Pedal Taxi Driver - Part 2

Moving to another (supposedly English speaking) continent is by no means a walk in the park. At times it can be frustrating, isolating and occasionally quite thrilling. I'm lucky to have a personality that's fairly comfortable with dislocation and small bouts of isolation. In some ways I'm happiest when I'm out of my comfort zone. The challenge of building another life 4000 miles away from my friends and family fits that bill quite nicely. But it still doesn't mean that I'm immune to missing my loved ones. Who wouldn't be?

Nowhere is this feeling more visceral than when I'm working a night shift as a pedicab driver. Given that hellishly busy spots tend to be where the best cash is made, I'm wedded to them if I want to make a reasonable wedge. The best area for footfall is the notorious thoroughfare of Bourbon Street. A mile long sluiceway, gilded by neon signs advertising cheap beer, "cocktails" and women. There was a time when this place had vague pretensions to classiness but it was heavily Disneyfied in the late 70s and that's a thing of the past now.

Quite a few pedicabbers refuse to wait anywhere near Bourbon because of the barbarity and stench of the place. One French driver called Leroy guffawed and spat on the floor when I mentioned that I waited there. "BOURBON! C'est la merde mon vieux!" he spluttered.

He had a point. Rarely can one find a place where you experience equal measures of loneliness and self-satisf satisfaction. Quietly studying drunken idiots making utter tits of themselves. Stoically watching an obese topless man wrestling a dwarf, and then vomiting on himself. Staring blankly at shuffling herds of overweight businessmen in cheap, baggy suits smoking $3 cigars. All quite convinced that they look like Tony Montana. They don't.

Photo Courtesy of Avery Leigh (https://www.flickr.com/photos/averyleighwhite/)

The three things that do make this job bearable, apart from the exercise are; the money, my colleagues and the people I meet on the streets and in the back of my pedicab. The latter two in particular are ample sources of comfort, amusement and, in most cases, entertainment. This chapter will cover all three.

Firstly, the money. Anyone who has ever complained that America is an uncharitable nation need to be reminded of a few home truths. America, more than any country I know seems incredibly adept at leaving society to make up the shortfall for failures of its central government to provide requisite services and protections. Since moving here I've been overwhelmed by the small armies of volunteers who give up their time for free in order to give back to the community.

Just the other day, pedicab organisations asked for volunteers to help clear up after the funeral of a woman and her two small children murdered in a triple shooting. They had been well known and loved in the community. The local funeral home simply couldn't cope with the emotional strain of organising the cleanup. Within minutes the volunteer list was full. I've lost count of the number of times that I've heard of people sacrificing their time and money to help others in need here.

At no time in American history is this spirit of community and generosity more relevant than now. The Trump Administration, if you can dignify it with such a title, is planning on de-funding just about every Federal organisation under the sun. The impact will be catastrophic and felt all over America, and the wider world. The need for individuals and communities to step up has never been greater. And I certainly hope they do because this country is fucked without it.

If tipping is anything to go by then I count this as probably the most generous nation on earth. The average tip I receive for a ride is around 40% on top of the fare. And the fare is bloody high. You wouldn't catch me dead in a pedicab. But I'm glad someone takes them. And, as is often the case, the least well off usually give the most, and certainly as a proportion of their net worth.

Occasionally you have to sweat for a good tip. I once got $50 for a 10 minute ride because I won a six pedicab drag race. It's probably the only time I'll ever get paid for committing a traffic infraction. Europeans, by contrast, are a much stingier lot. And don't get me started on sodding Australians (more on that later).

once in a while, some dimwit will ask me "so why y'all more expensive than an Uber or a cab?" To which I usually say something like:

"Because I'm a human bloody chariot you twat. I'm an affordable luxury experience, like a ostrich egg omelette or those water jetpack things. Do you know what I had to go through to even get a license?"

Actually I don't say that. But I'd really like to one day.

As you'd imagine, the kind of people who work in this business are a fairly eclectic bunch. Many are transplants to the city from all over America and beyond. There is the expected smattering of musicians, photographers, actors teachers and the like. One Franco American rider I met was called Paul and was famously grumpy, even on his best days. I later learnt he was former war journalist who had done a long tour in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. I think it would be hard not to have a short fuse if you'd experienced something as tough as that.

Others commuted here for the Winter and Spring festival seasons and moved north in Summer to work as a fisherman, tree planters, landscape artists or other, equally salty enterprises. Some were ex-military and did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. One had been an engineer on a nuclear submarine. There were a few students, busily preparing for careers ranging from geology to astrophysics. Some had worked in oil and gas or the chemical sector. One of my friends, Brian, had been part of a team that cleaned up major chemical leaks at processing plants. Often playing around with substances that would kill a human in seconds if their skin was exposed to more than a teaspoon of it.

There were plenty of girls doing the job too, and they were hard as nails. You really have to be given the amount of sexual harassment meted out to drivers. Even I experienced a small dose of it at the hands of two very sozzled gay men. Thankfully you can blackmail them for the privilege. The going rate is usually $20 a prod. I'd heard of a legendary female pedicabber whose hustle was baiting customers with the promise of future sexual encounters, only to leave them $300 poorer and very, very horny.

Everyone has their own way to hustle. Mine was chilling on Bourbon. In time, I came to find solace on the murky corners of Bourbon street. I became immune to the fetid stench of old oyster water. I began to enjoy high fiving drunkards and posing for photos with tourists. Sometimes I even got tipped for posing for them. Once by a group of men from Jersey and once by a gay blind man who sat and talked with me for a while. Why a blind man would tip for a photo is beyond me but I was glad for his generosity.

The job also allowed me to meet eccentric locals and street performers. One man called Bernardo asked me to pedal him to a bar for a takeaway mimosa (it was 11am) and then to his home to help him up the stairs with his groceries. He was a black man in his 60s sporting a trilby, a brown chalk stripe suit and a pair of wraparound sunglasses that felt like they had been welded to his face. He walked as though he had just been hit on the head with a frying pan. Many years of either self-abuse or a serious health issue had also gifted him the poise of someone constantly holding on to an electric fence.

Once I was in his flat it dawned on me that Barnardo had quite the career. The whole flat was decorated floor to ceiling in large, framed black and white photographs of exceedingly beautiful nude women. I had, completely by accident, stumbled across the man with the best job in the world.

"I probably seen mo' pussy than a thousand dudes! Been doin' this fo fouty years and it don't get old" He exclaimed. Given the interior decor of his home, it was hard to disagree.

As well as local artists and, there were all manner of street performers and vendors that I became friendly with too. There was Rex, the hotdog salesman. An Alabaman ex-military man who was an absolute dead ringer for Ernest Hemingway. There was Jack Working, an 87 year old photographer who had lived in the city since 1950. He was still sharp as a pin liked to tell me stories about his friend who slept in an original civil war submarine that he had somehow managed to stash away in his living room.

There was Joe, the ex crack addict who had found out that he was really good at standing still for long periods of time. He decided to put this skill to use and would stand for hours in various poses on Bourbon street, holding an American football. I was shocked to find out that he earned about as much as someone in a Junior position at a law firm. Except it was tax free.

"Have you ever had to stop being a human statue against your will Joe?" I inquired.

"Only one time. A lady came up to me on Bourbon and started trying to suck my dick. I kinda drew the line at that one. It was five in the afternoon....There were kids around man."

Other memorable street acts included Pikachu Guy, Disco Darth Vader, Tall Black Man Dressed as Uncle Sam, Pirate Couple, Voodoo Weirdo, and Red Devil Dude. Incidentally Red Devil Dude died of a brain aneurysm two days ago. Disco Darth Vader organised a memorial service for him but the pedicabbers all thought he was a total dick so no one showed up. I only encountered Red Devil Dude once and can attest, with no hesitation, that few will ever mourn for his absence.

My absolute favourite performer was a man that I have never actually met. Clown Mannequin Guy would dress a mannequin up in clown clothes and a mask and place it on a dustbin in Jackson Square. People would stare, completely aghast at this supposed performer's ability to remain completely still. Presumably with open mouths they would toss their hard earned dollars into a bucket at the clown's feet. Apparently the owner would always sit somewhere in the square, getting totally ballbagged on hooch and giggling to himself as people diligently tipped his mannequin.

A rare sighting of Clown Mannequin Guy. He cycled past me with the clown sitting on the handlebars.

Aside from the friendship and comfort of those that worked on the street, I also found passengers to be sources of great interest, amusement and disappointment. Mostly they came from quiet little corners of America. Mostly from Ohio, Pennsylvania and other frigid states. By the end of my second month I had nearly covered nearly every state. I could always tell within a few minutes which passengers voted for trump. The various responses as to why good honest people would vote for a lying, philandering, demagogue were as interesting as they were baffling.

The word used most was 'change'. Which seemed deeply ironic given that this was the maxim so often associated with Barack Obama. People here just can't help but go for a Maverick. It's been one of the defining features of the American psyche since the pioneers decided that they would head West until they couldn't get much further. It also didn't help that a huge number of people thought Hillary was a total bitch. I sort of did too.

Probably my favourite 'Trump' related moment was when a man from Florida told me, in all seriousness.
"If y'all wanna make some money you better get yourself some action on that wall he's building."
I paused for a moment in order to prevent myself from telling him to shove the wall up his arse. he continued.
"He sure is pissin' a lot of folks off." Now that I could certainly agree with.

I'm usually pretty deferential and try to avoid offending my customers. Even the Cro-Magnon skulled Trump fanatics. The closest I ever came to really offending someone in my pedicab was when a black woman was talking to me (incidentally about Trump).

"This is what happens when people vote with their emotions, and not their reason." She said
I'd just watched The People Versus OJ Simpson and very nearly replied
"Yea, like they did wit the OJ case."
Thankfully I was able to check myself.

Most of my customers are good natured, entertaining and interested in having a genial conversation. The one exception to this rule is Australians, namely Australians from Sydney. I generally consider myself to be a pretty liberal and tolerant sort of person but I make a few exceptions for people who really rub me the wrong way. It used to be Germans but they have been completely leapfrogged by Sydnians, thanks to my experiences with them here.

I've had the displeasure of taking three pairs of Sydnians for rides and can report, without restraint, that all are almost completely devoid of personalities, humour, charm and a general interest in the world around them. I try and engage them in conversation but they act as they would rather wank off a bobcat. Perhaps it's because I have an English accent but I'm pretty convinced it's because they're a bunch of knobs. Oh, and they never tip. Obviously.

It's a shame because Australia itself is such an incredibly beautiful country. But I dare not visit for fear of accidentally strangling someone. I've taken groups of men to strip clubs and watched them slip their wedding rings into their jeans pocket and yet I still hold them in higher regard than all of my Australian passengers.

I think that's enough Aussie hating for now. Suffice it to say the overall pedicabbing experience has been great. So great in fact that I'll probably keep it up alongside my day job. In fact I'm on the clock as I write this last paragraph, sitting by Jackson square under a gentle violet sky. The thick heat of the day is settling down and the air is filled with the distinctive smell of burning charcoal. It's a smell that tells you that spring is finally around the corner. although it was almost 30 degrees today and the leaves still aren't out on most of the trees yet. I can understand why Martin Luther King called it the 'relief of Autumn' now. In any case, I really do love it here and I can't wait for folks to visit and share this wonderful place with me.