Insensitive people have the reputation for being
confrontational, in their negotiations as with everything else.
They don't come more insensitive than New York City taxi drivers.
In a seasonal spirit of collaboration and goodwill, we offer this
blog, which has been doing the rounds for some time now.
A NYC Taxi driver wrote
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a
few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my
last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but
instead I put the car in park and walked up 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 90'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 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 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 to be treated.'
'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab,
she gave me an address and 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 in a soft voice
.'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 neighbourhood 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, and 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.
We hope that all your negotiations in 2013 are collaborative and
creative.
Stephen White
Managing Partner
