Re: [TSCM-L] {3665} THE CAB RIDE from coms..._at_gmail.com on 2009-05-04 (file.mbox)

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From: "James M. Atkinson" <jm..._at_tscm.com>
Subject: THE CAB RIDE
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[I am not the original author of this letter, but I am honored to
post it to the list, and completely agree with the message. -jma]

THE CAB RIDE

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

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 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 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 or friends left," she continued. "and the
doctor says I don't have
very much long to live."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me
to take?" I asked.

For the next few 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 and had tears
running down both cheeks.

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.

Pass this on to all your friends and to the person who sent it to you as
well.

You won't get any big surprise in 10 days if you send it to ten people.
But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more compassionate by
sending it on.

Thank you, my friend...

-jma

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 James M. Atkinson Phone: (978) 546-3803
 Granite Island Group Fax: (978) 546-9467
 127 Eastern Avenue #291 Web: http://www.tscm.com/
 Gloucester, MA 01931-8008 E-mail: mailto:jm..._at_tscm.com
 http://www.linkedin.com/in/jamesmatkinson
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the
 enemy until it is ripe for execution. - Machiavelli, The Prince, 1521
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<html>
<body>
 
  
[I am not the original author of this letter, but I am honored to 
post it to the list, and completely agree with the message.
-jma] 
 
THE CAB RIDE 
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. 
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 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 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 or friends left," she continued.
"and the 
doctor says I don't have 
very much long to live." 
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you
like me 
to take?" I asked. 
For the next few 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 and had tears
 
running down both cheeks. 
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. 
Pass this on to all your friends and to the person who sent it to you
as 
well. 
You won't get any big surprise in 10 days if you send it to ten
people. 
But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more compassionate
by 
sending it on. 
Thank you, my friend... 
-jma 
 
<x-sigsep></x-sigsep>
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
 James M.
Atkinson                            
Phone: (978) 546-3803 
 Granite Island
Group                        
Fax:     (978) 546-9467 
 127 Eastern Avenue
#291               
Web:  
<a href="http://www.tscm.com/" eudora="autourl">http://www.tscm.com/ 
</a> Gloucester, MA
01931-8008            
E-mail:
<a href="mailto:jm..._at_tscm.com" eudora="autourl">mailto:jm..._at_tscm.com 
</a>  
           
<a href="http://www.linkedin.com/in/jamesmatkinson" eudora="autourl">
http://www.linkedin.com/in/jamesmatkinson 
</a>
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
 No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the
 
 enemy until it is ripe for execution. - Machiavelli, The Prince,
1521 </body>
</html>

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