Traffic
He hated traffic. Every day it was the same; lane after lane of people going god-knows where. The light turned red and he wearily stepped on the brake, gritting his teeth a little as he puffed out his cheeks and released a sigh. Paul had grown to despise red. To him it meant stop lights, slowing down the rate at which he could make money in his trusty little cab. It was the colour of signs that told him he couldn’t smoke; the government stomping on his last vice. It was the beginning of the five days every month when Jo wouldn’t let him touch her.
Catching himself frowning at the light, he half-chuckled and reached for the glove box. Turning the little knob to release it, he thrust his hand into the mess of papers and receipts until his fingers closed around a half-eaten chocolate bar. He pushed the gear stick into neutral and tutted at the lint that stuck to his snack. Bringing it close to his face, he began to pick at the fluff; his brow furrowed with concentration more fitting to major surgery. Finally content that it was edible, and with a small grunt of satisfaction at his handiwork, he opened his mouth and let out a frustrated sigh at the click of the passenger door opening. He pulled the plastic wrapping back over the top of the chocolate bar and pushed it into the door pocket. Maybe he’d have time for it later.
“Alright, Drive? Any chance of a lift to Llanelli, like?”
Paul looked at his would-be passenger without a smile. It took a few years of taxi driving to learn not to smile at people who opened that door and asked for a lift. He turned his gaze to the clock. Half one. His next booked pick up was at half three in Birchgrove. Swansea city centre to Llanelli and back would only take an hour and a half, maybe, at this time of day. He nodded, pressed the little black button that would start the meter running, and turned off the taxi light on top of his cab.
“Aye, alright. Get in then.”
He looked up to see the lights turning amber and pushed the gear stick to first, his foot keeping the clutch in check. He chanced a sideways glance at his new passenger as he started the car rolling forward. There was a marked difference between people who sat in the back and people who sat in the front passenger seat. People who sat in the front were normally more chatty. People who sat in the back had less to say, and that suited Paul just fine. He was here to drive and collect fares, not to chat. He’d told Jo that and she’d rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be so stupid,” she’d said. Which hadn’t shocked him, because that particular statement made up about half of their conversations now anyway.
There was a slight waft of stale tobacco and beer coming from his new passenger. It wasn’t something that was unusual on a Thursday afternoon in Swansea, but it always amazed Paul that people could afford to drink all day and catch taxis to wherever they wanted to go. Paul had to collect benefits and drive taxis just to make ends meet. As the thought drifted through his mind, he found himself checking his rear-view mirror.. He felt like he was always looking over his shoulder, sure that he’d be stopped in Swansea by armed police, hands-behind-head job for benefit fraud. He felt a bit guilty about it but, well, everyone was doing it these days.
The guy in the passenger seat was a bit greasy looking. His hair was a style that Paul vaguely remembered being described as “curtains” at some point in the past, and the curtains stuck to the man’s forehead and scalp with no movement. Paul guessed the guy was in his early twenties. His chin was weak and almost non-existent, and his skin was mottled well beyond his age. He wore army trousers, even though he had blatantly never so much as stepped foot on an assault course, and his skinny torso was covered with a black jumper that exclaimed “ADIDAS” across the front. It was a game Paul regularly played, trying to guess what his passengers were all about. He wondered if they did the same to him, and what they would make of his shaved head that was permanently covered in a beanie hat, his leather jacket and white t-shirt, and his faithful old jeans and sneakers. Not that he cared since he’d hit 38. Life was for enjoying these days, not for worrying about what other people thought.
Paul puckered his lips and whistled as he pulled out of the final set of traffic lights in Swansea’s new, extravagant, fucked up one-way system, and headed for the M4. His whistling must have gotten on his passenger’s nerves, he figured, because after only a minute or so of pitch-perfect ‘We are the Champions’, the passenger decided to speak.
“Been busy then, Drive?”
Paul had vowed long ago that, were he ever lucky enough to win the lottery, he would keep driving taxis. Just so that every time he was asked how busy he'd been, he could stop the car, turn to the offending passenger, and scream "NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS." Instead, he smiled and shook his head. “Nah, not really mate. Quiet day.” He’d been rushed off his feet all morning of course, but taxi drivers everywhere were universally ‘quiet’ on the business front, for the sake of getting more tips.
Another lull came over them both as Paul manoeuvred his way down the slip road and onto the M4. The radio was playing one song after every six adverts for some dodgy second-hand car dealership, and Paul was bored. He glanced at his passenger again. “You live in Llanelli, then?”
The passenger looked up with surprise, as though anything more taxing than ‘Been busy?’ was beyond him. He shook his head “Nah, just need to visit my mother. She just got out of hospital.”
Paul nodded. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nah, just appendix. She’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t go down though.”
“Haha. I know the feeling. My mother’s the same. Especially now she’s in and out of hospital like.”
The passenger looked out of the window. “Oh yeah? She okay?”
Paul shrugged as his eyes scanned the road signs they passed. He knew the area like the back of his hand, but he still always looked at the road signs. “Dunno yet. She’s having chemo like. Breast cancer.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
The passenger paused, his eyes fixed on the window pane. Paul couldn’t help but notice he was struggling for something to say. It was always the way though, with bad news. If he’d told him his mother won a million at bingo they’d be chatting away ten to the dozen by now. When Paul had told Jo about his mother’s cancer, she’d dragged herself away from her Internet chat room just long enough to give him a pitiful look, before clacking away at the keyboard again.
“My gran always says she blames Chernobyl like.”
Paul frowned a bit. “What?”
“For the rise in cancer. Reckons it’s all the radiation.”
“Oh. Right.”
“That your missus?” said the passenger, with an index finger outstretched to the photo of Jo that sat on the dashboard. Her eyes were twinkling in a way Paul hadn’t seen in years, she was thinner, her hair was shinier, and there were no bags under her eyes.
“Aye.”
“Pretty.”
“Yeah, she’s great. Makes a mean lasagne.”
They both laughed together. Paul’s laugh lacked freedom. The last time she’d cooked anything was three years ago, before she discovered the Internet. And now she even had time. She’d been laid off work and sat around doing nothing. Well, she’d told him she’d been laid off work. He’d found a letter that said she’d been sacked for timekeeping, but she was so explosive when she was dragged away from her computer, he didn’t dare mention it. Easier to keep the peace. She wouldn’t be able to hold down a job any more with the late nights she spent on that machine anyway, crawling into bed as he was getting out of it.
The radio played on as they continued in silence. A local station’s request show where the accents were thick and the songs were throwback. Paul pulled into the street and slowed to a stop. “There you go,” he said, clicking the meter to stop it running, “don’t stay too long, now.” He watched the meter flash £10.70 and smiled. The passenger opened his Velcro-fastened wallet, pulled out a tenner and a pound coin, and handed both to Paul, before opening the door and stepping out. He laughed and shook his head. “Nah don’t worry I won’t. I have to go to uni tomorrow to hand in my PhD paper anyway. Be safe, Drive.”
Paul kept looking at the door for a moment, his eyebrows raised. He let himself fall back, slumping into the worn seat behind him as he watched the young man walk away. Clicking the meter again to clear it, he looked at the clock. He took one long, deep breath and grabbed his chocolate bar from the door pocket as he put the cab into first and pulled off.