When I have to work the weekend gig, I usually say the hell with economy and book a driver for myself. First of all, having spent the day listening to applicants rattle on decorative and insincere crap about Why They Want This Scholarship (which often consists of, "I am pretty girl go Murrica for MBA be luxury brand businesswoman") I don't want to join the group of people desperately searching for a taxi after work. One of the locations is particularly brutal and I've waited up to two hours in the cold and dark trying to flag down a taxi, only to give up and slink away to a subway that takes two hours and six changes in order to get home. I don't have the time, and my dogs don't have that large of bladders. Now I hire someone to come scoop me up and extract me like a watermelon seed and it's well worth every kuai.
I use the same driver I've used for several years, a pleasant rogue we refer to as "Uncle Driver." Uncle Driver has a heart of gold only where my daughter is concerned--he once literally carried her up four flights of stairs at the local hospital when she had appendicitis and the elevator was broken, hurting his own back so badly in the process he was out of work for a month. As for me--well, he tolerates me, knowing I pay well, and knowing also that when I have a good TV gig I'll throw as much work his way as possible, including featuring him on a segment I did for a talk show entitled, "True Stories of Beijing Taxis." Uncle Driver lived in another country doing construction for a number of years, plays the sax, and is fond enough of animals to drive my dogs and guinea pig to the vet when needed. He gets along with Ayi (the one who looks like Oprah) and he has, on occasion, been kind enough to haul something to my house, let himself in with a key, leave it there, then lock the house back up before heading on his merry way. He also fixes things. I may not have a husband but I do have a handyman, and considering I don't have to put out anything but cash, it works well for both of us.
Uncle Driver is the reason I swear so well in Chinese. He has a running commentary on everything which usually consists of "Stupid Cunt," muttered in tolerant, amused tones. This epitaph is frequently bandied about for a variety of reasons--a car crash, someone cutting him off, a light which changed color rather too quickly for his liking. Occasionally he throws in a more personally directed rant, a favorite being, "Did you just shoot our your mother's pussy?" For some reason, he's allowed to say this, but he finds it the height of bad taste if I say it. (Why, I don't know. I say it quite well.)
As we raced through the traffic yesterday, he saw a large truck which had crashed into the traffic barriers. "Stupid Cunt," Uncle Driver said amiably. I started to laugh and sing, "Ni Bu Yao Xin Tai Ruan" which means, "Don't be so soft-hearted" and he gave a chuckle, the first I've raised off of him in seven years. Still, as he dropped me off, and I paid a very, very large taxi fee (the amount on the meter plus a special agreed upon "I had to wait for you for an hour" beck-and-call fee) I could have sworn, as he pocketed the money, that he smiled and muttered, "S*&*%d C$^t."
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