A LITTLE BIT OF JOY
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 responded to a call from a small brick four-plex 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 in 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 these circumstances, many drivers would just honk
once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many poor
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 needed 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 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 knick- knacks 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, and 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 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 attentive,
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, Dear."
I squeezed her hand, and 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 very many more important
things 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 small ones.
