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The Last Ride
The Last Ride
One Last Drive One taxi driver picks
up a fare that changes his life.
There was a time in his life twenty years
ago when he was driving a cab for a living.
It was a cowboy's life, a gambler's life, a
lif for someone who wanted no boss, constant
movement, and the thrill of a dice roll every
time a new passenger got into the cab.
What he didn't count on when he took the job
was that it was also a ministry. Because he
drove the night shift, my cab became a rolling
confessional. Passengers would climb in, sit
behind me in total anonymity, and tell him of
their lives. he encountered people whose
lives amazed him, ennobled him, made him
laugh and made him weep. And none of those
lives touched his more than that of a woman
he picked up late on a warm August night.
He was responding to a call from a small
brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. he
assumed he was being sent to pick up some
partiers, or someone who had just had a fight
with a lover, or a someone going off to an
early shift at some factory for the industrial
part of town.
When he arrived at the address, 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
short minute, then drive away. Too many bad
possibilities awaited a drive who went up to
a darkened building at 2:30 in the morning.
But he had seen too many people trapped in a
life of poverty who depended on taxis as their
only means of transportation. Unless a situation
had a real whiff of danger, he always went to
the door to find the passenger. It might, his
reasoned, be someone who needs his assistance.
Would he not want a driver to do the same if
his mother or father had called for a cab? So
he walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail and elderly
voice. He could hear something being dragged
across the floor. After a long pause, the door
opened. A small woman somewhere in her 80s
stood before him. She was wearing a print dress
and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like
you might see in a costume shop or a Goodwill
store or in a 1940s movie. By her side was a
small nylon suitcase. The sound had been her
dragging it across the floor.
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. he took the suitcase to the cab, then
returned to assist the woman. She took his arm,
and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept
thanking him for his kindness.
"It's nothing," he told her. "He just try to
treat my passengers the way he would want his
mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we
got in the cab, she gave him an address, then
asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," he answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry.
I'm on my way to a hospice." he 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."
He quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
"What route would you like me to go?" he asked.
For the next two hours, they drove through the city.
She showed him the building where she had once
worked as an elevator operator. they drove
through the neighborhood where she and her
husband had lived when they had first been
married. She had him pull up in front of a
furniture warehouse that had once been a
ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she would have me 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
him. 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. He 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," he said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," he responded.
Almost without thinking, he bent and gave her
a hug. She held on to him tightly. "You gave an
old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you."
There was nothing more to say. He squeezed her
hand once, then walked out into the dim morning
light. Behind me, he could hear the door shut.
It was the sound of the closing of a life. He
did not pick up any more passengers that shift.
He drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the
remainder of that day, he could hardly talk.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,
or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if he had refused to take the run, or had
honked once, then driven away? How many other
moments like that had he missed or failed to
grasp? What if he had been in a foul mood and
had refused to engage the woman in conversation?
We are so conditioned to think that our lives
revolve around great moments. But great moments
often catch us unawares. When that woman hugged
him and said that he had brought her a moment of
joy, it was possible to believe that he had been
placed on earth for the sole purpose of providing
her with that last ride.
He do not think that he have ever done anything
in my life that was any more important.
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Picture :
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