The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn

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

One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that 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 rear view 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."

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.

9.11.01

Do you remember where you were?

• ... when JFK was shot?
• ... when Martin Luther King was assassinated?
• ... when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon?
• ... when AIDS was discovered?
• ... when Nixon resigned?

On September 11, 2001, I had been at Loyola College in Maryland for ten days. I had been to my first week of college classes. My first Chapel Choir rehearsal. I had met most of the girls in my hallway. Most of the people on my floor. I had bought all of my books. I hadn't gotten lost on campus. I wasn't homesick. I liked my roommate and my professors.

I had a 9:25 a.m. theology class on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I woke up on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, showered and went to class. I didn't turn on a television or a radio. If you know anything about college students you know that most of them aren't taking 9:25 a.m. classes, so I didn't pass anyone I knew on the way across campus.

At 9:03 a.m., as I left my freshman dormitory to walk across campus, Flight 175 crashed at about 590 mph into the south face of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

I remember it was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. Fall was approaching -- the weather was cooler than it had been. It always struck me ... the contrast between the bright blue sky and the black smoke rising from the ash.

Two of the girls who lived on my hall were in my theology class. I'm sure we were walking to class together, although I don't remember. I do remember that I had no idea when I slid into my seat at 9:15 a.m. that another plane, traveling at 490 mps, had crashed into the north face of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

And at 9:37 a.m. when Flight 77 crashed into the western side of the Pentagon, my theology professor was probably talking about the Book of Genesis. And at 10:03 a.m. when United Airlines Flight 93 was crashed by its highjackers 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh, he was probably chiding someone for not doing the reading.

Fr. Joseph Rossi, a Jesuit at Loyola College and professor in the Theology department, was the person who told me the news. As we walked out of the classroom into the theology lounge, Fr. Rossi came out of his office.

"A plane has hit the World Trade Center," he said.

I don't remember what I thought when I heard that. It gave me pause, but I think I assumed that a plane had malfunctioned and crashed, or gone off course. An accident, I thought. A tragic accident. But I was running late for my next class ... I remember briefly considering not going to class. But I was a freshman, and it was my first week. And I had never cut a class in my life.

My 10:40 a.m. class was Politics with Dr. Franz. The scene when I arrived was starkly different than the scene had been just an hour earlier in Theology. By now, people had heard. And it was clear they knew more than I did. Dr. Franz came in, made a brief statement, and turned on the televisions in the classroom. We watched the coverage. Being in Baltimore, the Pentagon was the focus. Dr. Franz's wife worked in D.C. At about 10:50, he told us to go back to our dorms.

My father ... that's all I kept thinking. I didn't know where his building was. Chemical Bank, where he had worked for many years, had been in midtown. I couldn't remember the address of Credit Suisse. I ran back to Middle Courtyard. I didn't have my cell phone with me.

At that time, 75% of Loyola College students were from the tri-state area. Everyone knew someone in New York that day. I tried calling my father. No answer. No connection. I tried my mother in Connecticut. The same thing. I was beginning to panic. My RA, Nick, came down the hall.

"I can't get in touch with my parents," I said.

"Check your e-mail," he told me.

I raced to my computer, holding my breath as my inbox loaded. There it was. The subject line read: I'm ok.

E-mail ... I hadn't even thought of that.

My father's building (at 11 Madison Avenue) was 2.6 miles from Ground Zero. He was okay. But when I finally spoke to him, he told me he was watching the smoke out the window of his office ... that it looked like the city was on fire. He said that he had walked to Grand Central Station and back several times, trying to get a train out of New York, but that so far the trains weren't running. When my father finally did get on a train that day, I remember him describing riding home with other passengers ... covered with soot, and ash, and debris.

After finding out that my father was all right, I started remembering the other people I knew ... my friend Brendan, a freshman like me, at NYU. My best friend Kelly, a student at George Washington University in D.C. My aunt, working at the 92nd Street Y in Manhattan. They were all fine. Kelly's RA had taken her residents and they had walked out of the District to her sister's house in Maryland. Brendan said only that they had been told to stay inside. My aunt, all the way uptown, was shaken, but fine.

I was lucky ... others, at Loyola, and across the country ... were not.

I remember going to campus ministry with my friend, Kerry and getting fliers from George about prayer services and vigils to hang up across campus. I spent most of September 11th in the chapel at Loyola. Singing. After watching the footage of those planes crashing again and again and again, I turned the television off. I couldn't take it anymore.

Every year, on this day, I remember the panic. The panic I felt as I sat in Dr. Franz's Politics class, as I ran across campus back to my dormitory, as I tried and tried in vain to make a phone call to my parents.

And I remember the stories ... of the people who were there. Of the people in New York and D.C. and rural Pennsylvania that day.

But I also remember the community. The way people packed the chapel all day. Or lined up around the quad holding candles that night. The way we cried, and prayed, and comforted one another.

The way we pledged to never forget.

Blue

Blues are motivated by altruism. They love to do nice things for others. They look for opportunities to give up something in order to bring another person happiness. Selflessness, rather than selfishness, is their guiding philosophy. Blues seek intimacy. They want to be loved and to love. A true blue will sacrifice a successful career to improve an important relationship. Blues crave being understood. They are gratified when they are listened to, when they feel understood and appreciated. Blues may have their hearts broken more than most people, but they also spend much more time in love. Blues are directed by a strong moral conscience. They have a moral code that guides them in their decision making, their value judgments, and their leisure time. A blue would rather lose than cheat. Ethically, blues are people who should be in positions of power, but seldom are.