| TAXI DRIVER
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, made me
laugh and made me 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 in 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 the 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.
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