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, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a
woman I
picked up late one August night.
I responded to a call from a small brick fourplex 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 in 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, 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 needed 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 1940's
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 knick-knacks 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 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 honked once, then driven
away? On a
quick review, I don't think that I have done very many more important
things
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 small ones.
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