It’s Only Water…

By Joe Giarratano on April 30, 2014 in Other

They were both dressed down, but at the same time tarted up. The young couple slid over into the back seat.

“Cab smells nice,” he said. The musk fragrance hit him hard. Seconds passed.

“My arse is wet. What’s this on the seat driver? The seat’s wet,” she said, surprise in her voice.

“Sorry lady. My previous passenger spilt water over the seat,” Gorgeous George replied.

“Was it only water? Are you sure it’s only water?” he asked.

“Of course it’s only water. I don’t allow alcohol in the cab, son. That’s against the law,” George said, deflecting the question.

“It’s very wet, but if it’s only water…” she said.

“Driver, are you sure it’s water? Only water?” he asked.

“Yeah, I told you already. Last passenger had a one-litre bottle on the seat and knocked it over.”

Earlier, Gorgeous George veered right on Harris Street, aiming for the Anzac Bridge.

“Ugh,” she muttered as she opened up the rear door slightly while the taxi was moving and chundered. George pulled over quickly, got out and opened the rear door fully for her. She expelled more, emptying the contents of her stomach onto the roadway. Blobs of pink were now visible over the side window and door trim. Some glimmered on her arm.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. She appeared genuine.

“The car is a mess. You’ll have to catch another taxi. The fresh air will do you good. Give it ten minutes and catch another cab, okay?” George said.

“Yeah, sorry, sorry. How much?” she asked.

“There’s eleven on the meter and another fifty for clean-up, so sixty dollars will do,” George said.

“Gosh, sixty. That’s a lot,” she said.

“Have to take the taxi to the wash. I’ll be off road for at least an hour. It’s a bargain lady,” George retorted.

She handed over her credit card.

Gorgeous George travelled the four kilometres to the taxi wash in record time, all windows but the soiled one open. He was in luck; there were no cabs in the wash bay. Why would there be? It was hustling time in the city.

“Hey Osmah, clean this shit up for me will you son? Be quick and I’ll give you a twenty,” George said.

“Okay, Mr George. No take long. In da corner seat and on da door only,” Osmah replied.

The high-pressure gun cleaned the inside door and window quickly. Osmah then produced a shoebox-sized sponge from the wash drum. He squeezed the liquid detergent over the trail of mess in the rear seat corner. The sea of white penetrated the velour and door trim, frothing up, doing its job. Osmah waited four or five minutes then switched the industrial vacuum cleaner on and proceeded to clear it all up. All without human hands touching puke. A couple of squirts to absorb the odour and George headed the taxi north on Bourke Street.

No sooner did he accelerate than he stopped to a young couple’s hail. A 25-minute loss only, passenger to passenger.

They were both dressed down, but at the same time tarted up. The young couple slid over into the back seat.

“Cab smells nice,” he said. The musk fragrance hit him hard.