(My house is right across the street from a strip mall which, while occasionally convenient, doesn’t have a grocery store. I’m waiting at a bus stop so I can go to a different mall, which does sell food, when a very nice taxi driver parks beside the bus stop.)

Taxi Driver: “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

Me: “Yes, thank you.”

(I get in the cab and this happens.)

Taxi Driver: “Where would you like to go?”

Me: “Not too far, just to [Mall across the street].”

Taxi Driver: “That’s right here; can’t you walk?”

Me: “Not that mall, I mean the one with [Grocery Store].”

Taxi Driver: “What mall is that?”

Me: “Well… um… It has [Restaurant exclusive to that mall].”

Taxi Driver: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Me: “I’ll take the bus. Sorry about that.”

Taxi Driver: “That’s okay.”

(I got out of the cab. That’s when it occurred to me that I didn’t know the name of the mall where I had been buying my food for four years. I started paying more attention after that.)

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(It’s the last day of a college class trip to France. Some in our group have pooled money for a van to take us to the airport. As we’re all putting our luggage into the back, an American couple and their older son suddenly dash out of their hotel and yell about their cab going missing. We shrug it off and get in the van. The woman of the couple gets in with us.)

Woman: *in English* “I need you to take us to the airport!”

Driver: “Madame, they paid for me to drive them. You need to call for another cab.”

Woman: “No! Someone took our taxi. You need to drive us! We are late!“

(This goes back and forth for a while. The woman refuses to listen to anyone in the van, her own family included. We tell the driver to just take them along, because we know this woman won’t get out. She proceeds to backseat drive the entire way to the airport, though I’m almost certain she has never been to Paris before.)

Driver: *stops somewhere far away from the terminal* “Here you go!”

Woman: “But this isn’t—”

Woman’s Husband: “This is fine. Thank you.” *pays the driver and ushers the family out*

(They have to walk over a concrete divider to get into the nearest building.)

Driver: *to us, in French* “That woman was driving me crazy!”

(He drove us to our terminal, and we gave him as good a tip as we could with the Euros we had left. Be nice to your cabbies, and don’t backseat drive.)

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(Since my school is a bit inaccessible by public transport, they’ve made arrangements with a taxi company for a carpooling scheme. Our driver is nice enough, but he’s also a heavy smoker. Obviously, he’s not allowed to smoke with us in the car, but he often attempts to circumvent this by filling it up with smoke before picking me up at the start of his route. Some variation of this conversation usually follows. I get in the car, immediately smell the smoke, and open the window.)

Driver: “It’s not that hot. We don’t need the window open.”

Me: “There’s smoke everywhere. I’m letting it out.”

Driver: “You’ll get used to the smell in a minute. Just leave it.”

Me: “It’s not the smell I’m worried about; it’s more than a dozen types of toxins.”

Driver: “Just live a little. You’re supposed to be experimenting with these things at your age.”

Me: “It’s because I want to live that I don’t want to passively smoke.”

(On one occasion, he tries locking the windows.)

Me: “You need to open this.”

Driver: “I’m fed up with you letting all the cold air in. So, I’m locking them from now on.”

Me: “If you don’t unlock it, I’ll tell the school and your boss what you’re doing.”

Driver: “Fine!” *opens the window*

(If the journey was delayed by traffic, he’d often snap and lean out the window for a quick smoke. Seriously, couldn’t he just hold it for an hour?)

(I live in Glasgow and have gotten a taxi to Queen Street Station. The driver has been perfectly calm and chatting with me up until now. When we get to the station, I see the cost is £17.60. I instinctively grab the first note in my wallet, believing only one to be in there, and hand it over.)

Driver: *furious* “This is a fiver!”

Me: “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know I had that in there.”

(I take it back and pull out the £20 note. In this time, however, the driver turns off the engine, locks the doors, and starts using his phone.)

Me: “Umm, here.”

Driver: “SIT DOWN! YOU AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!”

(I sit down, confused and worried, as he dials the police, reporting my blunder as attempted theft. After he hangs up he spends the next couple of minutes mumbling at how the English, like me, can’t be trusted. When the police arrive, he gets out and starts ranting at them. I can only see the face of one officer, who doesn’t look too impressed. She comes over and talks to me through the window.)

Officer: “Now, I’m not going to get formal with you. You look respectable enough, and [Driver] phones us at least once week thinking someone is stealing from him. Can you pay?”

(I lift up the £20 and she looks at the meter before rolling her eyes.)

Officer: “So, what happened?”

Me: “I had another note in my wallet and took that out, instead.”

(She rolls her eyes again and goes back to the driver. The driver then comes back and takes my money. He hands me my change.)

Me: “You’ve short-changed me.”

Driver: *pretending to be calm* “No, I haven’t!”

Me: “You’ve given me 40p; I should have £2.40.”

(Both officers looked in the car at the meter, and the driver begrudgingly gave me the extra £2 before speeding off. The officers shrugged and left. I just made it to my train. The irony of it all was, he was also English.)

(I am a student at my local university, as well as a disabled person with a serious mental illness, as well as physical disabilities which put me in a wheelchair. Because of this, and the scarcity of local buses, the government pays towards me getting taxis to class. The taxi company knows that I am disabled. Today I go to get my taxi at 1:00 pm; I have to meet my support worker at 1:30, and my classes start at 2:00. It gets to ten minutes past with no sign of a taxi so I call the company.)

Me: “Hello, I booked a taxi for 1:00 pm and it’s not arrived.”

Company: “It’s on the way. It’ll be there soon.”

(Ten more minutes pass and no taxi, so I call again.)

Me: “Hello, I called before and my taxi still hasn’t arrived.”

Company: “It’s in [my area] now, so it won’t be long.”

Me: “Well, I’m meant to be there in ten minutes—” *they hang up on me partway through that sentence*

(At this point, I start hyperventilating and freaking out a bit. I’ve been on the side of the road in the cold for half an hour at this point, and my mental health problems mean I do not cope well with unexpected situations. I contact my support worker and tell them I will be late, and then speak to my carer to help me calm down a bit. Finally, at half-past, the taxi calls.)

Taxi: “Your taxi is here; I’m outside.”

Me: “Where are you?”

Taxi: “By the co-op. How do I get to you?”

Me: “I don’t know; I don’t know of a co-op around here. Just out of curiosity, what area are you in?”

Taxi: “I’m in [area around two miles away].”

Me: “I ordered it for [my area].”

Taxi: “Oh. I’ll be there in three minutes.”

(He hangs up and I wait. Finally, he arrives, forty minutes late. No apology. We get into the taxi and drive off. A few minutes later he turns to me.)

Taxi: “So, how do we get to the university?”

Related:
Taxing Taxiing, Part 5
Taxing Taxiing, Part 4
Taxing Taxiing, Part 3
Taxing Taxiing, Part 2
Taxing Taxiing