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 fourplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers 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, 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, 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.

Author Unknown

"You can never do a little kindness too soon because you never know how soon will
be too late." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have A Great Day!

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