Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

The taxi ride

Emailed – 6.10.14

On Tuesday I took a long-ass taxi ride. I dislike taxi rides of any length for two jolly good reasons. Firstly I am forced to co-exist in a small metal box with someone who invariably wants to ‘talk’. Bleurgh. This is wholly unacceptable. Secondly, the chatter-monkey in question generally tends to drive like a crazed lunatic in a bid to get me from A to B in the shortest time possible to maximise his earning potential. I understand the logic, however the speed terrifies me. Ergo taxi NO.

In a bid to eliminate the cake-hole waffling of taxi man, I sat in the back. This, as everyone knows, is the international travel signal of – INCOMMUNICADO MONSIEUR . To further make my point, I sat behind taxi man, in an attempt to make myself invisible. If he can’t see me I concluded, he won’t talk to me. Unless he is a total and utter b*stard.My wife tells me this is incredibly anti-social. AND?It turns out that this was a rookie mistake. ‘Directly behind’ taxi man puts you in full rear-view-mirror-view. Balls on toast.

For what felt like an eternity in hell, I had to contend with making constant eye contact with a man who checked his rear view mirror every 1/10 of a second. CHEESE AND CRACKERS MATE. Taxi man spent more time looking behind him than he did ahead! How in God’s name we didn’t crash and burn as we hurtled towards Walsall at 150 mph, driven by a man looking intently backwards, I will NEVER know?

It was PAINFUL. Every time I looked ahead, he looked into his rear view mirror and our eyes met.  AARGHH. With each stolen glance my toes dug their own graves inside my shoes. Silently curling and scrapping in a bid to escape the tension and head North to a new life.

Seriously, I spent more  ******* time staring into the eyes of that little Asian man than I have staring into my wife’s eyes for the entire length of our marriage. I may be in a man-on-man relationship now I’m not sure?

I was in a WORLD of pain. If I’d have been braver, I’d have thrown myself out of the cab and onto the motorway, just to counter all the homo-erotic eye-gazing; using the M6 as my metaphorical sword. But I am coward. A pathetic whine-about-it-after-the-event-coward. Instead, I pulled my A4 diary out of my bag-of-aloof and started furiously writing. Writing for my life. Writing for all I was worth. I say ‘writing’….

At first I was just scrawling drivel. Scribbling nonsense. Anything to occupy my mind and avert taxi man’s gaze. The page resembled a piece of automatic writing. The channellings of a disgruntled spirit-person. A psychopathic foul-mouthed spirit-person incidentally. A person furious at their limbo state and refusing to move on. Man there were A LOT of swear words  Good ones too. Gouged into the page by a fist clenched in tension.

(I have since discarded the page lest anyone find it and assume I am serial killer).

However, as my brain calmed slightly and my heart-rate began to drop, I turned to a fresh page and began to prepare for my working day. I made notes and quietly talked to myself. I was finding my feet with all this fake writing. I could have been an actor yo!  I figured, if I talk to me, maybe he won’t?  The logic of the socially incapable.

Silence reigned though. BOOM TOWN. About 15 minutes in however, I became very aware of a ‘sensation’. A feeling I had not felt for quite some time. Peculiar? I stopped fake writing. What was that? I couldn’t quite put my…….Ah yes!

I was going to vomit my f-ing face off.

I had spent SO much time looking down faux writing I had made myself travel sick and was about to redecorate the taxi interior with my interior. I compensated immediately I took evasive puke-action. Deep breaths. A bit like heavy breathing I suppose? I looked dead straight ahead and concentrated for all I was worth. The universal anti-barf measure.

As I fixed dead ahead, I could feel taxi man’s eyes dancing around in my rear view peripheral. I allowed my eyes to flick across and check. Hello you….

DAMN IT LOOK AT THE ROAD.

In fairness to taxi man, he was probably becoming slightly concerned, what with all the heavy breathing taking place directly behind him. I guess that would be somewhat unnerving? Perhaps he thought I was going into labour? Or had started m*sturbating? Either way……

EYES ON THE ROAD BUDDY.

I quickly opened my window and turned my head to the right, to look out at the traffic on the other side of the road, and to get some fresh air. I needed distraction. Taxi man, bless him, must have thought I was too hot because he wound his window down t’boot?  Either that, or  we had hypnotised each other, what with all the staring, and I was now controlling him with my mind?

But, taxi man didn’t open his window just the slight crack that I had; just to let a bit of fresh air in, as we rocketed down the M6 hurtling to our deaths.  No sir.  Taxi man wound his window NEARLY ALL THE WAY DOWN. I can only assume he was intending to make any possible self-pleasure an impossibility due to wind-drag?

Luckily I had my seat belt on, or I would have been plastered to the back window. The back of that Vauxhall Zafira had taken on all the key components of a tornado. There really is no place like home.

I spent the rest of the journey to Walsall looking like I was strapped into a mobile wind tunnel. You know those machines where astronauts get spun around SO fast that their skin splatters due to all the G-force? That was me at 7.45am on Tuesday morning in the back of that taxi. I looked like those scouts on the roller coaster eating their dinner in the 70’s.

The only good thing about freezing to death in the back of a taxi with my face G-forced around the back of my head, was that It took my mind off being sick. What’s more taxi man and I could no longer stare at each other because my eyeballs had been forced to the back of my skull. And we certainly weren’t talking. Well he may have been, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I was experiencing the sound scape of a plummeting skydiver. It’s a good job my willy wasn’t out, as taxi man I think suspected, or it would probably have been blown off. And not in a good way.

Regardless, we eventually arrived at our destination and I had the pleasure of paying £25.00 for 45 minutes in my own personal hell.

I dislike taxi rides innit. Ergo, I now live in Walsall.

Peace.x

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