Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in
the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that 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.”
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.
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