LAST CAB RIDE
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.
