Les the Taxi

He always says that in his experience he has observed (and that is how he always says it, “in his experience” and “observed”, slowly, mulling over the words as he looks down at his pint) that there are two types of people (he called them two “distinct groups”).Those who automatically sit alongside him in the cab of his Sierra, and those who don’t. Or, as he put it the other night.
“There are some as are polite, and realise that to enjoy an even level of discourse they must sit alongside me, so that we are on a level playing field.” He paused for a long pull of lager, spilling a little on his plain shirt “then there are the others. Those to whom I am a conveyance, a way of getting from A to B.” he has descriptive hands, and on this occasion points A and B were indicated with sharp jabs in the air, causing some fag smoke to buckle and curl. “Those who do not wish to engage with me.”
We can always tell how good a mood he’s in by the proportion of types he gives when he tells us this. When in an optimistic mood the majority of rides sit alongside him in the front and pass the time of day. The gloomier he is the more they shut themselves away in the back and deny his existence.
Les always says that what hurts the most (and his voice slows almost to a complete stop when he says this, he looks down even further and traces his finger through the spilt Stella) is when he gives rides to carloads of girls going up to the college bar, all short skirts and cleavage. After he started driving taxis he’d always attempt to make conversation, thought that was what you did. The girls would always look nonplussed, and giggle at him, and that was when he realised that they knew how they were, all young and sleek and desirable, and he knew what he was, a man trying to be polite and getting it wrong.
“Younger than my daughters” he always says “as if I would.” And he always looks sad as he says it. “I should have kept my fucking trap shut” he always says. “I should have kept it shut.”