The Cab Ride
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,
ennobled me, made me laugh and 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 partyers, or someone who had
just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at
some factory for 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 such circumstances, many drivers 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, "Can 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.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID,
~ BUT ~
THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
[ by: Kent Nerburn -- information from Barry Kingsley ]
Inspirational Stories
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