Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a
living. 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, then drive
way. 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.
"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 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. 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 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, THEY WILL ALWAYS
REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
Need to go here??
