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THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
From the Inside Out...
The Cab
Ride
Fascinating Facts...
Memory Lane
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| From the Inside Out
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 did not 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 people who had been partying, 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 just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
I told her. "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.
~Written
By Kent
Nerburn
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