Cabbie #1284

Tonight I was the patron of a taxi driver, one of many in my experience as the guy who somehow always ends up being the last person to go home, quite sober and exhausted after a night out on the town.

You forget until the next time you’re in the same situation, that each of these hardworking men and women have incredible dreams, things they want to escape, and most importantly, a story to tell.

1.30am on a Wednesday night in West End, Brisbane, the streets are completely empty save for two cabs in a queue on the main drag, smoking cigarettes and speaking a language barely recognisable (to me).

A friendly greeting to both of them, the second driver kindly pays his dues and allows the first in line to take me to Carindale, my south-east childhood suburb where I am gladly spending the night. After a few queries as to which route I prefer, I hop in the cab and the story begins.

Behnam: My friend, where are you from?
Me: Melbourne.
Behnam: No, I mean, where are you from? Your parents?
Me: Malaysia. My mother is from Kelantan, my father from Penang. How about yourself?
Behnam: Ah, you are Chinese then, by way of Malaysia. I am from Pakistan.
Me: What language were you speaking with your friend?
Behnam: I was speaking Pashto.
Me: Can you speak Dari as well?
Behnam: I can understand it, it is very much like the difference in dialects between Bahasa. I’ve spent a lot of time in Kota Bharu.
Me: You must know the area well then. You have Afghani roots — why did you come to Australia?
Behnam: Being in Pakistan, you have to work so hard and for next to nothing. The gap between the poor and the rich is too large. Here in Australia, life is better. Though I still have to work. Very hard.

Behnam goes on to tell me how he has a gambling problem, and that he often spends $1700-1800 a month at casinos, sometimes winning $4-5K in a single night but losing it all the next day on his return. He likes Sydney’s casinos better. He’s aware that the house always wins, and chooses blackjack and roulette as his favourite ways to lose money. Pokies are a terrible thing unless you play around 2-3 o’clock when they are full, though he’s never won a jackpot. We spar back and forth about our dreams.

Behnam: So you’re on holiday. What do you do for work?
Me: I’m a producer for radio, and a bit of TV. Many different languages other than English, which is how I know Pashto and Dari are related.
Behnam: How old are you? You look very young, but you speak like a 40-year-old.
Me: I get that a lot. What do you like to do in your spare time?

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Behnam: I like watching movies; documentaries and dramas. I am an actor. I like acting in films. I was an actor in Pakistan. I am a good actor, my favourite role is that of a Russian, Arabic or Indian army general. But I still have to work. There is no work acting.

I swear, I have seen a LOT of movies involving military, and no one has been as convincing as the man currently driving my taxi. Somebody from Hollywood needs to meet this hulking man with a generous beard, hard, tired eyes and a heavily accented drawl. Think of the swinging jowls of Robbie Coltrane crossed with the sharp cunning scowls of Mads Mikkelsen in villain mode.

Me: You should move to Hollywood. You’ll have an executive producer or a hotshot casting agent in your back seat in no time. Then you’ll be famous, I can almost guarantee it.
Behnam: Maybe. But I would lose all my money in the casinos there. I will go to the US… but only after I have a few million dollars to play with first. I plan to win the lottery here first. Or roulette or blackjack. Then it won’t matter whether I end up in movies or not. I will have a lot of money to have a good time, then I can sleep with whoever I want and make even more money.
Me: Hah! That would be some kind of life. Creative work is hard I know, it’s the same for me. I make music, but I have to work. No one cares how good you are until you’re already a big-shot. You should pursue this acting thing.
Behnam: I wish I could. But I do not have the brains.
Me: Acting does not take brains so much as strong feelings and a way to convey them. If a monkey could understand English, it could learn a script. Do you have a family?
Behnam: Yes. A wife and a son. But he is useless. He does not have the brains either.

I allow a respectful silence, and he continues.

Behnam: You’re a lot wiser than you look. I ask you again, how old are you?
Me: I am 26. I’ve learnt my lessons, I guess.
Behnam: I wish my son would learn. I get sad when I meet young people like you. You’re not that young but you’re young enough. He is lazy. All he does is spend my money, cook the food I buy and sit around and watch TV. He cleans the odd car for money but he does not have brains like you.

As we pull into my street, I prepare myself for the 5% card surcharge.

Me: Mister, all I can say to you is that you see the world in a way other people don’t. With you and your son, it’s never too late. There are stories of men who find their way when they are in their old age — but at least they find it, are happy, and are grateful for the journey. All you can do is help him try and find these things, and teach him a lesson when he’s too lazy. And don’t give up on the acting. It’s a powerful thing.
Behnam: I think you are right. I will talk to my son.
Me: Just here on the left is fine. Thanks so much.
Behnam: It was a real pleasure meeting you. I wish you all the best for the future, although I know you’ll do well regardless. I will see you again soon, I can feel it.
Me: It was a pleasure for me, and I do hope we meet again.

I hop out of the taxi thinking, wow, I just paid close to $50 for a ride home. Two weeks before, I paid $6 to travel almost twice the distance in Bangkok. Now with PayPass(tm), goodbyes with cabbies are always too short.