The Cab Ride
The Cab Ride
*note: i have no idea who the "I" is in this story... but i cried when i read it.. and had to share*
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 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 I 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 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 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.
