A little bit of joy

[Guest guest]

You can never do a kindness too soon, because you never know how soon

it will be too late." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

A Little Bit of Joy

-- 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. 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 partyers, 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 poor 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 attentive, 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,

Dear."

 

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".