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.
People
may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always
remember how you made them feel.