Somebody's Mother

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. 
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.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building
was dark except for a single light
in a ground floor window. 
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. 
All the furniture in the apartment
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 don't have any family left," she continued.
"The doctor says I don't have very long."

I looked in the rearview mirror. 
Her eyes were glistening.

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.  Two orderlies came out
to the cab as soon as we pulled up. 

I opened the trunk and carried her
small suitcase through 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.
  "There are other passengers."

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.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. 
I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. 
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 and 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.




Return to Forgotten
Generations