Cabbie Conversations
On a typical day, the scene that meets the eye at the head of the airport taxi rank is one of barely controlled chaos - the line of passengers snaking along into the distance, two or three cabs pulling up every few minutes to whittle away at the edgy crowd and the harried dispatcher somehow managing to maintain a semblance of sanity in the middle of it all defining the mad half hour immediately following the arrival of an inbound flight. Today there is a line of taxis and no passengers waiting. Two men - and a woman - stand at the head of the taxi rank, talking. Their conversation is deep and intense - there are hands flailing about, gesturing wildly and a few guffaws here and there - such that I have to clear my throat to attract their attention. At the second time of clearing my throat, I succeed. They split up like people surprised, maybe even a little guilty. The woman - who must be the dispatcher given her fluorescent yellow jacket - waves me in the direction of the car at the head of the line, a jet black Audi. One of the men standing and chatting turns out to be the driver, his keys remotely popping the trunk as I dump my bags and as he makes his way to the driver’s side of the car. ...