“I’ve smashed heapsssssss of chicks ay.”

 

“Sorry? Come again?”

 

“Seriously, I’ve nailed soooo many gangas!”

 

Meet Clint, my first passenger on Saturday morning. Clint is eighteen years old, has a lip-ring, and recently add blonde-tips to his hair, which he spikes up with a generous lathering of gel. Bart Simpson meets . Last weekend, Clint let one of his drunken comrades tattoo, “IT’S GO TIME”, on his lower stomach with an arrow pointing down at his, well, how did he put it:

 

 

“My destroyer bro! I’ve got a dead-set anaconda!”

 

Clint was wearing a loose-fitting white shirt with a black skull in the middle and a pair of baggy, light-blue jeans. He wore white grandad socks pulled up over the hems of his jeans and I could see a packet of cigarettes concealed beneath the left sock. I half expected him to have a sling-shot in his back pocket or a stick of dynamite under his flat-peaked cap, which he put on as he entered my car and turned side-ways, of course.

 

Yes, Clint is a self-confessed lothario. A self-promoting lothario, even. The segway to this sexually charged conversation appeared at a zebra crossing in Matraville just last Saturday.

 

“Ohhh shut the fucken gates! Check out the cannons on that one!” Clint announced as he pointed at the young woman walking her Border Collie across the road.

 

“I’d add her to the list!” he said, not once taking his eyes off the girl.

 

“I used to have a Border Collie,” I replied. “Her name was Ruffy. Lovely dog, had a real obsession with cheese. Not the good stuff either, just the plastic looking Kraft singles.”

 

“What? Who gives a fuck about the dog ya weirdo? Hahaha! Did ya see the size of her knockers? I’d demolish that!”

 

Nailed. Demolished. Smashed. How does a night with Clint sound, ladies? Nailed, demolished and smashed by an anaconda named, “The Destroyer.” Fucking hell Clint.

 

“I’ve got the most stats out of all the boys ay,” he continued, almost breaking his neck so he could continue gawking at his prize.

 

“Sorry? Stats?” I replied. “New strain of herpes?”

 

“Hahaha gettttt fucked! I always tarp up. Unless they’re heaps hot and then I just go bareback. Stats! Statistics! Numbersssssss!” he said, hitting a crescendo, while wiggling his fingers in my direction.

 

“Ah okay. How old are you mate?” I asked, trying my best not to sound too condescending, which was almost impossible.

 

“Eighteen, but you wouldn’t know it ay? Eighteen and I’m almost into the triple figures, and half of those have been up the arse as well. First root when I was twelve. I answered the door when mum wasn’t home and there was some bitch selling perfume door-to-door or some shit and I banged her.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” I interrupted, shaking my head and laughing incredulously at the most absurd “first time” story I had ever heard. And, almost half of them up the bum?

 

“I’m serious ay! I’ve always been hench though. She probably thought I was older,” Clint responded, while….and I don’t want to make you angry reading this, but he did it, so I have to tell you…. while flexing his muscles and looking down at his biceps with an expression that said, “I’m the fucking man.” For the record, Clint has the body of a skinned chicken from Coles.

 

 

He picked up on my skepticism. It could have been the raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and tilted-head. I think I lost an eyebrow for a second it was so raised. It went up, over the top of my head and found a new spot in the middle of my neck. I only just got it back in position this morning.

 

“You’re in your mid-thirties. As if you’re not into the triple figures!” said Clint, as he stretched out his sock and retrieved the packet of 25 ultra-menthol, Horizon brand cigarettes.

 

“Mid-thirties? I’m twenty-eight!” I fired back, for the first time ever getting very defensive about my age. I can’t believe someone who just pulled a packet of menthol Horizons from their sock had called me middle-aged.

 

“Sorry bro, thought you were older,” he replied, a nasty smirk creeping onto his pointy little face.

 

I should have just left it, but Clint irked me. He is a bindi in your foot on a Summers day. A fly in your cordial. A hair in your soup.

 

“I don’t believe you,” I said tersely.

 

“Huh?” he replied.

 

“About the woman selling perfume door-to-door. You made it up! No-one has sold perfume door-to-door since before I was born,” I said dismissively, shaking my head and laughing from my nostrils.

 

All went quiet for a long moment. A refreshing silence. And then, I could sense him smirking once-more.

 

“I’m sorry bro,” he said. “Your mum sells perfume door-to-door, doesn’t she? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

 

Clint had lost it. He rocked back and forth laughing like a maniac for a full twenty seconds. I couldn’t help but laugh in resignation at my passenger. This was my first week back driving for Uber after four months out of the game and I just happened to pick up Clint.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pull over bro, we’re here!” he said, completely out of breath and with tears streaming down his face from laughing so hard.

 

“Latas mate!” he said as he left my car and walked over to a group of girls who, unbelievably, inexplicably, threw their arms around him.

 

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought, as Clint disappeared around the corner with three girls who looked smitten with him. He turned and gave me a quick “shakas” before putting his arm around one of the girls and disappeared from view.

 

I think I’ll add Clint to my list. The list with Holly, Philippe and Jacob.

Uber on,

Ben.