The Cab Ride

(From an email I received several years ago, author unknown....)

        

        

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

        

        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 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," 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.

        

        

        We won't get any big surprise in 10 days if we share this with those we

        care about but, we might help make the world a little kinder and more

        compassionate if we keep this in our hearts.