Subject:    The Cabby

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 2:30 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 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 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
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 at the 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.