I had a fascinating conversation with Martin the taxi driver the other night. It was a long ride. I was on my way back from seeing the new rendition of ‘Exit the King!’(My favorite of Ionesco’s theatre of the absurd) and I couldn’t help but have an intriguing conversation with this rugged man. Usually during the drive I attempt to read a book and wait till the streetlights briefly pass so that I may read in fleeting interludes of light. My eyes have become accustomed to this over time. Though this time I did not feel the need for reading, nor did I have a good book. Instead I had a sage pilot giving me safe passage to new knowledge…What a terrible line…
He told me how his “wonderful, amazing, simple” daughter had recently attained qualifications in psychology. Martin looked at me, with both hands on the wheel, “I asked her what does she know about human behaviour! So she turns to me and says, “Not as much as you pop!” Ahh, the taxi driver, an occupation paid to observe and nurture human behaviour. He’ll give you advice, he’ll pat you on the back, but nobody rides for free.
Hmmm.
Martin and I discussed a myriad of topics. The similarity of opinions we shared would have shocked that base ‘human’ Ellis. Ellis would never have thought there’d be another like me! We pontificated on the hoodlums populating the streets. Whether Samuel or Eugene were better playwrights and why institutions feel the need for indoctrination rather than education. At every point of conversation Martin lifted his left hand and knew the words. It was like he was repeating the words to a song he had heard before or a song he had previously sung. His words were all knowing on these walks of life. I thought I had found the words to live by. Sentences that were left unsaid by that insolent drunken old man sitting by the piano.
He seemed wise for a chauffeur. I could get along with Martin. With his blue vein hands pointing towards me, he said “you know folks often tell me if I didn’t listen to myself I could be CEO of Macquarie bank! But I don’t. I’d rather have my name. Nobody forces their agenda on mine!” I did like Martin!
I felt a bond with this man who I had known for a short time. So I told Martin about Ellis. I told him about the snobby tie, the puncy attitude and the grotesque, varicose vein hands. The notepad, paper and the masks he wears. I told Martin that Ellis was nobody. I told Martin about his undying adoration of Mr Beefheart his mockery of history and some other things I shan’t say here.
The car was silent. Martin didn’t raise his finger or say a word. His eyes fixated on the road. The words were there, but he didn’t seem to care. He looked as if he’d heard it all or he had heard enough. Still staring Martin inquired, “right up here then?” I told Martin to stop the car. I paid him 24.50. Opened the door. Closed the door. He didn’t know. Neither did I. Probably neither will you. I walked to my apartment. I didn’t like Martin.
Flip
