Feels. Worth the Read. It'll change you.. Not mine at all.... Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was acidboy' s life, a life for someone who wante Feels Worth the Read It'll change you Not mine at all Twenty years ago I drove a cab for living It was acidboy' s life someone who wante
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Feels. Worth the Read. It'll change you.

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.
It was acidboy' 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
mu rplix in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, 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 1: 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 Ms stood before me. She was
wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 19405 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 kn 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 curb.
She kept than king me for my kindness. ''It' s nothing", I told her. "l 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 Aong." 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 thin king, 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 to end his shift? What if I had refused to
take the run, or had hon ked 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
Views: 817 Submitted: 05/02/2012
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User avatar #1 - usmcoorah
Reply 0 123456789123345869
(05/03/2012) [-]
Hey OP...I love you..betch <3.