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used to be a popular name in the taxi business. When he was at it, he was probably the best taxi driver in St. John’s. I saw him one time driving this older lady up to Sobeys on Ropewalk Lane. He got her walker out and helped her in. He sat her on the bench and told her to wait there while he parked the car.
    I was out by the door with the wife. I said, “Jimmy, what are you at?”
    â€œI’m going in to help her buy her groceries.”
    When he came out, he put the bags in the trunk, took her home and put her groceries away for her in her cupboards. Jimmy used to do that, and with some guys you can’t even get them to open a door for the customer. They wouldn’t care if you were 100 years old, they wouldn’t get out and help you with nothing. Jimmy was a taxi driver, buddy, I guarantee you. He was a gentleman.
    The Taxi Inspector
    Darryl, driving and dispatching for twenty-five years
    It was five bucks for your taxi licence and twenty-five to register the car. The city would give you a big card that used to go in the window and a separate card for your pocket. You got one every year. You had to go down to the Horseshoe Tavern and get the taxi inspector. That was in the 1960s before City Hall was built. City Hall wasn’t built until the 1970s. He would spend all day into the Horseshoe Tavern drinking beer. Beer was only 33 cents a bottle. You could buy three for $1 and get a penny back.
    There was no paper record of you getting your licence because he spent the $5 on beer. But then computers started to come into it and there was a record kept of everything.
    The Knight Riders
    Edward, driving for thirty-eight years
    What got me into this headache? My father was poisoned with me going to him for money. “This is what you’re going to do,” he said. “You’re going to get a taxi licence.”
    The Mounties took me out for my driving test. I drove around Pleasantville and parked between two cars. But when I went to back her out, I forgot she was still in reverse and struck the pole. The Mountie said, “Don’t worry, it was my fault. I distracted you.”
    Frank Upshaw was doing the hiring for Gulliver’s. “See Bill Grouchy at City Hall. Tell him you want your taxi licence.”
    I showed Bill my driver’s licence, and he wrote out a card and stuck a little silver dash on it. “Go to work,” he said.
    That was in 1974. I’ve been at it ever since.
    For my first job, I drove some buddy out to Mount Pearl, and he stuck me for the fare. At least, he tried to stick me for the fare. He got out and walked up to his apartment. I can still see him as plain as day. He said, looking down, “What are you waiting for? You’re not getting paid.”
    â€œSay that to my face,” I said.
    He ran down over the stairs and hauled out a wad of cash and started waving it in my face.
    I was sitting in the front seat, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and took the money and shoved it in my mouth. “You’re not getting that,” I said. “Thank you.”
    I ended up giving him a good knocking. But, man, he was as tough as nails—as tough as nails. When I got back into the car, he was getting up, and grabbed me by the jean jacket. He ripped the back right off, the square piece on the back of the jacket.
    When I pulled out, he chased me with the piece of my jacket in his hand: “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you! ”
    I still got my money, though.
    You look back on those kinds of things and kind of laugh.
    When I started driving, I never had any kids, and I wasn’t married. I had lots of time on my hands and cash in my front pocket. I was meeting all kinds of different people and getting paid for it. I was happy to get behind the wheel of a taxi and drive someone to work, pick them up and bring them home, or drive them to the supermarket, the hospital. It wasn’t like working in an