Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The day after Bob rang to try to persuade me to work in lieu of the mourning Indians, he rang again ... three times. I didn't answer the first two calls, because I suspected I knew why he was calling (he only has my mobile number). And I was right. One night about a month ago I copped a fare on Parramatta Road, going to Narrabeen. It was late, about 11.30. A young woman going home, probably from work. I don't know - she sat in the back, which usually means Not Inclined To Talk. I went the back way through Mosman, quicker at rush hour but not much odds at that time of night. I didn't know there was a speed camera on that stretch until the double tungsten flash - pow-pow! - caught me. Shit. Ever since then I've been waiting for the blow to fall. Bob said it was $75.00 plus (or rather minus) 3 points. They recently reduced the fine and upped the points lost, which I guess is better for cash-poor but points-rich me - I've never lost points before, have had the full 12 forever. Until now. Part of me wants exculpation, to find a way of getting off. I'll tell any lie I have to. The fare was ill, in a hurry, going home to a sick baby, about to give birth ... I thought I was in a 60 k zone (I was in fact doing 61 kph in a 50 k zone) ... there was no-one else around ... anything. I once did elect court for going through a red light camera, pleading poor brakes. And did get off. But another part of me says, ah, fuck it, cop it sweet, pay up, forget. I'm not sure. It isn't the points, it's the fine sticks in my throat. The fare to Narrabeen was a big one, about sixty bucks as I recall; and the miser in me simply does not want to surrender that money to the government. There's time: Bob will call it a 309 and return the ticket to the authorities, who will then write it out in my name. Meanwhile, I have to make up my mind. What should I do?
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
A phone call this morning from Bob, sounding sombre. How's it going? I asked. Not good, he said. One of his drivers fell off a balcony yesterday and died. An Indian. All his other Indians have gone out in sympathy, as it were. He wanted to know if I could drive today and tomorrow. I said no, I couldn't. And I can't. Bob often says his group of drivers is 'like a family'; now there is a family funeral. I'm trying to think who it could be. The only Indian I recall is the dignified Sikh who drives one of the Legion cabs. Surely not him? Falling drunk off a balcony? Maybe one of the guys out of Ashfield? I may never know.