The
Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn
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.
Have any stories or interesting tidbits? Email me richmullercoach@gmail.com
Have any comments? Please leave them in the “comment” area below J
Live, Laugh. Love.
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