The Cab Ride

By Kent Nerburn 

"Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life,
a life for someone who wanted no boss. 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
partiers, 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 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 1940's 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 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."

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