Jim

The little blue light keeps on twinkling at me in the dark, bright as fireworks. An altered state has been entered, which may explain why this tiny Bluetooth LED has become so much more vivid and memorable, even now.

The Bluetooth is attached to the ear of the cab driver. Lets call him Jim. I hate Bluetooth headsets normally; they make people look like self-important pricks who want the rest of the world to know they are self-important pricks.  But on Jim it works. Jim drives a Merc- certainly not my regular method of travel but thanks to one of my companions being apparently better off than I, it was decided that Jim’s Merc would be our carriage to the next stop on the evenings route.

Backwards chats with cab drivers are one of the many joys London has to offer, so I ride shotgun. I’m somewhat agitated and generally disinclined to sit still, so as we shoot the bull I start fidding with some of the wealth of buttons and knobs them Germans like to keep their customers entertained with.  One on the handle shines up a nice bright orange when I jab it.

‘Oooh,’ I say, looking over at Jim, ‘ I’ve just done something there.’
‘That’ll make your bum warm,’ Jim says helpfully.
‘I’ll give that a go then.’

Kelly Jones’s throaty, pins-in-ears drawl is coming out of the speakers.  I look at the radio station- Capital.  Of course. I ask whether I can change the station.

‘Sure,’ says Jim before, sensing my obvious bewilderment at the radio controls that are Nasa-like in proportion and befuddling an already scrambled brain, guiding me to the back and forward buttons.

What follows is five minutes of frantic station hopping as the guys in the back, me and Jim debate the merits of the songs that get lucky-dipped; they’re all rubbish.  Why I expected anything else I don’t know but Saturday night seems a particularly bad night for the wireless, unless you particularly want to listen some 45 five year old sub-Partridge prick play the very worst in 90’s club anthems.

Me and the guys in the back start some argument regarding one of the songs played.  What it was I cannot say, but it almost certainly involves big hair and a bigger chorus.  Amongst the vocal melee, Jim’s soft voice pipes up:

‘Do you like Alicia Keys?’
‘I don’t mind her Jim’, I say. ‘ Lovely voice.’  I enquire as to whether he’s got anything by her then.
‘Have you heard ‘Empire State Of Mind?’
‘Of course.  The one she did with Jay-Z. Great track’.  It is a great track.
‘No, no.  Her version by herself is a lot better.  I’ll stick it on.’

So Jim fishes out a blank CD from his glove compartment, puts it into the CD player and soon the car is filled with the grand vocalisations of Miss Keys, which are totally swamped by our useless, tuneless attempt at an accompanying harmony.  Jim is smiling.

‘Empire…’ finishes, to be followed by ‘Rudeboy’ by Rihanna.  Not really my cup of tea, but its still an improvement on ‘Set You Free’, and the potential for a half-decent ride soundtrack continues.

Except it stops after this.

‘What’s going on Jim?’ I ask.
‘They’re the only two songs on the CD.’
‘Just those two?  Why just those two?’
‘Well, I just really like those two.  Especially Alicia’s.’  Alicia! Single-naming!  That’s real love.
‘I’m going to put her back on if that’s okay.’
‘Fine with me Jim.’

We listen to ‘Empire…’ five more times.   There is undoubtedly something a little odd about it.  He sings along each time, , takes on the grin of the gormless.   It’s brilliant though; there’s something quite innocent in him being so taken by this tune, a tune with a chorus full of aspiration and hope. It adds melancholic poignancy to the story of Jim- the effortlessly nice cab-driver who can do the impossible and make me like a man in a Bluetooth headset.