THE CAB RIDE
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. 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 the
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 80's 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 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 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 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.
Author Unknown
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. 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 the
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 80's 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 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 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 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.
Author Unknown
The Cab Ride
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