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, and 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, and 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, and 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.
