Taxi Driver

Death Metal on the stereo paints the backdrop, once the universal drunk point passes that brings the traffic lights whizzing by, the white lane dividers streaking past ever faster as the night progresses into blackouts or make-outs in the back seat. The odometer revolves, the taxi meter ticks away, beer is downed and drugs wear off or take over, as the night slowly becomes light.
The junky mumbles his sad soliloquy upon deaf ears as he empties his pockets in search of fare and all his earthly possessions are sprawled on the seat around his emaciated syringe-marked frame. The hussy then sniggers en route to a raucous laugh and prepares for fellatio, the impudent cab sharing youth empties his repertoire of come-ons as his target slams the door and later the elderly gentleman is roused from a stupor to deliver a rant of excuses for his sorry state. I don’t mind, as long as they foot the bill and get out post haste. Then there are the heated arguments and the occasional roofie victim of a girl passed out with her panty hose in tatters.
There is sometimes the striking young thing whose patronage makes the next amphetamine-fuelled, bleach haired jizz bag bearable. There is always the enlightening conversation on movies and music that cancels out the vacuous dimwits that insist on FM 957 to be played at full blast to some sorry karaoke renderings. Then there are those that sit with you: the chick that blew me in heavy Laugavegur traffic, the fare so obnoxious I had to knock him out outside the stables near Players, and the most wrecked piece of humanity you ever did see who spent her last króna on a Bacardi Breezer as I stopped for her at the liquor store, and who whiles away the half hour plus of us getting lost on the way to the state prison doing speed off of her fingernail as I pretend not to notice. A guard then appears with a wad of cash and she is gone but not forgotten.
How people are always polite and conscientious enough to have me stop for them to throw up out the open door or on the nearest lawn, amazes me. How those too drunk to fuck are always the most eager to. How dealers will bring backpacks full of weed inside and expect me not to have a fully functioning nose. How the strung out are oblivious. How the desperate fidget and the desperately lonely have me pick them a suitable watering hole.
How tourists are wide eyed and the 101 Reykjavik bar scene fixtures wear their jadedness on their sleeve. How alcohol loosens inhibitions and THC opens the creative realm. How drunkenness opens the purse for the ridiculous 4000 ISK fare and how strangers lock lips and part thighs; for the night pries logic loose and underwear off. How I profit at the hands of Dionysus is a shame wrapped in a blessing.