Baxi

I am a bicycle taxi pilot.  I use my leg muscles to ferry the nightlife of Wellington from here to there in groups of one or two (but never three! Unless you offer me extra money…).  I charge $5 to $20 per fare depending on the distance and how much I think a prospective customer is likely to pay.  I accept tips.  I am trained and qualified to operate a three-wheeled vehicle.  I have heard a better title, and it is “Professional Tricycle Driver”.

I have stories, oh do I have stories.  I have driven three transvestites to Marion St.  If you are from Wellington, you will roll your eyes and say ‘Of course Marion St.” because that is where all of the transvestites, and the people who are into transvestites hang out.  I have driven at least three different passengers who claimed to be the mayor.  One, while probably not the mayor, did play a mean harmonica.  He played me a blues tune while I rode all about how great I, the Baxi driver, was.  I have received payment in the form of coins, bills, kisses, drinks, and massages.  I have received a $40 tip for a $20 fare.  Joey has been paid $100 to drive two strippers around for an hour while they sipped champagne.  Ben had a date last Wednesday with a customer.  It was an average date, he said.

I know the street performers, the cab drivers, and the bouncers, and we are all tight.  We are all apart of the exclusive club of cab drivers, bouncers, street performers, and Baxi pilots.  The people who ride, love me.  The people who do not, well, most of them do too.  As I ride down Courtenay Place, cars honk approval, and pedestrians cheer!  I reply with my bell, BRING BRING!  The yay-sayers abound.  I am a hero!  Once, I drove a homeless woman who jumped on my Baxi thirty meters to the next bench for free, and everyone on the patio of Hotel Bristol cheered.  “Good on ya!”  My passengers flirt with me.  “You must be fit to ride one of these, ay?”  “Look at the size of his calves!”  The girls pinch me in places it is not appropriate to pinch girls, and their boyfriends don’t care.  The women give me kisses and think I am cute, no matter how dorky and unimpressive my helmet and mountain bike shorts make me look.  When I am in the saddle, I might as well be wearing Armani. 

Then there are the nay-sayers.  There are cheap, stingy drunkards, who plead with me for free rides.  Drunk women are the worst.  So used to having drinks bought for them in the bars, they jump on the back and say “Mush!”  I know better than to talk long.  I give them my buzz-kill face and tell them to get off.  I insert profanity in the above sentence if it is called for.  There are unfunny, unclever boys who jump off without paying.  I can spot them better now, and demand payment up front.  My Baxi isn’t built for speed, and some streets are one way, so I cannot give chase, but the last one to jump off my Baxi fell and appeared injured, so I was satisfied. 

The waterfront is the most pleasant place to ride in nice weather.  It is quiet, and the starts are beautiful.  The ocean laps against the warf and beaches, and the customers there are friendly and appreciative.  Cube street, between Ghuznee and Vivian is a great place to find passengers, because it is quieter there than on Courtney, and I can schmooze a bit.  Establishment is one of the biggest bars around, and one of few that stays open past 3:00am, when the final bump in business comes.  I make rounds to and from Estab until 3:20 when it is time to call it quits, and go home.  I return to the depot, where the other Baxis are stored, there are four that work, two that do not.  There all the pilots have a cuppa and count their earnings.  A slow night can be anywhere from nothing to $50, and a good night as high as $140.  Above that is a great night, and I have once kept $191.60 after paying out the mandatory $40 rental fee.  I do not pay taxes.  I am an independent contractor.

In my underwear drawer, I have over $50 in coins, which I try to spend at the farmers market on Sundays.  I keep close track of my money, and write the totals on the ziplock bags the cash goes in.  I pay cash.  I sleep in on weekends, and occasionally miss ultimate Frisbee practice on Sunday mornings, but I forgive myself.  Sometimes, I have seen the sunrise as I fall asleep.  At noon, when I awake, I share stories with Ben and Joey, my roommates, and they with me.  We are heros.