...HEROES OVERSEAS... THE TOUCHING STORY OF A NEW YORK TAXI DRIVER
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few min- utes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked. “Just a minute”, ans- wered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being drag- ed across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90′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 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 card- board 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 kerb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. “It’s nothing”, I told her. “I just try to treat my pas- sengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.” “Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then
asked, “Could you drive through down- town?” “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 in a soft voice. “The doc- tor 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 ware- house 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 dark- ness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the hori- zon, 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 suit- case to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. “How much do I owe you?” she asked. “Nothing,” I said. “You have to make a living,” she answered. “There are other pas- sengers,” I respond- ed. Almost without think- ing, 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, and then walked into the dim morning light.
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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 con- sider a small one.
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