Neutron
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- Joined
- Apr 19, 2001
- Messages
- 3,862
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THE CAB RIDE
> >
> > 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 neighbourhood 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.
Later
Tron
> >
> > 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 neighbourhood 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.
Later
Tron
