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 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 2:30a.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 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 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 and 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 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.