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 was responding 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 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, 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
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
rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have
any family left," she continued. "The doctor says 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 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.
PEOPLE MAY NOT
REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID,... BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS
REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
-- Author Unknown
1 comment:
This is one of the most beautiful posts I've ever read, and the post moved me to tears! Thank you so much for sharing it!
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