There are times, as an Uber driver, when I feel uneasy. I know I shouldn’t stereotype, but I often experience “postcode paranoia”.
Definition: Irrational fear of a geographic location due to regular news reports of antisocial behaviour.
In a sentence: “Man, I get postcode paranoia when I’m in xxx. I heard nine people got shot here last night!”
I’m talking about places with graffiti-covered walls, but not the artistic kind that jump out at you and tell a story. The angry tags of disenchanted youth. Sharp, bold scratchings on every surface. Smashed-up bus shelters and barbed-wire fences at every turn. Security cameras at every shopfront and “Beware of Dog” signs at every front gate. When I accept a job in an area fitting this description I go into autopilot mode. CLICK CLICK – that’s the sound of my central locking being activated. I then sit up a little straighter, narrow my eyes and clench my jaw. “You’ve got this!”
I had just dropped a gaggle of goon-drinking Gen Y’s to Chinese Laundry in the city after a quick stop at their “friend’s” house to pick up “free entry tickets”. I watched all three swallow their free tickets in the back of my car, washed down with a bottle of moonshine. “You’re a legggggggeeeennnddddd Uber driver, eh mate!” said Jay enthusiastically as he dragged his fingers through his brown, dreadlocked hair with one hand and wiped the cheap liquor from his mouth and chin with the other. We joked I might pick them up from here at 4 a.m. the next morning . . . albeit as zombies with cracked lips and bent jaws. They left my car in a fierce debate about which house anthem would be best to “come up” to.
I picked up a new job straightaway. A businessman in a suit who needed a ride all the way out to Parramatta. He sat in the back of my car playing on his phone and didn’t say a word to me the entire trip. I dropped him off at Westfield shopping centre and started heading back toward the city.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Marco – 4 minutes – Merrylands
Merrylands, a suburb in Western Sydney, known for cheap real estate and drive-by shootings. As far as postcode paranoia goes, Merrylands is a code red. Marco hadn’t entered a street number either, just a street name, which further compounded my anxiety.
I pulled up in the street Marco had entered on the Uber app. It was more of a back alley than a street, with row after row of rusted garage doors covered in graffiti and “DO NOT PARK” signs painted in red. “Fuuuuck this,” I said to myself out loud. I considered cancelling the job and driving off when my phone started ringing. I accepted the call.
“Yeahhhhh bruzzy! Just hold up two secs, I’m almost there!” an excitable male voice exclaimed.
On cue, Marco walked around the corner and started heading toward my car. I watched him carefully in my rear-vision mirror and started my calculations:
Height – five feet ten inches
Weight – seventy-five kilograms
Build – skinny
If you’re wondering what the hell I was doing, I was trying to work out if I could “take him” if things went pear-shaped. Yes, I agree, it is a strange thing to do, but I think it’s something that most men do subconsciously, even when walking through a shopping mall.
In a split second I decided I could probably “take” Marco, or at least stun him enough to give myself a chance to flee if he turned out to be a psycho. I unlocked my doors as he approached.
Marco was wearing a tight white t-shirt, jeans and a pair of those Tiger sneakers; you know, those white ones with the black lines running across them. His black hair was slicked back with a generous amount of gel and he had an enormous diamond, or probably diamante, earring in his left ear. He also had a very unique style of walking. He appeared weightless, like he was walking on the moon. Maybe the only thing weighing him down was the novelty-sized bottle of water he was carrying. Seriously, the thing must have been five litres.
Marco entered my car like a bat out of hell. He flung himself into my front passenger seat, leant forward, and started tapping my dashboard with both hands like he was playing the bongo drums. He then stopped suddenly, turned his head and pointed at me with his left index finger.
“Yeahhhhh, bruzzy!” He said. “You’re the first ever Uber cunt to ever stop out this way, ay! First ever! You’re the madddddest cunt, bro!”
Marco was talking in rapid-fire. It was like he had swallowed the Road Runner.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Redfern staysh, bruz! Redfern staysh!” (Translation: “Could you please take me to Redfern Station.”)
“No worries,” I replied with a smile and a nod.
Although Marco seemed a bit crazy, he was likeable enough and I found his positivity contagious. He sat there, nodding his head and pursing his lips to whatever song he was playing in his head.
Marco then leant in close to my stereo system before sitting back suddenly, clapping his hands, and yelling, “AUX cord! Sickest cunt!” It was clear Marco was keen to play some of his own music on our . . . oh, man, on our thirty-two minute ride to Redfern Station.
He was feeling nostalgic. Zombie . . . Zombie . . . Zombie . . . Zombie NATION! started blaring from my speakers. Marco was in heaven. He took great delight in singing the very simple hook of the song, “Da da da da da da da da da da da!”
I have to admit, it is a very good song. Marco couldn’t wipe the smile from his face; he also couldn’t stop wiping the torrents of sweat cascading off his forehead with his sleeve. The song ended and Marco turned down the stereo.
“It’s a banger, bro! Was back then, still is now!” he announced with a grin. He then casually tapped me on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked, again with a beaming smile on his face.
“I can keep a secret, Marco,” I replied. “What have you got for me?”
Marco leant in close and looked around suspiciously before asking, “Have you ever injected cocaine up your ass?”
My brow immediately furrowed and my mouth gaped as I sat there in total shock.
“Hahahahaahahahahahhahaahahah!” Marco burst into a fit of hysterical laughter in reaction to the stunned look on my face. He was writhing around in his seat with his hands clasped together, like the happiest little snake in the history of the world.
Abruptly he snapped out of this laughing fit and once again leant in close. “No joke! IT. IS. THE. BEST. SHIT. EVER!” he said with intensity, clicking his fingers in the air.
I had hardly said a word back to Marco during our drive to Redfern Station, yet he felt we were best friends. “See, this is why I love Uber!” Marco announced. “You’re not some weirdo, old guy taxi man. You’re just like me!”
I started to feel like I was in that film with Johnny Depp, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Cruising through the desert with a madman high on drugs. Ten minutes to go.
Marco reached down to pick up the giant water-bottle he had been holding between his feet. He skolled the water, most of it running down his chin and soaking into his shirt. “Fuck!” he said. “Sorry, bruz, I didn’t spill any on the seat, I promise!”
And then it hit me. I didn’t care if Marco spilt a few drops of water on my seat, but I sure as hell cared if he was leaking feral arse-juice laced with cocaine into my seats. I would have to get a new car, I thought to myself. Please don’t let there be arse-juice stained into my seats. Please. Please. Please.
“Hey, you should come out with me and the boys tonight!” said Marco. “Yeah, you should definitely come out tonight!” he said again with even more conviction.
I politely declined his offer as I pulled up to Redfern Station.
Marco insisted on a handshake and a fist pump before he told me he loved me and left my car. Thankfully, he didn’t leave a puddle on my seat. I will definitely be buying some seat covers before I venture out on another crazy Saturday night.