Twenty years ago, I drove a cab
for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a
life for someone who wanted no boss.
What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab
became a moving confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me
about their lives. I encountered people
whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, and made me laugh and weep.
But none touched me more than a
woman I picked up late one August night. I was responding to a call from a
small brick four plex in a quiet part of town.
I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who had
just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some
factory for the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building 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, and 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 80s 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 and 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 rearview
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,"
I responded.
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.
This moved me so much that I thought I would share it with you all.
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.
People May Not Remember Exactly What You Did, Or
What You
Said ...
But,
They Will Always Remember
How You Made Them Feel.
