The Pillbox Hat
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 responded 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 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 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 needed 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 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 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 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 very many more important things 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 small ones.
Author Unknown