Gummyboy
My son came home from school in parts today.
The main part was in his wheelchair as it usually is, the rest was wrapped in a tiny piece of tissue and sealed in an envelope. Hollah to the Tooth Fairy – you’ve a stop-off here tonight!
It fell out in school, much to the dissapointment of his daddy, the Accidental Terrorist. Terrorists like to exact pain on their victims… you know, the usual… for information, to make a twisted point, or just for the fun of it. This terrorist however, has a more noble motive.
I’m sure you remember having wiggly teeth – impossible to leave alone, the focus of many hours of intesive tongue-work until finally it’s either knocked out, or pulled out by a cruel relative and a piece of string. This is the natural way.
With Laughingboy however, it’s different. His physical abilities are still on a par with a three month old’s, so he can’t deliberately play with it. He can’t wiggle it or give it gentle tugs like your usual seven year old, and he certainly can’t muster up the courage to give it that final yank.
Instead, one of us has to do it. We can run the risk that if he swallows the tooth, he’ll most likely be fine, but if he inhales it, he could do some nasty damage to his breathing apparatus. When I say ‘one of us’, by the way, I mean ‘not me’. I’ve tried. I can’t pull teeth. It’s not in my genes apparently.
TAT, however, sent me a photo of the first one he pulled from Laughingboy’s skull. He was proud as punch, his son’s hero. When the next one (the one that fell out today) showed first signs of wobbliness, TAT was right on it. He wiggled it religiously every day, gave it gentle tugs… ‘I’ll have that out any day now!’ became his mantra. I just watched and cringed.
This was why TAT was gutted to see the little brown envelope today and a big gap in Laughingboy’s smile.
“That was mine to pull.” he sulked.
I would’ve been slightly disturbed by that comment if I didn’t know better.
Another Saturday…
I watched as he nervously approached the front door like a man on the verge of discovering the meaning of life. He seemed so damned happy and full of hope that I almost felt bad for him, guilt quivered like a hamster in the corner of my mind that such a nasty deed should have to happen to this random bloke and to whoever lived inside that house, but nevertheless, it had to be done.
I waited until he had stepped over the threshold to leave my stakeout position, closing the door of the seemingly innocent taxi cab quietly so as not to attract attention. Slinking unseen to the front door, I pushed it a little to find its lock engaged, but this didn’t matter, for I’d been given a key. They had almost made it too easy for me… I was privy to names, addresses, alarm codes, times of expected visitations… the plans had been laid out in detail with the omission of the actual reason for it all, but I didn’t care. At a price of €20,000 per head for these people, I didn’t ask questions for fear the job would be given to another taxi driver because hey, I have a wedding to pay for.
I pressed my ear to the door and waited as voices receded before inserting the key into the lock. I opened the door slowly and a warm smell leaked out; pine and perfume mingled with a feint suggestion of home cooking and guilt twinged again, but was quickly squished underfoot as I inched into the first available empty room and waited behind the door-jamb. Dusk was approaching, my timing was perfect. I waited.
As night fell, I heard laughter, sometimes nervous but mostly warm and interested; the cadence of conversation rose and fell and I was getting bored. The time had come… I had to separate them, only to have them re-join in un-imaginably unpleasant circumstances, the details of which only my boss had knowledge of. He was probably welcome to them given his reputation as a twisted gang-lord who seemed to have his filthy hands dipped into more pots than I care to imagine and I knew I was just as bad, but nobody needed to know except for a random few other taxi drivers who had the ability to slink through the night in such obvious disguise… the chosen ones… such a strange honour. I tapped on the radiator with an unnatural urgency.
“What was that?” I heard the question, deliciously predictable.
Footsteps approached as I fished in my pocket for the first syringe with my gloved hand. A shadow darkened the doorway and I sucked in my breath. A man entered the room and I instinctively knew he was reaching for the light-switch by my head, so quickly grabbed his mouth from behind and emptied the contents of the syringe into his jugular - he collapsed like a popped balloon and I dragged his limp form silently to the couch with little effort. Far too easy.
She however proved to be a tougher target, for I sensed immediately that her natural instinct had whispered to her that something was amiss – I heard the silvery sound of a kitchen knife as it was slyly removed from its housing block and suddenly the house was far too quiet for my liking. I edged toward the fireplace and stole the poker from its hook and primed it for reckless damage… the suspense was fun.
I heard her. A creak, a tell-tale sound of nervous intent. We stood for a second, back-to-back, separated by the section of wall adjacent to the doorway, each aware of the other’s position by sheer logic alone. The blade suddenly flashed as an arm appeared, the knife flailing in a random fashion as I almost realized too late what was happening. I ducked as the knife caught my arm; the sharp pain awakened my instinct as fresh warm blood began to ooze into the fibres of my work shirt. Shit. I ducked and crouched, swinging the poker a full 360 degrees around the door jamb. I connected with soft tissue and heard a shriek as I rounded the corner to face my victim, then heard a sickening whistle as the blade passed too close to my ear. I grabbed the opportunity while her balance was off. The syringe sank into her neck and she fell, the knife clattering to the hard-wood floor with alarming volume.
Careful not to contaminate the scene, I removed my sock and tied it tightly around my wound, then checked the floor for spilled blood to find nothing… lucky. Satisfied that my work was almost done, I began to prepare the limp bodies for transit. He fitted nicely into the boot and she, well she did an excellent impression of a drunken innocent.
The journey to the drop-off point was uneventful. I played Beethoven’s 9th symphony over and over to inspire the madness… sometimes I fear the truth that A Clockwork Orange may have had more of an effect on my soul than I’d first realized… good old Ludwig Van. I was empowered by the fact that the deed had run smoothly, laughed my way through a police-check along the way as I gushed through the tired old phrases… ‘Yeah, a little worse for wear I’m afraid’ and ‘I bet she’ll feel that in the morning!’ They didn’t give me a second glance.
I spotted the white van at the address I’d been given… a quiet by-road near an unsuspecting village. I fished for the second key I’d been given and checked for passers-by as I opened the rear doors of the van and transferred the unsuspecting couple with speedy stealth, right on time. I approached the driver’s door of the van and waited. The man inside rolled down his window and nodded subtly.
“Not bad for your first job… good timing. He’ll be happy with that.” He noticed the bloody patch on my arm and the ridiculous looking bandage. “Small price to pay, hey. I’ve seen worse. Here’s your consolation prize…” He fished a small briefcase from the passenger seat and handed it over with a wink.
Neat bundles of notes lay inside to the tune of €40,000 and I smiled. A small white envelope lay on top of the piles which I opened as I sat back into my taxi cab, but I paused before reading the name. Do I really want to do this all over again? I have a reputation for being a soft-head, a do-gooder… if they only knew. Is it worth throwing all that away for dirty cash?
Hell yes.
I opened the envelope and read the name of my next target, then frowned, placing the paper on the seat beside me. What does it mean? Who cares? I fired the engine up for its second job of the night and glanced once again at the mystery name of my next victim.
I’m coming for you, English Mum.
Groucho
This morning I woke with the sun beaming in full volume through my window and I should be rejoicing but I can’t… I suppose it’s the human condition. The ironic thing about sunshine is that while it’s glorious and rarely found in this country, it has the nasty habit of showing up filth. I pulled the living room curtains open today to reveal a carpet that is, quite literally, seven shades of shite. Two years of dog ownership, over-zealous poker players, a toddler and my young lad’s leaky feeding machine will do that, and normally I wouldn’t care but today it clings. The dust is clogging every pore on my body and flies swarm as though mocking my inability to keep this hell-hole clean. Gnomes must have visited in the wee small hours, I could swear this house wasn’t this filthy when I went to bed last night.
How on earth do people maintain cleanliness on a daily basis? It’s beyond me.
I vowed to tuck into the mess, just as soon as I’d had my first cup of coffee, but one cup just wasn’t enough… two cups still wasn’t enough, even though each cup contained at least three scoops of freeze-dried instant. I took several swigs of liquid Ginseng despite overdose warnings on the label, the vile powdery taste of stagnant wine still lingers at the back of my throat and I’m still tired.
Instead of cleaning, however, I’m blogging. My fingers are twitching with misspent energy and my heart is racing, trying desperately to keep the beat of the incessant tapping of my right foot, and I realise that I’ve made a mistake… it’s not energy that I need, it’s enthusiasm. The two are so closely linked yet so very far apart but there is no such thing as bottled or freeze-dried enthusiasm.
I so wish there was.
Little brown bag
So I was sitting at a taxi rank today reading my paper, and I looked up to see a very common sight. Bodalorna wrote about it yesterday, it’s a sore subject with many obviously enough, and normally the sight of a grown woman putting a bag of dogshit in her pocket would make me point and laugh, but today I was inspired. Today I had to write a song about it.
Here’s the first draught:
Little Brown Bag
Six legs walkin’ down the street
Four small paws, two runnered feet
I got my choons, he got his scents
Together we got confidence.
The time is nigh, I know his game
I look away to spare him shame
Sure enough he squares the squat
And gives it everything he’s got
Here it comes, his face is pensive
Squeezing out his best offensive…
(CHORUS)
You, my doggie dude, I’d do anything for you
I sure as hell will hold your poo
I’ve a wee bag here just for you
Just for you and your special poo
People look and laugh at me
Pickin’ up so dutif’lly
I wonder if they’d be so smug
With dog shit smeared on their new rug?
(CH)
I got a smelly pocket but it’s alright,
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.
It’s really gross but you know it’s right,
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.
Hide and go stalk
There is a most excellent comptetion on the go out there, run by manically impressive Maxi Cane!
The craic is that he’s leaving not just his job as restaurant manager, but the whole restauranting lark to embark on an entirely different path altogether (best of luck to ya, matey!). His last shift will be on Tuesday the 5th of August and his challenge to us, is simply to find him!
The prizes are:
-Correct guess on the comment form here: €100 to spend in his restaurant.
-Seeking him out successfully in person : €200 to spend in his restaurant.
He has even started us off with a few clues:
-It’s on the Southside of the City Center
-It’s not a Pizza Hut
-It’s not on Dame Street
-Chips/fries don’t appear on my menu
Have at it, people!! Dust off the old sniper rifle, give Jack Bauer a call, but do it fast because I reckon I just might have it sussed :)
Blog-dressing
It occurred to me tonight how very similar blogging is to brushing my toddler’s hair.
I keep meaning to approach it but end up having to put it off until such a time as I know I’ve left it too long, by which stage it’s time to either launch into the knarliness until it’s done, or just cut the whole lot off altogether.
So, I get all my bits together and begin the job. Roughly fifteen minutes in I then realise that it’s a bigger job than I thought and that it’ll be a long session, usually with much objection from the hardware in question which complicates matters even further.
Then I realise that my problems are probably due to length, at which point the scissors come out and the subject matter is shortened but not quite in the fashion I’d imagined… to avoid further damage I quit while the going’s good, knowing that I’m probably going to get some very strange comments indeed, but hey, maybe it’ll work out better the next time.
Most of the time I just sit and stare at it, wondering how other people manage to incorporate plaits and twists and pretty pink bows not just occassionally, but every single bloody day!
So long, hackney cab
So we’ve fixed the Passat and installed radios and fare meters and a brand spanking new roof-sign.
No more gazing longingly at bus-lanes in heavy traffic, no more interviewing people outside Tescos who don’t know I’m a taxi driver, no more boring waits in between jobs from the dispatch office!
Yes, groan all you like all you taxi haters and frustrated taxi-drivers, but there’s yet another taxi on the roads. Our taxi, the relaxi-cab. I’m gonna be the best damn Grace Jones ever.
All I have to do now is figure out how to use this fare-meter. The installer didn’t teach us diddly-squat, all the buttons are marked with very obscure words indeed, and as for the manual? Pft… I wouldn’t even wipe my dip-stick with it.
First day tomorrow! Am I scared?
Yes.
Easy come, easy d'oh!
We bought a new car last month. I protested, but the accidental terrorist insisted, pleading the fact that a 92 VW Golf is very rare being that there are only sixteen of them left in the country. My argument of; ‘Duhh… the rest have been scrapped ‘coz they’re bangers!’ fell on deaf ears, because new cars are like strings – every yoyo wants one. ‘It’s my best mate’s car, he wants it to go to someone who he trusts!’ was the last word, so bought it we did. It was the first car with automatic transition that I’d ever owned so obviously I fell in love with it immediately.
Two days ago, we bought another car, a VW Passat. The Golf was scrapped in a heartbeat.
“Don’t tell me mate, ok?”
The Passat is lovely. It’s very dark and slinky and automatic and tryptonic and shiny and fast and my neighbours have their eyes on it… they’re convinced we’re drug dealers so a pretty car suddenly appearing outside our house should come as no surprise, but I’m getting some pretty cryptic comments from them so I’m saying nothing, and letting them stew.
I felt bad for TAT’s best friend, but being that he is also a yoyo, he probably won’t mind. I missed the Golf, but only until I got to sit in the driver’s seat of bright and shiny for a trip to the local shop and I knew… this is the one. I might marry this car – it’s absolutely perfect for this taxiiiing lark.
Guess what?
The accidental terrorist crashed it today!
Oh how I laughed.
The post in which K8 slags the knackers
Once again, K8′s faith in humanity is given a massive whack across the face with an iron crowbar.
I have defended the travelling community before (being that I live amongst them and kind of feel I should give it a shot)… I think I said something about them deserving the right to fight for respect within an unforgiving settled community?
What complete bollocks this is.
Here’s the scene:
-0-
I’m parked up at a garage in Bray, looking for a lady who wants to go to Arklow as per instructions from the taxi base. I’m scanning the area which is deserted apart from a young lad aged eleven or twelve who sits by himself on a window-sill with his head resting on his knees. Being that I am a girl who tends to think outside her box, I approach the kid.
“Hey kid… you looking for a taxi?”
The kid looks up and seems somewhat relieved. “Yeah, I want to go home to Arklow” he says.
I convey my successful pick up over the CB and am informed that the fare would be €65. I turn around to the kid. “Do you think you can handle €65?”
The kid looks panicky and says; “Oh no I have no money with me, my mammy said she’d pay for me when I get home. She’ll give you the money then.”
Fishy, but still highly likely.
“What’s the address?” I ask.
“I dunno” the kid says apologetically; “we only just moved in. It’s near the main street”.
Something smelled funny, and I don’t mean metaphorically. The child was scruffy, and smelled very faintly of urine (as many children do) but also had an unmistakeable accent. He looked nervous, and was hugging a bottle of orange soda. He had intelligent eyes, and looked me directly in the pupils when he spoke to me.
My instinct roared. It warned me that I was about to be swindled, but I wondered if I had the right to refuse a child safe passage to his parent? What if he was speaking the truth? I’m a mother, I can’t do that to a kid! Besides (more truthfully), €65 is a lot to turn down.
I take off. The kid asks me how far it was to Arklow, but apart from that one question he is silent for the entire journey. When we arrive at the town, he directs me into a small housing estate on the outskirts.
“It’s that house on the corner, I’ll be back in a second”
I let him out, scolding my instinct for being such a cynical bitch. Then I watch as the kid passes the house in question at high speed, and dissappears around the corner on to the main road. I fire the ignition and fly after him in first gear. The main road is deserted. I crawl up and down for a few minutes knowing well that the little fucker is hiding somewhere.
I drive back to the housing estate and call the taxi base to see if there is any protocol for this type of thing. Apparently the union doesn’t have an insurance policy against runners, because there is no union. I ring the accidental terrorist who tells me to come home (seeing as I happily live near Arklow anyway) and informs me that he regrettably has no secret ninja techniques for dealing with this situation. The Police are dreadfully under-funded and would probably appreciate my not informing them of this misdemeanour.
I couldn’t go home. I wanted to find him and run him over.
I drive very quietly until I get back to the road the kid would be walking. I shift into neutral and slink along with my eyes peeled.
About 200m ahead of me, I spot an old man. There’s someone else too, who briefly flashes a face, then hops over the 6ft wall beside him. I toy with the idea of scaling the wall to chase the kid, but thought better being that my trousers cost a few bob. Anyway, what use would there be in catching him? Sure, I could beat him up a bit to calm the anger, but I’d still be broke.
I stop to speak to the old man who does indeed identify a young boy holding a bottle of orange soda. He also tells me that the field over the wall beside us could be used as a shortcut to get to the traveller’s quarters ‘over the way’ as he puts it.
End of pathetic sodding scene.
-0-
I knew that kid was a knacker. I still drove him ‘home’ because it was the end of my shift and I was heading that way anyway. I was aware of the kid’s movements the whole time, but he gave me no cause for concern whatsoever. He just sat back with his arms crossed and gazed out the window silently which is refreshing for someone with my job.
I’m not angry about the money, I’m angry that I was so fucking naive to think that it’s possible that there is such a thing as an honest traveller.
They are a crafty race who have plenty of scruples and plenty of cash, so do not take your eyes off a traveller for one fucking second if you find yourself near one, for they would have the eyes sold out of your head soon as look at you, no matter what age they are. Kudos to them, they had me fooled… but not anymore.
They’re in a great position… they don’t pay taxes, and it’s well known that they enjoy the fruits of ill-gotten gains, yet the gardaí won’t go anywhere near them. They demand respect from the community and free land from the council, then fleece them as soon as their backs are turned!
Where’s the honour in that, though?! Why is it that the only events warranting shop and pub shut-down around here are Christmas day, and a knacker’s funeral? They live by skimming money off tax paying citizens… so why are we respecting that again?
If they’re so great, then why aren’t we all travellers? I’m already halfway there, sure. We’re scrounging a house off the council, but at least we’re trying to get back on this bastard of a housing ladder… we were almost on it too, once, but slipped off again when Laughingboy was born. Circumstance kicked us in the nuts and now here we are, still trying to crawl out of the dependancy pit seven years later. It sucks! Yet, there the knackers smugly sit in their dingy halting sites, knowing that their head-men and women of the family are worth literally millions of euros.
Here’s an insane question: If you had millions of euros would you squat in a dingy piss-stinking commune in the clogged pores of the Irish countryside, or would you bugger off to Thailand?
Answers on a postcard to:
One pissed off taxi driver
28 Shithole View
Dunfoundusaplacetohousethescumbags
Co. Wicklow
Ireland
(What?! What do you mean this post is too long? It’s not! My blog is too narrow!)
Five day weekend
Isn’t this sunshine just the absolute bee’s knees?
Today is my Saturday (being a quiet day on the taxi market) so I get to catch up on ‘puter stuff like designing a t-shirt for the Mini Marathon…
…and writing bloggy things.
Saturday was excellent. I and the Accidental Terrorist dumped our chisellers with the family and went to a wedding of epic proportions in Co. Westmeath. We were a cozy group of about 50, most of whom we knew, but hadn’t seen in about ten years. I danced the YMCA and played for the crowd on a grand piano which are things I only do when I am extremely happy.
The reception was held at Middleton House in Castletown Geoghan, which is an old recently renovated house. It’s only used for group bookings, so we had the entire place to ourselves. The staff are to be praised from a height… the food was perfect, and they were polite the entire time, even through the many passes they received from various drunken ladies. It’s an excellent venue, should you need one for whatever purpose.
The chap in the B&B we stayed in told us that he used to be a Guard who was stationed in that house 25 years ago. His job was to prevent the house from any damage caused by locals who were itching to burn it down, being that it was built and owned by a Protestant family. The history of the place was fascinating stuff.
This was our dancing-area, the band were in the gap to the right of the staircase, and there are two bars with comfy couches and fireplaces either side of the picture.
I got to pooch around a few rooms too – each plusher than the last – and met a spectre in one of the basement hallways. I took a picture of him for you:
We had a very one-sided conversation briefly before whatever it was buggered off. I think he wanted me to follow him but I know the rules of horror films, so I didn’t.
I explained more on Brian’s blog’s comments, with details on why I’m not crazy and didn’t imagine the whole thing.
Bank Holiday Monday should have seen me hackney-cabbing in Bray, but instead I got called to dig Baldeagle out of a hole. Baldeagle is one of TAT’s most spurious of friends, who works for our Irish version of Fed-Ex. He had double-booked himself, so we swapped transport and I got to drive a big van from the Quays in Dublin City, all the way up to Belfast and back, while he got to pull donuts and practise his hand-brake turns in a field with my own jam-jar.
It was pretty nice cruising up and down motorways all day like that in the sunshine, apart from the fact that I’ve got a trucker’s tan now. One white arm just looks odd.
How was your weekend?
