the local taxi drivers gather in the car park by the old war tank and memorial in the heart of town, leaning on rusted memories of long-forgotten battles, casting sideways glances at a town that barely registers their presence.
their aching joints and swollen ankles tell stories no one cares to hear, stiff from lives spent in limbo as the hours crawl by, slow as a drizzle on a windscreen.
they curse the early risers and after-dark desperados who disrupt their metal sanctuary of complaints, where discontent hangs as thick as diesel fumes in the salty air.
they sneer at the idea of ubers creeping in from the big city, pretending outrage, but secretly they thrive on the gossip leaking from cracked windows and half-open doors.
each whispered slight adds another layer of armour in the quiet war they’ve been fighting all their lives—against time, against pain, against a small seaside town that barely sees them. yet the hum of this place keeps pulling them back.
it’s in the way they sit, backs hunched, hands gnarled around the wheel, still holding onto the purpose of blending in and getting the job done—the kind of job most wouldn’t dream of doing, let alone surviving a weekend without.
in their parking bays, they aren’t just drivers. they’re the keepers of time, the custodians of secrets unspoken. you won’t catch that in the fleeting rush of scooters or the blur of strangers passing by.
their faces are carved with deep lines, etched from roads and driveways driven too many times to fade from memory.
each complaint is a defence; each laugh is a rare gem buried beneath layers of grit. they return to the same streets, not out of habit, but because this is where their lives are mapped out, where the endless grind somehow makes sense.
they remain, silent rebels waging a relentless war against their bodies and a society that writes them off as second-class citizens.
bitterness has settled into their bones after hours spent with locals and strangers alike. still, they stay, bodies weathered by years of service, tied to this quiet coastal corner.
their frustration runs deeper than resistance—the slow burn of realising they’ve become relics themselves, like the tank they lean on, overlooked by the town they idle in.
but there’s pride in their quiet rebellion, in the rhythm of a place that asks for little and gives even less.
in their stubborn defiance, they carry the weight of waiting—for the day a passenger finally sees them and acknowledges their place in the rhythm of this town. someone who understands their unseen, undervalued work, waiting in the shadows for a job no one else wants to take on.