my arm; I got repetitive strain. You can tell because I have to hold it up. It happened while I was working on an assembly line doing the same thing over and over again 5,000 times a day. For five and a half years, I did everything Workersâ Compensation wanted me to do. Most people go down to the Miller Centre for six weeks. My treatments ended up lasting six months. I went down every day doing foolish stuff like walking up and down the hall with a wooden box in my arms. I took injections of cortisone and did hydrotherapy. Compensation classified me with whatâs called âpermanent functional impairment.â That got me $5,500 out of them. They give you the money because youâre stuck with the injury for the rest of your life. But five grand is nothing. Then they offered me a taxi. I was like, âNo, I donât want to go taxiing. I donât want to drive people around. Give me a little van for couriering.â
âNo, you canât do that,â they said, âbecause you have to lift stuff.â
I said, âThatâs not lifting. Thatâs envelopes and small parcels.â
It seemed to be the thing back then. People would say, âGo down and tell them you want a taxi. Theyâll buy you a car, or a van. Whatever you want.â I guess it depends on how long youâre on compensation and what your injury is. If you lost both of your legs, itâs no good giving you a taxi.
Then they told me to get a job as a meter reader. She said, âYou got ten weeks to get a job at it, or youâre cut off.â
I said, âA job with Newfoundland Power?â
âYes, you got ten weeks.â
I said, âMy ducky, you need a letter from God to get a job with Newfoundland Power. I havenât worked in five and a half years. I wouldnât even hire me.â
âIf you think a letter from God will help, maybe you should get one.â Those were her exact words.
I sold everything off, and me and the missus and the four kids moved to Ontario. I had no reason to go to Ontario. We were fine here; I was getting enough on compensation. I was Mr. Mom, and she was working. At least we had two incomes coming in. Then my wife had a nervous breakdown and came back to Newfoundland out of it. She never came back to me. I went painting cars for a little while. Then I went detailing carsâfancy cars. But you donât make a living at that when your rent is $1,200 a month. Youâre only getting $15 an hour. I said, âI got to get out of here. I donât care if Iâm flipping burgers.â
I phoned my buddy, and he said, âIâll get you a job taxiing.â
I came back home, and I started at this. At first, I loved it. Then I liked it. Then I didnât mind it. Now I hate it. In a half an hour, Iâll have eight hours punched in. As it is now, since four oâclock this morning, I havenât made fifty bucks, and thatâs everything on the meter. Iâm working for about $3 an hour. Since four oâclock, I think Iâve had five jobs. Thatâs it. I wouldnât recommend taxiing to an enemy, to be honest. Itâs the only job I know where you donât get stamps, you donât get compensation, and you donât get holidays, or sick leave. If you donât work, you donât get paid. Iâm in a bind now. My rent was due last week. I had $120 for him yesterday, and the only reason I came up with that is because I went to Placentia for $285. I only have the use of one arm, and I canât do anything else. Iâm stuck at this.
Just a Girl Driving a Taxi
Sandra, driving for four years
I used to work for an old answering service here in the city, the ones where youâd have to use the cord boards. If you called your oil company after ten oâclock at night you got one of us girls. Then we would call the oil man: âYou got to deliver oil to old Mrs. Brown because sheâs froze down there.â I