Upper Coomera Cabs – (19.3.2009)
Friday night Johnny used the ‘automated cab call system’ to hasten the arrival of my lift home. This was midnight – I called them back on my mobile over an hour later and finally got a lift home (5 minutes away – 2, as the crow flies) – arrived at 1:40am and stupidly watched the rest of ‘The Last Action Hero’, before going to bed.
Saturday was another good barbie day around Kerrie and John’s – however, by midnight I was once again set to go home. I called the cab (on my mobile – since I had lost confidence in the automated cab call system after the previous night’s debacle).
50 minutes later, after standing out the front for 20 minutes waiting, I called them again. “Okay – a priority mark has now been attached to your call – they’ll be there shortly!”
I rang them again in half an hour’s time “Where is my cab?”
“…..sorry – what’s that address again?”
‘MACDONALD AVENUE! M…..A…..C…..D…….’
‘Sorry – there’s no call for that address…..’
So after a lengthy explanation of the recent events, I was kindly advised that there was now a priority put on my call – though she added – do not wait more than 15 minutes before you call me back, if nothing arrives!
Beauty.
A Taxi van rounds the bottom corner and I begin to head for it – though this turns out to be dropping off the neighbours across the road (at around 1:30) – I head to hijack the b@stard anyway, when another cab-van pulls into our driveway. The ‘all or nothing’ principle at work again.
I leap in with great enthusiasm, for I am now beyond my best and am looking very much forward to collapsing into my king-size comfy bed which awaits only streets away.
The bloke says “WWWW – where are you going mate – cccc cause I don’t know the area?”
I said ‘Just turn left at the end here….’
(The end of MacDonald street is but 30 metres away and is bounded by a park and strategically placed water-overflow dam)
Now, I can’t swear that I heard the tyres squeal, though I do know that the accelerator was hard pressed to the floor, as I tried to clip in my seatbelt.
We roared off and surprisingly made the turn.
I said easy mate, it veers to the left just up here – though my advisement met apparently deaf ears – for he gunned it again, just as we approached the bend.
I chatted to him regarding the poor cab service and he kept muttering something about Surfers Paradise and better fares.
I quickly realised that the dude was taken to involuntary intermittent muscle spasms, such that he spoke staccato style and revved the engine likewise! The affliction seemed to possess him most of all as we approached corners, when the engine would roar and, being forced back in my seat by the sudden acceleration, I would reach for the panic strap. His disposition appeared unperturbed by my concern and he continued to rave about the bountiful streets of Surfers.
For my own amusement, I continued to press my automatic garage opener at regular intervals throughout the trip – in hope that I might happen on a familiar frequency and open someone’s treasure trove to the admiration of some local opportunistic young buck (hopefully without that stupid screwy haircut, which seem to be all the fashion with such whippersnappers these days).
I finally made it home in one piece and my mate shot off like a rocket, headed for the very near corner – and possibly then onto the riches that are Surfers Paradise.
Personally, given the symptoms presented, I would have speculated Creutzfelt-Jacob disease, however I now suspect the bloke most likely suffers from your garden variety Parkinson’s, tourette’s or cerebral palsy. Though as happy as I was to catch his cab, I never felt at ease – even in the back streets at some ungodly hour. Maybe the bloke was just having fun with another late-night drunk – but his driving style scared the bejesus outta me – I think I’ll take to driving or sleeping over from now on.