I Am the Messenger

I look through the old record collection my dad gave me. Stress relief. I shuffle through the albums feverishly and find what I'm looking for--the Proclaimers. I chuck it on and watch it spin. The ridiculous first notes of "Five Hundred Miles" come on, and I feel like going berserk. Even the Proclaimers are giving me the shits tonight. Their singing's an abomination.

I pace the room.

The Doorman looks at me as if I'm insane.

I am insane. It's official.

It's three in the morning, I'm playing the Proclaimers too loud for their own bloody good, and I'm pretty sure I have to go and kill someone. My life has really become worthwhile, hasn't it?

A gun.

A gun.

Those words shoot through me, and I constantly look at it to check this is real. White light from the kitchen stretches into the lounge room, and the Doorman's paws reach out and lightly scratch me, asking for a pat.

"Piss off, Doorman!" I spit, but his huge brown eyes plead for me to calm down.

I break and pat him on the stomach, apologize, and make us some coffee. There's no way I'm sleeping tonight. The Proclaimers are just warming up on that misery-to-happiness song--the follow-up to "Five Hundred Miles."

Insomnia must kill people, I think as I drive the cab back from the city. It's the next day. My eyes are itchy and burning as I drive with the window down. The warmth of the air feeds on my eyes, but I let it. The gun is under my mattress, where I left it last night. I've got the gun under the mattress and the card in my drawer. It's hard to tell which has cursed me more.

I tell myself to stop whingeing.

Back at the Vacant Taxis lot, I see Audrey kissing one of the new blokes who works there. He's about my height but obviously goes to the gym. Their tongues touch and massage each other. His hands are on her hips, and hers are in the back pockets of his jeans.

Lucky I don't have the gun now, I think, but I know I'm all talk.

"Hi, Audrey," I say as I walk by, but she doesn't hear me. I'm heading to the office to see my boss, Jerry Boston. Jerry's a particularly obese man with greasy hair combed over his bald spot.

I knock on his door.

"Come in!" he calls out. "It's about time you--" He stops mid-sentence. "Oh, I thought you were Marge. She was s'posed to bring me some coffee half an hour ago." I saw Marge smoking a cigarette in the car park but choose not to mention it. I like Marge, and it's not the sort of thing I like to get involved in.

The door closes behind me, and Jerry and I watch each other.

"Well?" he asks. "What?"

"Sir, I'm Ed Kennedy and I drive one of your--"

"Fascinating. What do you want?"

"My brother's moving house today," I lie, "and I was wondering if I could take my cab home to drive a few things over to his new place."

He looks at me generously and says, "Now why on earth would I let you do that?" He's smiling. "Do my taxis have Removalists painted on the doors? Do I look like a charity to you?" He's irritated now. "Buy your own car, for Christ's sake."

I remain calm but move closer. "Sir, I've driven night and day sometimes, and I've never taken a holiday." To be honest, due to my nine months of experience, my

shifts fluctuate from night to day week after week. I'm not sure if that's legal. The new people get nights. The veterans get days. I get both. "I'm only asking for one night. I'll pay for it if you want."

Boston leans forward on the desk now. He reminds me of Boss Hogg.

His coffee comes in with Marge, who says, "Oh, hi there, Ed. How's it going?"

Ah, this tight arse won't let me have a cab for the night, I think, but all I say is, "Not bad, Marge, how are you?" She puts the coffee on the table and politely leaves.

Big Jerry takes a sip, says, "Ah, that's lovely," and has a change of heart. Thank God for Marge. Impeccable timing. He says, "Okay, Ed, since you work well enough, I'll let you have it. One night only, right?"

"Thank you."