The Last Ride
Author Unknown
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.
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 four-plex in a quiet
part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some party
people 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 such
circumstances many drivers 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 80'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 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 asked. 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,
"Can 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 rear view 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
scarcely 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
revolved around great moments. But great moments often
catch us unaware...beautifully wrapped in what others may
consider a small one.
Addendum by Sherry Sharon: "Inasmuch as ye have done this unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
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