St. John's Taxi Chronicles

By Joe White

What you are about to read is a collection of short stories and information I have put together with the help of other taxi drivers/dispatchers/passengers in St John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador. These stories date from the early 1980's to present day (2016), and they range from funny to sad to thought-provoking, and perhaps even disturbing.
While all these stories are true, and most of them are from my own experiences behind the wheel, other events have been related to me by other drivers/dispatchers within the industry.
The dialogue/monologue of some of these stories have been taken directly from video/audio surveillance equipment I have installed in my car, while others are from memory and news reports from the past.
Where necessary, I have added information to complete the story based on the character of the driver/passenger who told me the tale. Because, after all, many taxi drivers in St. John’s are transient in nature, and becoming a taxi driver in St. John’s is often a stopgap measure to supplement their incomes before going on to better things in life. Some of the passengers I have had in my car over the years I am likely never to see again, and the same can be said about former taxi drivers.
I have been very careful not to identify the teller of the tale unless I have had the explicit permission of that person to do so, or the story has already been reported in the media. That being said, I have still omitted/changed some names because of privacy considerations.
There are stories about passengers I have had in my car over the years I can’t write about. Some of those stories are so compelling and sensitive I can’t even mention the subject matter let alone write about them, because the information those passengers freely relayed to me may very well put the lives and reputations of some individuals and their families in St. John’s in immediate jeopardy.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe White
• Release date: Dec 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370026869

Joe White

Joe White is president of Kanakuk Kamps. He is also the author of more than 20 books and speaks across the country for Men at the Cross, After Dark, Pure Excitement, N.F.L. chapels and Focus on the Family radio. Dr. James Dobson says, "Joe White knows more about teenagers than anyone in North America." Joe and his wife, Debbie-Jo, are the parents of four grown children and the grandparents of eleven. The Whites reside in Branson, Missouri.

Book preview

Epilogue

Foreword

What you are about to read is a collection of short stories and information I’ve put together with the help of other taxi drivers/dispatchers/passengers in St John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador. These stories date from the early 1980s to present day (2016), and they range from funny to sad to thought-provoking, and perhaps even disturbing.

While all these stories are true, and most of them are from my own experiences behind the wheel, other events have been related to me by other drivers/dispatchers within the industry.

The dialogue/monologue of some of these stories have been taken directly from video/audio surveillance equipment I have installed in my car, while others are from memory and news reports from the past.

Where necessary, I have added information to complete the story based on the character of the driver/passenger who told me the tale. Because, after all, many taxi drivers in St. John’s are transient in nature and becoming a driver here is often a stopgap measure to supplement their incomes before going on to better things in life. Some of the passengers I’ve had in my car over the years I ‘m likely never to see again and the same can be said about former taxi drivers.

I’ve been very careful not to identify the teller of the tale unless I’ve had the explicit permission of that person to do so, or the story has already been reported in the media. That being said, I’ve still omitted/changed some names because of privacy considerations.

There are stories about passengers I’ve had in my car over the years that I can’t write about. Some of those stories are so compelling and sensitive I can’t even mention the subject matter let alone write about them, because the information those passengers freely relayed to me may very well put the lives and reputations of some individuals and their families in St. John’s in immediate jeopardy.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

A Tribute to Tom Hollett

I first met Tom in the early 1980s. He was one of the most genuine, caring and sincere people I have ever met in my life. We had very little in the way of interaction with each other over the years, but I still considered him a friend as did many people in St. John’s and elsewhere, particularly those people from the Burin Peninsula where he left a lasting legacy.

Tom had two children of his own, but there many individuals in the taxi industry, including present and former drivers, brokers and dispatchers, who considered him a father figure in many ways. And I have yet to meet a single person who had a derogatory word to say about him. That, in itself, speaks volumes about a man whose friends likely numbered in the thousands. Tom was a very informal person who called everybody by their first name and seldom forgot anyone. That’s a quality few possess.

I spoke to Tom several times over the last couple of years. Unfortunately, for me, that was always by phone, because Tom spent a considerable amount of time on the Burin Peninsula which he dearly loved. And who could blame someone for having a passion for people and community. That’s another quality we should all strive to emulate. Lead by example, Tom said to me one time many years ago.

That man’s love of business and community was only superseded by his passion for his two children whom he dearly cherished. I remember calling Tom on a private matter and what was supposed to be a two minute conversation turned into thirty minutes of how children are the most important aspects of our lives, irrespective of other interests and activities. My children are my life, he said. How profound is that coming from a man who was a confirmed workaholic of the passionate kind?

I thoroughly enjoyed those conversations with Tom, and I was expecting to have many more up until one Saturday evening a good friend of mine delivered the devastating news to me via a text message: Tom is dead. I was skeptical and floored all at the same time. I immediately responded to the text: Tom who? My friend immediately confirmed my worst fear: Tom Hollett.

I was sitting at my computer in my rec-room, writing stories for this book when I got the text about Tom. I still wasn’t convinced. I phoned 722-2222. One of our long time dispatchers answered the phone. Please tell me what I just heard is not true, I said to the dispatcher. Unfortunately, it is. It was the best part of a week before I could sit down to my computer and continue writing. That’s the type of grip that man had on people.

The news of Tom’s death was one of those moments in life when you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing at a time when something dramatic smacks you in the face. The 9/11 felling of the Twin Towers in New York comes to mind. Tom was like one of those Twin Towers in many ways, because he was larger than life itself, both physically and figuratively. Unfortunately, Tom’s wife passed away a few years back, and that single Twin Tower became a single father of two who admirably rose to the challenge.

On August 27, 2016, Tom was driving his motorcycle with his thirteen-year-old daughter, Cheyenne, on the back. They were on their way to a fund-raising motorcycle ride for autism on the Burin Peninsula when they were involved in an accident that claimed the life of Tom, aged sixty. Cheyenne was injured but she lived. I can only imagine that in life and death Tom gently laid his daughter down the day of that fateful motorcycle crash, and said, I’m sorry, Cheyenne. My heart failed prematurely today, Sweetheart. And it was the very, very best I could do under those awful, awful circumstances. But please remember that Daddy will always be there for you. Please remember all those motorcycle rides we cherished so much on the Dream Weaver, and put this dreadful day behind you. And don’t be afraid to laugh and cry all at the same time. That is, after all, part of the healing and grieving process. It will make you an even stronger young woman than you already are. I may be gone in body, Sweetheart, but my spirit will always live on in you.

Tom’s only son, Christopher, has now taken over Jiffy Cabs. He has big boots to fill, literally. But, like his father, I’m sure he’s up for the challenge. Rest in peace, Tom - Cheyenne is in good hands with Christopher and Tess.

The Ryan Family Reunion

It was sometime in the late summer or early fall of 2009, and I came to work at about 5 a.m. It was a very slow morning work- wise. I heard one of the boys say a cruise ship was going to be in town for the day. So I headed down to the waterfront at noon, and decided to try my luck at securing a tour of the city from some of the passengers.

There were about twenty taxis parked in the designated areas at that time, about fifteen ahead of me. Hundreds and hundreds of passengers left the ship in the first few hours after she tied up. I found myself first to go at about 12:30.

It was a pretty nice day. A couple of the boys and I were stood alongside our cars having a chat when a man and a woman approached us. Both of them walked over to me, and the lady asked if I knew of a place called Trepassey. I smiled at her and said, Of course I do, my darling; why do you ask? She seemed genuinely surprised when I said that, and she asked if anyone lived there anymore.

I explained to the woman that Trepassey had been a thriving fishing community for hundreds of years, and I also enlightened her about the cod moratorium of 1992 that had devastated quite a number of small outport communities. I said the collapse of northern cod stocks in 1992 had led Ottawa to impose a moratorium on the catching of northern cod and that resulted in thousands of people being put out of work, and hundreds of communities that had depended on the fishery for generations seeing their economic mainstays disappear in a flash.

She seemed really interested when I also told her that despite everything hundreds of people still lived in the small town of Trepassey.

How far away is this place? she asked.

I told her it was about two hours by car up to the tip of the Irish Loop. I also asked her why she was so interested in Trepassey, and she told me both of her parents were born and raised there, and they moved to South Carolina in the early 1900s. She also told me the only thing she knew about Newfoundland was the resettlement programs of the 1950s and 1960s, and she had been unsure if Trepassey was included in one of those programs.

How much will it cost us to take a drive up there to have a look around? she asked. I wasn’t sure of the rate to go up there, so I walked back to my car and asked the dispatcher. Five minutes later the woman, her husband and I were on our way to Trepassey.

Two hours later we arrived at the only gas station in the community, and I asked the woman what was the last name of the family she was looking for.

Ryan, she said.

I put the car in park; walked into the gas station, and looked for the oldest person in there.

I walked up to a man who was probably in his eighties and asked him if there were still any families named Ryan living in the community.

Yes, my son, he said. This place is full of Ryans.

The man gave me directions to one of the streets where several families of Ryans lived. I walked back to my car, drove around the community and looked for the street. When we finally arrived at the street I got out of my car and walked up to one of the houses.

The couple were still in the back seat, and the lady rolled down her window and asked with some concern where I was going.

I’m going to go up and knock on the door, I said.

She seemed overly concerned so I strolled back to my car and explained to her with a broad smile on my face you can do that in Newfoundland and Labrador without having to worry about getting mugged or shot.

I then turned around and walked up the steps of the front door of the house and knocked. A few seconds later a man opened the door and said in an Irish brogue, What can I do for you?

I explained to the man I had a lady in my car from a cruise ship in St. John’s who was looking for some distant relatives of hers that might still be living in the community.

Where is she from? he asked.

South Carolina.

What is her last name?

Ryan.

The couple in my car strained to look up at this man while I was speaking to him, and I have to admit there did seem to be some kind of resemblance in the facial features of the woman and this gentleman who said he was a Ryan.

About a minute later Mr. Ryan and I walked down to my car where he introduced himself to both of my passengers. After they exchanged pleasantries, he asked the couple if they would like to come inside his home for a cup of tea. The couple were a little apprehensive at first and spoke about it for a minute, because their ship was scheduled to leave port at 6 p.m. and it was approaching 3 p. m.

They were inside his home for quite some time, so I walked around and picked some of the wildflowers that were scattered around his house. After I picked a handful, I walked back to my car, and pressed them between two sheets of paper I had in my sun visor.

It was now approaching 4 p.m. so I walked up to the house and knocked on the door, concerned the couple would not make it back to their ship before it left port. I was genuinely surprised when Mr. Ryan opened the door, because there seemed to be a party atmosphere inside and lots of hugs and tears. I discovered as we drove back to St. John’s they were not distant relatives at all; they were very close relatives. We arrived on the waterfront in St. John’s just in time for them to board their ship, and we quickly exchanged contact information.

The next day I bought a nice card to send to the delightful couple. I pressed the multicoloured wildflowers I’d picked the day before inside the card and thought nothing of it, because I just wanted their visit to Newfoundland and Labrador to be a memorable experience. I had a smile on my face, and this is what I wrote on the bottom of the card: It was a pleasure to meet both of you. You’re welcome to come back anytime, but please don’t tell everyone about this wonderful place. I signed the card, slipped it into an envelope, and dropped it into the nearest mailbox.

About a month or so passed. One day I received a phone call from the girl in our office who explained to me I needed to be at City Hall on a certain date and time in November. She said I had to be on my best behaviour and well dressed.

When the date finally came around, I borrowed a pair of black dress shoes from one of my buddies, because I hadn’t wore a pair of dress shoes in over twenty years. The shoes I borrowed were about two sizes larger than what I would normally wear, but I made the best of what I had.

I arrived at City Hall just