom being sick. She'd had a couple of heart attacks, a stroke and the two knees done.

The last going off, the union said, “We have six really good grievance cases, but we're only going with two of them. Unfortunately, yours isn't one of them.”

I was thinking,
Okay. What now?

I got a meeting with the head of human resources. The main person with the union was off sick, and I got a replacement. The human resources guy started asking me all these personal questions. Of course, I'm welling up, and I answer them the only way I know how: “This job is important to me because I'm the healthiest person in my household. I've got my mom who is really sick, and I got a teenage boy home who I'm raising on my own.”

He looked at me and said, “Do you need counselling? By the looks of it you need counselling. You're not very mentally healthy right now.”

The whole meeting was an absolute nightmare.

In the midst of it all, a friend of mine commented, “My babysitter's father has got taxis. Why don't you give him a call if you need a job?”

I was just trying to find something temporary. I was looking at bars, and I didn't really want to go back to the bars. My son was going on a trip to St. Pierre, or Quebec, and I didn't have the money. He made a joke like a typical teenager: “You should get a job. You should drive a taxi.”

In a matter of five days, I went from joking about it to being out in a taxi. I never had a clue how to taxi. The only thing the broker told me was that I couldn't wear jeans. He didn't give me a map book, he didn't give me anything like that. I was sent out on a Saturday morning. He told me who the dispatcher was. He told me that when I push the button on the radio to say car whatever and tell him where I was to. He drew all the stands out on a piece of paper. He sat in the car and held onto my finger like you would a child and pushed the buttons on the meter, he let it go, and he said, “Now you do it.” Then he basically patted me on the arse and off I went.

I was frightened to death.

What surprised me was that I could never work another job and have the same level of money and availability as I do with taxiing. This week, I bought a couple extra things. I'll go to work tomorrow to pay for it. If I had something extra today, I'd go to work tonight. You make your money at your job, but how can you make more? Avon, maybe. Taxiing is the easiest way to have a job and a half. You don't even have to go home and change your outfit. I'd never have had that if I had stayed at the university.

Then there's the fact that it's easier to work with a bunch of guys. Say you got three female taxi drivers out on a night. Every time we're stopped waiting on a job it becomes a bitch fest. If you're dealing with the guys, you don't know if their mother's sick. You don't know if their wife is pregnant. You don't know that their youngster is on drugs. You don't know that their father just died. Whereas the minute you pull up to a female they'll tell you their life story.

It's the first time I've worked around this many men for this long. At the university, it was all women. We had just the one token male. It's so apparent that most guys don't have the same level of responsibility as women. Even the ones that do don't treat it the same. The ones who do take on responsibility still don't do it like a woman. There are a few whose daughters are on drugs, they got the baby, and they're struggling to pay all the bills. But they'll still drop everything on Wednesday to go get drunk. Whereas the females are like, “When am I going to be able to drop everything to go get drunk? Okay, I'll do it tomorrow.” Then tomorrow becomes the next day, the next day become next week, and next week become next month.

At the stand, there's a group of the really old taxi drivers. They've got this ornery kind of way about them. They don't want to know your name, or your business. But they treated me differently because I'm a female. I could pull up to a stand, and they'd say, “Oh, did you hear? There's a few big jobs going out from here.” They're not thinking that maybe I'll go and try to get it, or I'd remember it for next week. To them, I'm just a female—I don't threaten them. If I was a male driver they'd tell me where there weren't jobs. They'd send me in the wrong direction.

I guess I don't intimidate them; I don't scare them. That's how I got all the good bits of information when I first got started. Like I said to them, “I'm just a girl driving a taxi.”

Poor-Mouthing

Margo, driving for six years

A lot of boys poor-mouth their way to tips. Their wife got her leg broke, and they're working extra hours. One of the kids wants a new bike but they don't have the money to buy it. One girl told the customers that she had a yeast infection. Can you believe that? I got a crowd of women in the car on the way back from downtown, and they said, “Oh, my god! We got another female driver.”

I said, “Yeah, there's a few of us around.”

“Are you going to tell us about your health problems? The other one told us she had a yeast infection. ”

I went, “Oh, dear God!”

That made it funny because they knew I wasn't going to talk about any of my female issues, and I even got a tip afterwards. But it was probably on the back of the poor taxi driver who had the yeast infection. On the other side of it, I know what taxi driver that is. I'd like to go up to her and say, “What are you doing? Why are you discussing those issues with your customers? You're just making it harder on the rest of us.”

I Need This Job

Max, driving for four months

The vast majority of St. John's taxicab drivers are from the Metro
area. One driver said, “Years ago, there'd be a few scattered women
around, but you'd be hard pressed to find a foreigner at it.” There are
indications that the number of immigrant taxicab drivers is rising,
and their reasons for driving a cab seem remarkably similar to those
of native Newfoundlanders. Still, many face additional obstacles such
as language barriers and unusable foreign training, like this driver
from the former Soviet Union.

For forty years, I live in Almaty. Almaty is first city of Kazakhstan. No problem for me before 1991. After 1991, when Kazakhstan separated from Russia, lots of criminals. You know, in Kazakhstan, there is lots of oil. When lots of oil, lots of money. When lots of money, lots of criminals. I'm an economist. I have a diploma in economics. In my country, I had a little business with two little stores. Criminal people want 50 per cent of what I make, and leave me with 50 per cent. If I don't give 50 per cent, this criminal people, they say, “I kill your family and fire your shops.” They say come to my house and kill me, kill my son, kill my wife. I shake in terror. I sold my business, and I come here.

When I came to Canada, wife have divorce, and she live with my son in Calgary. I lived in Montreal for four months. In Montreal, very different people. I don't know why. In Montreal, lots of immigration people. Maybe this problem. I don't know. Here, if I not know, I ask you, I ask everybody. Everybody tell me, “Go here, go here, go here.” In Montreal, if I ask everybody: “Ah, fuck you!” There are lots of languages in Montreal, lots of people—a very big city. I don't know French. I knew English a little bit.

I visited Toronto; I visited Ottawa. Very nice cities. In Toronto, in Ottawa, I don't know where I need go. I can't ask anybody. They say same as Montreal: “Fuck you! Fuck off !” I no ask because I know what they tell me.

My lawyer say, “Go to St. John's, Newfoundland.” I come here, and I'm very happy here because one language and very good people. I like here because here easy. Not criminal. When I go to bed I no lock door. I know here not criminal. But my country, three or four locks.

St. John's has friendliest people. Very good people.

My diploma not good here because economics Russia, economics Kazakhstan and economics Canada very different. My diploma here not good. First time, I work dishwasher. After I buy car, I work pizza store delivery driver. Five years. Here driving taxi I only work three or four months.

I have experience from when I work in pizza store. Every time I use my map when I first start working. I study, study, study map. Now I know city. Sometimes, I no understand speaking. My English not good. Sometimes I no understand where I need go. If I no understand, customer write me—I check, I read. No problem. I know this street, I know this avenue, I know this road. I understand maybe 75 per cent. If no understand, I ask again. If no understand, customer show me where I need drive.

I like taxiing but it very difficult for me. I work many hours. I understand I need money. I need to work ten, twelve hours in day. I tired. I know this not good for me. I need rest. Here I can't take food because sitting. Every time I sit here in the car. Sometimes long times, sometimes short times in this car waiting for customer.

In St. John's, not lots of jobs. I need this job.

A Bunch of Cutthroats

Danny, driving for three years

While tipping, meaning “to give gratuity,” can be traced to the Middle
Ages, its modern origins come from eighteenth century Europe. In
the post-Civil War era, wealthy Americans traveling through Europe
brought the practice home with them to demonstrate their worldliness
and sophistication. Tipping soon became widespread. In coffee houses
and pubs, signs reading “to insure promptitude” adorned prominently
placed containers.

Some social scientists point out that tips are an expression of empathy
for workers who earn low wages. The expectation of a tip complicates
the relationship between taxicab drivers and their customers.
Historically, the practice of tipping brought taxicab drivers closer to
what might be best described as “service workers.” While taxicab drivers
might reject the characterization, according to historian Graham
Hodges, “Their relationships with customers and the chase for better
tips make them resemble servants.”

There are good tippers, there are stern tippers, and there are bad tippers. The stern tippers are the type of people who let you know that they're giving you a dollar. The university crowd, the younger crowd, don't know the meaning of a tip. They're the bad tippers. You'd be lucky to get an extra nickel out of them. Then there are the freeloaders. If you're close, the meter is negotiable. If you got eight bucks and the meter says ten, then eight is fine. But don't do it every weekend. I'm out; I'll recognize you. What are you supposed to do with them? We got guys on the stand that if you don't have the fare right to the meter they'll take you straight to the RNC. But drivers know that the cops don't want to charge them. The cops are like, “Come on. Is it necessary for us to charge this person?”

“Hang on now. What if you got paid $22 for an eight hour shift? What if you got paid $5 for the first hour you punched in? How does that sound?”

I drove a couple to Oxen Pond Road this past weekend. It came to twelve bucks. They only had eight. I was being nice, and I said, “Eight bucks is good. Don't worry about it.”

She got out, and the guy got out. They had a kiss and said their goodbyes. She went on, and buddy got back in.

I said, “Where are we going, bud?”

“Higgin's Line.”

It hit me that they didn't have enough money to begin with. “Do you have any money?”

“No.”

“I can't drive you to Higgin's Line with no money, man.”

Of course, he was a young university student. He was like, “Come on.”

“I'm out here working,” I said. “This pays my bills and buys my groceries. It keeps my heat and light on.”

I don't understand a lot of the younger people. They all work in the service industry; they're all waitresses and waiters and bartenders and bouncers. But still and all they don't tip, and half the time they don't even have enough to cover the fare. A tip is everything, especially for a cab driver.