Salesman in the rain (snow and sleet)

On that Sunday night it was raining, snowing and sleeting all at once or at very short intervals. The weather here rarely gets as bad. My trike was all covered with rain shields. I use a proper gear too. Goretex jacket, trousers and overshoes keep you dry. My cycling gloves, though, got soaking wet very soon. Having my hands wet in a cold wasn't exactly comfortable but I didn't want to give up either. Cycling gloves are made of such a fabric that they don't feel wet as long as you are worm working out. I kept pedalling vigorously around, trying desperately to catch a lift rather than a cold. There were few rickshaws around and for a good reason - to get drenched in a temperature around zero Celsius is nothing to be sought for. I couldn't get any lift for a long while. Nevertheless I gritted my teeth and carried on. On Piccadilly Circus I passed two conspicuously tanned gents with huge umbrellas. One of them held a vast Union Jack while the other walked proudly with an immense Chelsea FC. As I was passing by I saw them watching me but, somehow, cat got my tongue... All too bad, for my sixth sense screamed: "Those are your customers!" They walked slowly up Regent Street, towards Oxford Circus. "Now or never!" I said to myself, made a quick u-turn, and another, to stop my trike slightly ahead of them, and waited thinking of an appropriate chat up line. I was lucky - there were no other rickshaws around and soon I was approached by them and asked for directions. Those gentlemen were from United States and felt a little bit lost. A good salesman has to play things cool. I explained expertly the whereabouts and advised them on which way they should follow. Next I offered my services assuring that I could, both, take them to wherever they were going, or help them to find a great place of entertainment. My hands were wet, cold and I was broke. It could be my only chance that night... Nevertheless I had to be gentle. Being visibly desperate or even pushy would scare them off. They didn't want to go anywhere but to their hotel. "How much would you charge us? How much is a taxi?" "A taxi would be about ten pounds cheaper but I need to pedal and let me tell you - it's an entirely different experience!" Chelsea FC looked at Union Jack and said:"It's up to you." "Let us talk about it for a while." Suggested Union Jack and they walked a few steps aside. I did my best to look indifferent, looked away, just breathed and tried to think about something else. Then I realised that even though me and them spoke English, their lingo was somehow so much different. As if they were from another planet, or something... They were back in a minute. "Okay, let's do it!" Said Union Jack. "Thank you sir!" "Don't call me sir, I'm Gil!" Saying that he produced a cigar and asked if it was alright to smoke on my rickshaw. It was. "Take it easy! Don't kill yourself!" They advised me as I pedalled on cheerfully. My hands were not cold anymore and it was a long distance lift. I was finally making money, even counting on a tip! They seemed to appreciate the ride. Chatting and laughing all the time, suddenly they broke into a song. We got to Gloucester Road tube station in no time. "Well done!" Exclaimed Gil and shook my hand. "Thank you sir!" "I'm Gil!" He reminded me with a slight reproach and walked on to pee on nearby Burger King. The shorter and even more tanned fellow produced an impressive wad of notes, paid me and gave me an extra fiver... To be honest with you I can ridicule those two Yankees as much as I want, truth is though, that they were two extremely friendly individuals and they made my Sunday night, when it was raining, snowing and sleeting all at once or at very short intervals...

Pussy's smell again!

I came back from work pretty late at night. It was quite cold outside. About zero Celsius is not a usual thing in London. Obviously there was a bunch of fellow riders sitting over there, chilling or rather warming up... Someone told a poor joke about cunnilingus and that, somehow, set L. off. He went on with his story: "I was twenty and I went to visit that girl of sixteen, at her place. There was a lot of licking and sucking going on... What I didn't know was that her father was at home too. At some point I went to the kitchen to get something to drink. To my surprise I stumbled upon her father there.
I was pretty startled. Not only I didn't expect anybody else to be at home, at all, but also as soon as he saw me, the father took a deep breath and stated: "It smells like a pussy here." I just finished eating his daughter's pussy about five minutes earlier, so I really expected him to punch me in the face, next thing. Nothing like that happened though. 'Have a cigarette!' He passed a fag to me and lighted it up for me too." L. face became very serious. "This is how I grew up." He said. "That explains everything!" He added and laughed out loudly.

Sarah

Late at night I was trying to get a lift by the corner of Oxford and Soho St. It was somewhat misty. Streets were empty. Suddenly Sarah emerged from the mist, just-like-that pulling a large hoover behind her. "Look! Someone threw away such a great hoover!" For a while we mused at the rare beauty of the device. Then she bid farewell and disappeared in the mist again. I remained there on my rickshaw, like a large spider on a web, wondering if that just really happened...
Sarah is the best rickshaw mechanic in the world. And certainly much more than that! Craig Taylor dedicates her an entire chapter of his book "Londoners: The Days And Nights Of London Now - As Told By Those Who Love It, Hate It, Live It, Left It, And Long For It".

Sarah's incredible personality has been inspiring me for a very long time. She helped me to look at many things from a different angle. After many conversations, that we shared, I dare-say I smartened up a bit... (I'm sure she would just laugh at me, though.) There's that Jewish joke she loves to repeat every now and then, perfectly faking a Jewish accent. It tells a story of an English gentleman who ordered a pair of trousers from a tailor. The garment maker took his measurements and promised his customer to get the trousers ready in a month. After one month, though, when the gentleman visited that needle worker again, the pair of trousers was not ready yet and he was asked to come back ...in a month. The whole situation repeated itself five times more. Finally, half a year after the order was made, gentleman's trousers were ready. He tried them on and they were absolutely perfect! He paid the man, couldn't stop himself, however, from remarking that it took God seven days to create the world whereas it took six months for his trousers to be made. The tailor looked at him seriously and said: "Good Sir! Please take a look at this world and now take a good look at my trousers..."
The other day as soon as we met she announced: "Listen to this! I just saw that documentary! Did you know that the centre of South Pole is not covered with ice? It's just a bare rock, for the constant wind there is so strong that it removes everything in the area and it has been blowing non-stop for quite a while... That space is so unfriendly that there are no big predators in that zone, at all. That's why the penguins chose it as their mating grounds. First they eat as much as they can and then they travel through the frozen hell to reach that empty space in the centre. There the males build a nest to impress the females, for there's no any other use for it... They mate and then a female lays an egg. She passes it to a male and... disappears! Literately leaves him all alone and goes for a greener pastures... Fortunately Mother Nature has an answer to every question. A part of male's belly forms a kind of a pouch and the egg is safely hidden there. He stands there for four months, in a roaring wind, without food, balancing the egg on his feet until it hatches! The crew who filmed the documentary was brought there in a helicopter, and their base was screwed down into the ground. That was the only way the wind wouldn't take it away. The environment was so unfriendly, that they were scared to leave their shelter at all. They were very well equipped, of course, with all their bodies covered, wearing goggles etc... Nevertheless they only dreamed about getting done with their research and leaving... Who would think that a penguin is such a geezer?! He must be something like Polish people, who through the centuries simply focused on survival at the price of nearly completely losing their humanity, not to mention a sense of humour of any kind..." A Pole myself, I had to admit that, so far, I hadn't been appreciating that elegant bird well enough :P

Probably illegal substance

"Stop!" Some fellow flagged me down right next to Center Point. As I soon realised he was accompanied by about 6 other people. They looked Arabic, spoke with American accent and mixed English with some, probably, Arabic words. The guy who stopped me was already sitting on my trike, consuming some white powder from a little plastic bag. His friends also seemed to be a bit... confused. They asked me about B.L.C. (British Luxury Club). They were, obviously, too many for me to take them there all at once. It wasn't a big problem, for they were very indecisive... One of them, a fit looking girl, wanted a cab, each of the guys started to talk about something else, somebody was complaining that it was too cold to take a rickshaw, somebody else asked about BLC's address, the chap on my rickshaw was seriously busy taking his, probably illegal, substance... For a moment I was sure that he actually stopped me just to lick his plastic bag clean, out the public sight... Suddenly, though, another fellow with a serious, Muslim style, kind of reddish-dyed beard grasped quickly my goatee exclaiming: "I love your chin-chin!" Him and that girl joined the dude sitting on my trike and asked me to go to BLC. There were two sets of lights between me and our destination. I had to stop twice, as each of them turned maliciously red. The bag-licker kept enthusiastically slapping my bum. I said to him that it was gay and demanded him to stop. His friends were very apologetic and tried to stop him too but the fellow had been in a serious state and couldn't get easily persuaded... I decided to add it to the bill. Even though BLC is not far from Center Point, as soon as we got next to it my customers told me they needed a cash-point... I carried on and found one a bit further down, where New Oxford Street forks with Bloomsbury Way. The bag-licker got off, slapped my bum passing me by, stopped in front of the cash-machine and talked to it for a long while. In the meantime his bearded friend apologised to me for him, asked if I was surely all-right, assured me that us, the bearded men, should stick together and invited me to share some powder with him and the lady. I refused politely. The chap by the ATM kept talking to it, then decided to take a leak in a doorway right by. Next he started to talk to it again. I couldn't see any cash coming out of it, though... Finally the bearded guy got off too, tried to take some cash himself and found out that the hole-in-the-wall was actually out of order. The bag-licker told him to relax and was about to start talking to that cash-machine again. The bearded got upset and pushed him towards my trike telling him to get on it. The girl also got off, went to the cash-machine, tried to take some dosh herself, only to confirm that the actual machine was clearly out of order... I asked them all to sit down, to take them to another one. The lads were very close to fight each other. The lady got back on the rickshaw, the bag-licker was telling loudly the bearded to relax, fortunately the bearded told his friend how much he really loved him and also sat down on my trike. The bag-licker kept telling everybody to relax, however didn't want to come back on the rickshaw, for he was convinced that the ATM took his card... Personally I didn't even think he had ever put it in there, in first place. The bearded started to yell at him that it was absolutely impossible and that he had better check his pockets. Finally I got all of them back and moved on to the corner of Bloomsbury Way and Southampton Row, to another cash point. The girl took some money out. They kept snorting as I brought them to BLC. The chaps just got off and moved away, paying no heed to me whatsoever. The girl payed me the fare. I extended my hand to help her to get off the rickshaw. She took it, thanked me politely and, as she was pulling herself out of the pedicab, she squeezed my hand gently three - four times, in a quick sequence. To be honest, that was the most pleasant part of that job...

Golden Apple of Discord

To watch humanity is my little game. We the People are predictably vain and selfish. Anything could become the Golden Apple of Discord. One night, me and a fellow rider Julian P., we stopped in front of that NCP car park on the corner of Lexington and Brewer St. in Soho. A young couple was passing by. She was one of those ladies who imprudently wear a very high heels and then you can see them stumbling around like disabled (if you have a disability, please, turn a blind eye at this metaphor) up to about 3 am. Later, fed up and shitfaced, off they go shamelessly bare-feet, holding tight their stilettos. The couple saw our rickshaws and brazenly asked for a free lift. As it wasn't happening for the first time, I quickly rose to the occasion and, innocently, asked them where were they going. As usual, it apparently was "just to that corner there". Hearing that I offered them a lift for a fiver. They said it was too much or that they didn't have any cash on them... "I see." I played along. "If so, I can give a free lift to the lady here but you, sir," - I addressed the fellow - "will have to walk." She was delighted and immediately moved towards my rickshaw when he literately pulled her away and moved on. "What are you doing?" She squeaked defiantly. "Are you looking for an argument?" He answered boldly and kept pulling her away. Struggling on her high heels she followed clumsily. Eris the Greek goddess of chaos, strife and discord laughed loudly in my ear. ^_^

Eris by telthona1

Jimmy the Incredible

Chilling after work we inevitably found ourselves floating in depths of absurd. Somebody mentioned a recent encounter with some Lithuanian chicks. Jimmy the Japanese Rastafarian said that Lithuanian girls were very nice. Then he grinned at Andrius, a Lithuanian chap and added: "...but the boys not at all! They don't even want to shake your hand!" Encouraged by some smiles from the gathered, he carried on with his anthropological lecture. "I've noticed that Poles are very fat and Lithuanians are very skinny.  It's because Poles eat potatoes, whereas Lithuanians eat only potato skin and sand and drink buckets of vodka!" Everybody roared in laughter. Andrius took the banter and rose to the occasion: "Jimmy why are you so small? You must be from North Korea!" Everyone laughed again. "The capital of Lithuania is Riga, right?" Jimmy asked quickly. "With this attitude, no wonder, no Lithuanian want's to shake your hand, mate!" Was the Andrius' answer. Nothing could stop Jimmy though. "Are you sure you are from Lithuania? Perhaps you are a Latvian? There are only two cities in Lithuania, the rest is a countryside where only sheep and cows live, and him!" Jimmy indicated Andrius and added: "No electricity!" "Yeah, right! And Japan's capital is Beijing!" Said Andrius. He seemed to be thinking for a while and finally added: "Actually I heard about an old Lithuanian woman who eats sand and claims it really keeps her healthy and energetic. She got herself in the Guinness book of records for that reason." Jimmy was delighted. "Is she Lithuanian? I knew that! Only Potato skin and sand, mate! Just like I told you!"

By hook or by crook

I met C. on Old Compton Street. We both stopped in front of that little liquor store, across the road from that Spanish restaurant. As we where looking at the variety of spirits on display he said: "You know there's that place around the corner. They've got a bottle of whiskey over there worth thirty five grand! Someone should take a picture of that bottle, forge a label, put it on a regular bottle of whiskey, go there, ask them to let him take a look at that madness and swap the bottles." He laughed. "You could sell the original one for twenty grand on eBay..." At that point Sting the Crackhead appeared, riding a Barclay's bike, big blue bag in his hand. "Do you want a printer? A FIVER!" "No thanks" "THREE QUID!" We definitely didn't need a printer. Stingy didn't really mind. "OMG!" He exclaimed with delight. "I found all sorts of different shit today!" He handed to us some nail clippers/bottle openers. "A present!" Next he produced some toys from McDonald's and started to play with them, before finally passing them to us too. C. told him about the very expensive whiskey and what one should do about it. "Naaaaah mate! The best thing to do would be actually going to a shop like Boots and nick something for about 250 pounds. Then you come back there and buy exactly the same thing. Just make sure you cause a lot of mess while buying. You ask for assistance and you involve as much staff as you can, you want to talk to the manager too. Everyone must know that you actually buy the product. In half an hour you go there again and you tell them 'Sorry guys, my wife has actually got one already...' They want to give you a refund and then you 'realise' you 'lost' the receipt. You start to make a scene in case they try to refuse you. All of them know you bought it, on top of that you tell them to check the cameras if they want to. They must give you the money back. Next thing you go to another branch, you still have got the receipt and the actual thing, so you simply double your money." It was exactly when The Undertaker showed up. We call that rider The Undertaker cause he's always black-clad and unlike any others he wears a suit. He's kind of peculiar too, so that nickname fits perfectly. C. immediately started to advertise Sting's printer to him, pointing out that he can get a decent equipment for only a tenner. The Undertaker soon made up his mind and gave the dosh to Sting. The crackhead quickly picked up "his" Barclay's bike, put some change into C's hand and pedalled off. "What was that? What did he give you?" The buyer grew suddenly uneasy. "A commission, mate! Initially he was selling it only for a fiver."  Sting was already gone. "What?!" Yelled The Undertaker. "Why did you ever tell him?" I asked smirking C. The Undertaker looked really pissed off... "Don't worry! It's worth it!" C. tried to calm him down. "Yeah, right!" I thought. "We don't even know if that junk actually works..." Considering the circumstances I decided that it was definitely about time to follow quickly and not purely metaphorically, the path of my destiny.