![[dr. bob]](/dr-bob-sm.gif)
Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 8 of 8. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
THE LAST 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, 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 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 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 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 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.
> >
> > ~Author Unknown~
Posted by Cam W. on September 1, 2000, at 6:58:32
In reply to What love is..., posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
Phil - You made me cry.
Posted by Nibor on September 1, 2000, at 8:24:31
In reply to Re: What love is... » Phil , posted by Cam W. on September 1, 2000, at 6:58:32
What a touching story. It's amazing when what starts out as a simple act of kindness can turn out to be so priceless.
Posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 8:26:35
In reply to Re: What love is... » Phil , posted by Cam W. on September 1, 2000, at 6:58:32
> Phil - You made me cry.
~~Made me cry too, Cam. Feels good.
Love,
Phil
Posted by Cindy W on September 1, 2000, at 9:21:22
In reply to What love is..., posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
> THE LAST 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, 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 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 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 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 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.
> > >
> > > ~Author Unknown~Phil, that's so touching...
--Cindy W. (also tearful)
Posted by CarolAnn on September 1, 2000, at 10:24:43
In reply to What love is..., posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
Stories like these give us hope that there are more good people than bad in the world. CarolAnn
Posted by dari on September 1, 2000, at 13:55:39
In reply to What love is..., posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
This is the reason I read psychobabble!!!!!
I eagerly await your next post, another diamond perhaps?fondly, dari
Posted by NikkiT2 on September 5, 2000, at 9:49:42
In reply to What love is..., posted by Phil on September 1, 2000, at 6:33:11
~sniffles~
That is a truly beautiful story... really moved me.
x
This is the end of the thread.
Psycho-Babble Social | Extras | FAQ
Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.org
Script revised: February 4, 2008
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/cgi-bin/pb/mget.pl
Copyright 2006-17 Robert Hsiung.
Owned and operated by Dr. Bob LLC and not the University of Chicago.