The Cab Ride

[Guest guest]

The story is long but the message is worth it. My daughter sent me this.

Keep up the good work.

love and serenity jerry

I love the last line.

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Subject: The Cab Ride

Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000 00:35:43 EDT

THE CAB RIDE

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, and 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 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 would 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 and 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 the address, and 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, and 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 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 consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY

WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

_________________________________________________________________________

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[Guest guest]

Thanks Jerry, that was very nice!!!!!! Lori C.

[ ] Fwd: The Cab Ride

>The story is long but the message is worth it. My daughter sent me this.

>Keep up the good work.

>

>love and serenity jerry

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

Great story Jerry. Thank you, Genny

[Guest guest]

jerry,

had that story on the cabride and it is touching. know there are people out

there that would do that, but not many. thanks for the story.

linda satx

[Guest guest]

THANK YOU LINDA....MORE THAN YOU KNOW

[Guest guest]

No,, Thank You....

jerry

[Guest guest]

The Cab Ride

http://www.delilah. com/pages/ poems.html? feed=379913 & article=6875654

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes 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 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 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 and 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 rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice.. '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, and 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

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 consider a small one.

People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

- Maya Angelou

May we make the world a little kinder and more compassionate by

reminding ourselves that often it is the random acts of kindness that most benefit all of us.

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we

are here we might as well dance.

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