|I just bought an iceberg.|
My cabbie answers the phone, works the radio, and every now and again picks up his fares. He epitomizes an “owner and operator” and we have built up a repertoire over the last several months.
His little company is my preferred provider.
After we dispatched with the latest football news (oh! poor Arsenal), we gossiped about the M’s under his control. Mike was late on Tuesday because he locked his keys in the house as he walked out to the Van. And there was Mick, who truthfully I could not quite place. The owner/operator told me I’d recognize him as his face was really hard to forget. Poor fella.
And then there was Marc. He is the one that looks like Bruce Willis (the 12 Monkeys version of Bruce Willis that would smack Astin Kutcher).
“He’s a millionaire you know.”
What? All this time, Bruce Willis has been loaded?
“Yea, in 2007 he and five of my cabbies went in and won the lotto – almost two million each.” My cabbie lost a little color in his face. He obviously did not add to the basket to buy the winning ticket.
There was some redemption, though.
“Two of them are dead.” My cabbie’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. I buckled my seatbelt.
“That’s too bad,” I said. I couldn’t resist. “And the other two?”
“One still cabs for a competitor and who knows what happened to Paul.”
“Right.” I know what happened to Paul, he got out of dodge.
“And Bruce, whoops, Marc, still cabs?” I asked.
“Yea, money can’t buy you happiness. Bloke is miserable. Even after the money his wife ran off with the carpenter. Took his daughter with ‘em. He bought an apartment and pays his expenses with the interest. Cabs for pint money.”
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe he has money like that. I feel deceived.”
“You feel deceived? His bank account is chalked full and his missus ran off with a bloke without a dime.”
Fair point, cabbie.
I guess the moral to the story should be that money can’t buy you happiness.
I tried to reflect on this when I stopped one station short and picked up a kebab and well done chips on my way home. In short, I was happy as a pig in shit. Make no mistake, money did buy me that. The moral may be, in fact, that sometimes you are the bloke who walks down the street eating chips dusted with vinegar and salt while other times you are the jogger who runs by that same dude with a smarmy look. We all have our roles, including a cabbie with a couple million pounds in his bank account.
So I suppose the moral of the story is roll with your role or run with it. That and Kebab Kid on New Kings Road is proof that there is a higher power.