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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

¶   1 comments