Date:   12/16/2004 4:34:57 PM ( 20 y ago)
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URL:   https://www.curezone.org/forums/fm.asp?i=268190

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Subject: the Cab ride


Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One night I got a
call to pick someone up. 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 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 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 young 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
 

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