Waifs and Stragglers

                                                  Waifs and Stragglers  
The orange LED showed four thirty seven am. I pulled the quilt over my head and tried to steal another ten minutes kip. I always stay back a bit on Saturday mornings: Going out in the taxi before six, can get you involved with the hooded waifs and stragglers who skulk about in those wee misty hours.
 
Taking great care not to waken The Sweetness, I threw the quilt back and hung my legs over the bedside.
 
 Half an hour later, I pressed the pad to accept my first job of the shift.

From 34 Bellend place Livingston.
To 98 Broomshaft Entry,
Auld Reekie.
NB:£30.00 Casheroonie!
 
It looked a good fare, but at this hour, 05-40 am the chances are it will be one of those arsewipes. One of those wallopers wearing a baseball cap with a hoodie pulled over the top... It's a certainty!
 
Odds on It'll be one of those friends of the magician Dynamo; he's taught all of his wee pals how to have their jeans hanging down level with the back of their knees, even with full pockets they don't fall any further. I'm always tempted to shout. 

“Hey you ya fanny, pull yir drawers up, let's see yir socks."

I carried on to the address. As I turned into the street I pressed the pad to initiate the ringback informing the wahoo I was on approach. On hearing this, the belter would drop everything, and after pulling on his jacket, he would be standing at the kerb with the full fare presented at arm’s length for my perusal… Aye right!

A flash of sun bounced off the windows on the door of number 34. Another flash bounced of the guy's baldy heid as he stepped out. He was thin- faced and had one of those dyed goatee beards. A long, strong looking beak, with huge nostrils, filled the gap in between his, in my opinion, too close together eyes.

He was wearing a blue shell suit and what looked like baseball boots. (They call them Converts now apparently. Bloody baseball boots as far as I can see.)…Still.   

I checked the guy out. He appeared fairly sober. He was texting on his phone as he walked and seemed to be dealing with the multi-tasking pretty well.
 
The buzzer sounded as he stepped into the cab. I flicked the meter off and while looking through the rear view mirror and the bandit screen I said.
 
“Awright mate? Edinburgh is it?"
 
He grudgingly lifted his face from his phone and grunted while nodding.
 
I should have asked for the money up front. I thought.
 
“Eh, nae disrespect big man, but it’s company policy; A huvtae ask fur the fare afore we go... As A said, it's company policy."  
 
He would probably have gone mental, I had the address of the house, and after all he looked sober. Better to wait till we get to Edinburgh. It would make for a quieter journey.
 
I secretly plotted the address into my muted sat-nav, and followed its instruction towards Edinburgh. I like to pretend I know where I'm going in the city. It's all part of the show no weakness thing.

I checked on the bugger a few times on the M8. He was bent over looking at his mobile. He had a smile on his wee face and his thumbs were going as fast as a hitchhiker's at Silverstone.

On the way I'm still thinking;

 ‘I should've got the fare before we left. He'll be texting one of his pals to come out when I stop.'

(In the black cab, if the driver keeps his foot on the brake pedal, the doors are locked from the inside. However, they can still be opened from the outside. A safety measure obviously.)

Oh, wait a minute, I've sussed it now. The guy's gonna sit up and say,

" Eh, could yie stoap at a hole in the waw driver? A huvtae go tae the cashline tae git the money fur yie...Eh! If yie don't mind mate."

I stop, the fanny gets oot,and he's oot the traps like a whippet after the rabbit.

I should've got the money before we left. 

On the Calder road, I looked back at my fare. He was still on the phone, his fingers were a blur on the keypad  and he was still smiling. 

Following the sat-nav,I turned left and down the hill towards Broomhall. A right turn took me over a narrow bridge. Serena on the sat- nav quietly advised me I had reached my destination. 

The numpty in the back was getting very fidgety and animated. The phone was in his pocket now. He slipped off his seatbelt. As he began to stand he deftly flicked his wallet open and removed two twenties from a larger sandwich.  As he pushed the notes through the pay point  I noticed for the first time; his heavily lacquered fingernails.

"Thankth very much driver. That with a nithe quiet run through there. A hate chatty cabbieth.  A fell oot wie ma boyfriend jitht afore A came oot tae yir wee taxi."  

As he said this, he covered his lipsticked mouth with his open fingers and batted away an imaginary fly as he continued.

"Yie know whit? Wie you beein thae conthiderate and quiet. A've hud a great wee textie makin up wie him, and everythin'th fine noo.  A know the prithe ith thurty pound'th.” 

 He swatted yet another interfering insect. 

“But there'th forty... Keep the chinge driver." 

He flapped again with his deadly fingernails as he opened the door. Before disappearing altogether, he raised his expensively manicured hand and screamed...

" Laterth!"

I thought;

‘It’s a good job I didn't ask for the fare before we left.'

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