Cab Driver

A MOST UNFORGETTABLE FARE

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.