First Taxi Fare
The dirty shower of rotten bastards on the Croppy Acre’s dog-marked soccer pitch called him Ollie Eyebrow but in school the scarlet cheating rabble-rousing lots caters called him the Ham Roll Man. Ollie was most definitely a few cans short of a full six-pack but he carried down the path regardless with mint infused confidence. He was kind and honest, but he often got into trouble. His nitwit bald head and narrow-stretched longneck resembled a one-arm chrome plated pull-lever in Barney’s beside the best-loved 101 Talbot. Ollie really was in desperate need of spondulix and with no real far-reaching business plan to hand, he decided there and then it was time to rent a taxi.
After calling Caxi Tab Rental in Jamestown, Ollie jumped a rather special express bus to Finglas Junction with three rose-tinted brass monkeys whistling down the back, so he walked the rest of the way. A sandy arid classic English red-brick industrial estate building sitting in bleak limbo at the dry delinquent end of a chock-a-block M50 bore the full bitter brunt of the grim cooped up cheerless taxi rental enterprise. Standing sturdily by the damp mouldering paperwork cluttered back office wall, a burly tenacious four drawer unyielding steel blue secure metal filing cabinet, with a vow to defend, was keeping a watchful guard. Leaf stained Royal Albert Sweet Country Plum fine bone china tea cups handcrafted by an independent potter in Burslem sat in wonderful harmony at the losing edge of a heavy mid-century straight-grained mahogany desk. Two muscular, brindle coated hellhound terriers with coal black bloodthirsty unholy red eyes were darting and sniffing about every withered nook and cranny. A slowly deformed wrinkle-grey see-through angel with translucent insincere galvanised spinster eyes under authentic musty ringlet rag-curls focused sharp and screamed silent at Ollie over a brutal antique Victorian ornate brass frame mirror. A pencil-thin pointed tail shot back under the desk as the menacing colourless creature grinned and leaned forward for a better look. There was evil in the air and thundering footsteps upstairs but Ollie held sway against the timeless wickedness and snares of these dissonant devils.
“Pearl, sit down,” bellowed the giant black-eyeglassed monster seated opposite.
Old Hob Finnegan had over two hundred used and abused rude taxi rentals on the road, a well-oiled leather strap duck's arse haircut and he loved playing chess, drinking vodka and barking aggressively at dogs. Old Hob’s grainy jowls rested heavily on his bulging fat head which clenched firestone wicked eyes that moved quick sharp, just like a red robin on high alert. His exclusive retro jet-black matt metal framed spectacles divided the horizon by an elegant bright narrow needle of white which sat neatly on his spongy sourdough puckered nose. A thick ample signature yellow gold wedding band mounded Old Hob’s stump, committed and puttied ring finger. He wore a jute twill-twine purple polo shirt and a frayed coffee-coloured big-fit vintage corduroy jacket with well-spent highland tweed elbow patches. Thirty years driving taxi at night painted coarse and hardened detail on the cement textured face of this steadfast wealthy bouldered soul. Leaning all the way back in his executive chair shaking his fascinating preoccupied head, Old Hob Finnegan put his patterned feet on the antique desk and watched Ollie closely.
“I’ll tell you there’s only two rules for this here game pal,” spilled Old Hob. “If they look wrong they are wrong and don’t drive if you’re tired.”
New Hob Jr. stepped quietly into the jumbled Caxi Tab office wearing electric blue dungarees, a skillfully crafted genuine natural straw player pork pie hat and he was chewing like the dickens on a spent silver bullet. He was a slender red-faced taciturn young man with medium length platinum blonde hair, a terribly over-sized mouth and a truly irritable disposition. He didn’t say too much, just lowered and raised his head slightly and looked sideways in Ollie’s direction. A furrowed, dirty overall mechanic, deep hurried and hidden in the murky greasy mess, was prying here and there from a dimly lit purgatory pit workshop out the back.
“Sign here bargain bin and you’re done,” said Old Hob.
The rental taxi was a charmingly old-fashioned, dusty, bashed up and damaged peacock green dilapidated jalopy with broken 4x2 timbered headlights loose inside. Tattered shabby weather-beaten Caxi Tab vinyl stickers were palmed off-centre across the exhausted hollow driver and dented front passenger doors. The niffy cracked interior of the adorable feather marred rental taxi was as depreciated as the aforementioned lacklustre fish bone sew-on and so forth elbow patches. Ollie would later turbo-handball the car silently into the idle orange streetlamp lit road ramp on the Grange Road at half four in the morning. He headed hell-bent directly to the petrol station for premium unleaded and a delicious fill of hot roast coffee on this cold fresh early December morning. The sun was shining, the weather was sweet and the city traffic was busy bumblebee with all of nature running wild and free. It was eleven bells. The justly common were determinedly heading italicised into town to buy carpet loads of what they didn’t need with hard-earned money they just didn’t have.
“Earn a few quid, learn the ropes” Ollie thought, “see if you like it.”
A pale skinny happy-hipster with black cruddy hair and standard issue courtroom grey tracksuit bottoms moseyed on over to Ollie.
“What's the story bud,” he countered, “Are you headin' into town?”
“Do I know you?” said Ollie.
“No,” said the hipster, “You’re a Jo Maxi?”
“Sorry bud, I forgot it’s a taxi,” replied Ollie, “I’m not goin’ into town.”
After paying for the juice in vulgar coins, Ollie bailed quicksmart like the hammers, down the main drag in the beautiful shabby blue-green, eye-patterned, badass banger under the exposed rust-corroded wrought iron railway bridge to the coast road and on up to Howth. As he forgot to take his tablets the night before, he was as nervous to the goolies and wanted to get a feel for the winsome motor before engine runup and systems check. He took a left hammer under a bright yellow height restriction barrier and pointed the car to the clear glass sea. The spirited fishmonger with the recognisable van out front was selling fresh fish to the crowd and Ollie marked this day as one to remember. All he needed was a sharp yellow pencil, a handy eraser and the gospel truth. Eggshell white sailing poles and double braided marine ropes chattered and called out to one another, twisting in the cool gentle breeze, broken only by the stuttered cry of loud shirty grey gull birds crying and swooping to-and-fro. Beside the distinct Pay & Display parking signs he stood staring at the sea, taking in the ever-changing fresh forever blue. Holding the chain-link fence, Ollie knew that each fleeting moment of blinding light on water was meticulously placed by the same hand that painstakingly bestowed life in Michelangelo's Creation of Adam back in 1510.
Ollie bounced his slender back right into the worn out bygone genuine leather seat real nice and comfy, touched the cruddy stiff-shift gear stick and then clenched his sinewy veined hands nimbly on the inky wax steering wheel, thumbs stretched out horizontally and touching. He took a deep breath to fill his lungs and exhale slowly. The sun hit the dashboard quietly and dust floated randomly in the trip of the light fantastic. The creeping shadow of winter-sun fingers cautiously touched over the copper bracelet lightly and rested gently on the soft brown hair of Ollie’s clay tanned arm. Mottled grime illuminated the gritty windscreen, each distinct particle working hard to find its place amongst the heavenly stars of this vibrant and unnoticed galaxy. Ollie said an act of contrition, fired up the cab and took off like a fallen angel in the direction of town without checking his wings. Biting his lip and scrunching his mush, Ollie let the soft marshmallow sound of the four red-hot rumbling rubber brimstones on the stained and peppered road fill his big pink ears.
A respectable and clean small 1.0-litre black car passed on the left and made him feel all bright, shiny and new while temporary shadows poured onto the tarmac mosaic of a trillion tiles. Ollie stopped hard at a green light where a rather attractive lady crossed the road with a bike and a patterned bag on front. Another bag facing in the opposite direction looked with contemptuous haughtiness from her midnight blue people carrier. The impatient driver in the car behind beeped, battled and roared. Ollie avoided the hectic glare by looking straight ahead, giving a good account of himself in a bid to save his hammered soul. Another car beeped to cut inside and a delightfully narky knickered golfer in a brand spanking new jeep shouted “Relax ya thick!” at a small tormented lollipop red car.
Tokyo Joe smiled and waited at the lights to cross whilst Anguished Anne stood holding the black painted railings, talking to another red-haired woman. Dark iron oxide liquid poured quickly down from the split cut at the side of her clammy vanilla cream forehead. Her mouth was open in turmoil and she had very sad eyes. An ambulance passed with its emergency lights flashing. Ollie carried on. The sea on the left and green grass where they played, oil tanks, buildings, chimneys, mountains and then sky. The wind brushed by his ear ghostly cold. Passing the forward plodding clowns and tear-jerking jokers in cars and bars along the way, Ollie saw how each one was searching for meaning in each other. He blessed himself passing the stone church and looked at the aerospace grade sky rockets already primed for the afternoon.
It was a slow day; the sun was beating and there she was in the jungle by the side of the road. A dedicated, determined tall brave middle-aged soul with outstretched arm ready to hire and become Ollie’s first taxi fare. He pulled up alongside and she jumped in the back wearing a smart, tidy battleship navy ladies' trouser suit and supporting a trendy strawberry blonde one-length bob cut that sat just above her willow shoulders.
“Fitzwilliam Square,” she said, “or as close as you can get me.”
“No bother,” said Ollie, “Strap yourself in and thanks for the business.”
Northside southbound, Ollie hit the meter and checked his wings before shooting off at an unearthly speed not exceeding the legal limit. He kept his big trap shut to catch no flies and Bossy-Boots stayed on her phone with an occasional glance out the window.
The passing cars sounded like sandpaper on ice.
Down the North Strand they flew, soaring past the highly decorated, no-go steel toe Five Lamps, flying through the eye of a needle and under the watching frown of Connolly Station. Stopped at the lights on Amiens Street they listened to the sound of a lonely Scottish piper and the hurried footsteps of a lady crossing diagonally at the lights. A tall chap in a Bordeaux wine jacket and Toblerone cream trousers paused beside a tartan pram pusher to scratch his bum and look up to the heavens above. By binding himself to this lot he certainly destroyed the whole kit and kaboodle. Around the bend and over the Matt Talbot bridge they glided like children in unison at the Dingle funfair on individually-carved merry-go-round pony chariots. They drove down City Quay and crossed Townsend to the tune of the next big thing dancefloor banger and past Nichols' the dignified undertakers. Sweeping by a thronged convenience store and the place where workers toiled solemnly from morning ‘til night to carry out their famous white sliced bread. They were told that their cars were built for a better world. Perhaps it’s true.
On arrival Bossy-Boots asked for a receipt but Ollie didn’t have a pen nor paper on his whereabouts. She tore paper from a spiral notebook and passed over a somewhat exquisite rollerball pen. Ollie scribbled a receipt, thanked her and off she cruised swiftly into the foggy wild like Tom without a writing instrument. As a bee collects nectar from an attractive flower Ollie knew this was the job for him. He spun the car around, again not checking his wings, and headed straight for Barry the Butcher in Mountjoy Square to grab some receipt rolls with the Carriage Office limited edition platinum plated pen. Unfortunately, Ollie knocked Enid’s Plod off a ladder on the way and he had to stay in the hospital for a few days.
Peadar O Dea
