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 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 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.
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 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, and 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 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, and 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, and 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 lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
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