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. As 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 and some made me laugh and weep.
However, 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 just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory in the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2.30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in the ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute and then drive away. Nevertheless, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I will always go to the door.
“This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance.” I reasoned to myself.
Hence, I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute." Answered a frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor. The door opened after a long pause. A small woman in her eighties stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it. She looked like she came out of a 1940s movie. There was a small nylon suitcase by her side. 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 and no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. There was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware in the corner.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" She said.
I took the suitcase to the cab and then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly towards the cab. 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 to be treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy." She said.
When we got into the cab, she gave me an address and 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 much time left."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
We drove through the city for the next two hours. 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 would ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would stare into the darkness, saying nothing.
At the first hint of the sun 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 they watched 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.
I bent and gave her a hug almost without thinking. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy." She said.
"Thank you."
I squeezed her hand and then walked into the dim morning light. The door shut behind me. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers during 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 her as a passenger, 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. However, 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.
By Kent Nerburn
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