True life story of a cab driver; twenty
years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I
arrived in the middle of the night
for a pick up at a building
that was dark except for a single
light in a ground floor
window.
Under these circumstances, many
drivers would just honk
once or twice, wait a minute, then
drive away. But I had
seen too many impoverished people
who depended on taxis
as their only means of
transportation. Unless a situation
smelled of danger, I always went
to the door. This
passenger might be someone who
needs my assistance, I
reasoned to myself. So I walked to
the door and knocked.
"Just a minute,"
answered a frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being
dragged across the floor. After
a long pause, the door opened. A
small woman in her 80's
stood before me. She was wearing a
print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on
it, like somebody out of a
1940s movie. By her side was a
small nylon suitcase.
The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years.
All the furniture was covered with
sheets. There were no
clocks on the walls, no
knickknacks or utensils on the
counters. In the corner was a
cardboard box filled with
photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out
to the car?" she said. I took
the suitcase to the cab, then
returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked
slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my
kindness.
"It's nothing," I told
her. "I just try to treat my passengers
the way I would want my mother
treated."
"Oh, you're such a good
boy," she said. When we got in the
cab, she gave me an address, then
asked, "Could you drive
through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest
way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she
said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way
to a hospice."
I looked in the rear view mirror.
Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family
left," she continued. "The doctor
says I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut
off the meter. "What route
would you like me to take?" I
asked.
For the next two hours, we drove
through the city. She
showed me the building where she
had once worked as an
elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood
where she and her husband had
lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in
front of a furniture
warehouse that had once been a
ballroom where she had
gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in
front of a particular
building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness,
saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was
creasing the horizon, she
suddenly said, "I'm tired.
Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address
she had given me.
It was a low building, like a
small convalescent home, with
a driveway that passed under a
portico. Two orderlies came
out to the cab as soon as we
pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching
her every move. They must
have been expecting her. I opened
the trunk and took the
small suitcase to the door. The
woman was already seated
in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?"
she asked, reaching into her
purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a
living," she answered.
"There are other
passengers."
Almost without thinking, I bent
and gave her a hug. She held
onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a
little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked
into the dim morning
light. Behind me, a door shut. It
was the sound of the
closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more
passengers that shift. I drove
aimlessly, lost in thought. For
the rest of that day, I could
hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver,
or one who was impatient to end
his shift? What if I had
refused to take the run, or had
honked once, then driven
away?
On a quick review, I don't think
that I have done anything
more important in my life. We're
conditioned to think that
our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments
often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what
others
may consider a small one.
The End.
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