Catching a cab home from work

When waiting till the (sort of) last minute to write a feature article for your February issue that has to go out the next day, staying a little later than usual at the office can be called for. Also, when President Obama does his State of the Union address and everyone in your home country has already watched it and you couldn't because you were working, staying a little later than usual at the office can be called for -- especially if you don't have an Internet connection at home  yet.

This is what happened the other night.

First I watched the SOTU. I was the only one on the floor so I was able, without being considered crazy, to yell at the grim-faced Republicans who appeared on my monitor, pissed they were expected to applaud, angry that they were unable, like Chris Matthews, to forget a black man was speaking. Then I wrote my article.

Then, at about 11:30, I left. I had checked the train schedule and discovered that there was track work and I'd need to take a bus at some point. That wasn't going to happen. So I caught a cab.

The seemingly mild-mannered Australian was quite ecstatic, annoyingly so, but I figured it's better to have a happy driver so late at night. At this point, though, I was wishing the drive from Chatswood to Darlinghurst wasn't so long (and it's not even that long).

He began by introducing himself. "I'm Phillip."

"Catherine," I said, shaking his outstretched hand -- the other one, thankfully, having been on the steering wheel.

"That is the name of my dearly departed."

"Ah, I'm sorry, man."

"She's not dead. We're just separated."

You know those perfect cab rides? The ones where the driver actually just drives and doesn't try to endear you to his or her (never had a chick driver) reality? Every once in a while I will get those. But more often than not, I get the ones (from Turkey) who need to stop by home base and get a tie because they're about to take me to the airport and don't want to get caught out of uniform. Or the ones who fled Iraq on foot during the Gulf War and ended up down here. I usually ask questions and end up quite enjoying the conversation.

And then there was Phillip. He proceeded to tell me of his separation, which was now at 15 months and 28 days.

"So you're over it?" I asked.

"She came to me one day and said 'I'm leaving you.' And I said okay. But can I ask one favor? 'Yes?' Can you take me with you?"

I sort of chuckled or something, and considered asking him what his one-liner humor was doing to help him deal with the pain of his separation. But given the late hour and his erratic driving, I thought it best to let that one go. Instead I asked how long they'd been married.

"Twenty-six years! How old are you? Twenty-six? As long as you've been alive."

"Thirty-six," I corrected him.

"Wow. As they say, someone's taking care of you."

Yes. Okay. So we hopped on some freeway or another, barely making it past the big-ass truck that wasn't adhering to the lines of the on-ramp. Or whatever it is they have down here. Before we got on the freeway, I noticed his swerving but figured he'd settle down a bit. He didn't. And so of course I'm now thinking that he had just come from the Chatswood RSL before picking me up. (I will admit to quite enjoying the Chatswood RSL, conveniently located as it is across the street from the job.)

As we weaved in and out of the lanes, he rattled on about his wife, his separation, and his A-D-D.

"People think I'm usually drunk or on drugs," he said.

No shit.

"I'm lucky if I have one beer a day. And I don't do drugs," he said, tugging at his noise and sniffing. "Haha."

Ha. Ha.

As we entered the Harbour Tunnel, he described what it's like to have A-D-D.

"You see, people think I'm on something, but what happens is you're up. Really up. Like a big balloon. Picture it," he said as he drove perilously close to the lone car we shared the two-lane road with. "And then, it's as if someone pierces the balloon with a pin. And so you crash. People often think it's bi-polar. People will usually stay away from  you at parties. Either that or they're too nice to tell you to stay away."

We hit William St. along with every other cab taking people to Kings Cross. So he made an illegal maneuver to get me to place in a couple of minutes. He parked out front and we settled the charge. The ride being over, $42 later, I opened the door so I could go upstairs and brush my teeth and crash. Silly me.

"Wait, wait, I want to show you something."

I couldn't imagine what it would be. I sat back, leaving the door open and my foot on the curb. He pulled out his phone.

"This is the family about 15 years ago."

"Wow, four kids," I said.

"She's the oldest. This one hates me. She just got married. And he just finished high school."

I asked why his one daughter hated him. It felt like the nice thing to do. Phillip's picture time had ended after about seven photos and I thanked him for showing them to me. I told him to drive safely, A-D-D and all.