The people who drive us
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Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich
My Uber driver is in her mid-30s, and she is friendly. She is driving us to our hotel, and we are stuck in gridlock traffic.
There is a network of tattoos adorning her limbs. As she drives, I notice a thumbprint tattoo on her neck. I ask about this tattoo.
First she doesn’t reply.
Then she says quietly, with a pained smile, “It’s my son’s thumbprint.”
I am prepared to let the subject die here, but it is she who breaks the quietude.
“He died last month. He was twenty-two.”
She goes on to tell us that it was an accident. The accident happened in her house. It happened in front of his little brother. It was bad.
She drives in silence for a long time. I offer her an “I’m sorry.” I hate saying this phrase in response to such discourse. It sounds so inauthentic. Even so, the only thing I hate worse than saying these two words is not saying them at all.
“He was an organ donor,” she says. “So they did the honor walk for him. The whole hospital lined the hallways to watch his bed roll by. Everyone. Doctors, nurses. Even the janitors. Everyone was there. My son saved so many lives that day.”
Then she offers us a common piece of wisdom. But this time, the words fall differently onto my ears.
“Life is so short.”
We are dropped off at the hotel. There are no restaurants within ten square miles, so we need to call another cab to take us to dinner.
The cab arrives. It’s a young man. He’s nice. He’s got a story too.
He says he started driving cabs after his mom died. He had been her primary caregiver for so long, he’d forgotten what it meant to be around the general public.
“I’d been isolated so long, taking care of her,” he says. “When she was suddenly gone, I realized I had to rediscover my own life. I had to relearn who I was.”
So he took a job driving. He’s an engineer. He doesn’t need this job. But he likes meeting new people. He likes conversation. He likes human beings.
Then he, too, offers some paramount wisdom.
“I was made to be around people. We all are. We all need each other a lot more than we realize.”
The next morning, the hotel shuttle arrives to carry us to the airport. The woman driver is extremely lean. Most of her head is shaved. There are tats all over her.
She loads my musical instruments into her backseat, one after the other, handling my heavy banjo case, one-handed, like it contains only popcorn.
“What kinda music you play?” she asks.
“The kind that makes people plug their noses,” I reply.
She glances at me in the rearview mirror and smiles.
“Yeah, well, I don’t get out to see much live music anymore. I used to go out all the time, but it led me down some bad roads. I finally had a wake-up call.
“I realized I had to change who I was. I couldn’t keep living the way I was before, couldn’t keep doing that to myself or my family. God gives you second chances, you know?”
She flips her blinker, leans against the window, and sighs.
“Take for instance my daughter. She just told me she’s pregnant, and she just told me she wants my help raising the baby. Me. You believe that?
“I just cried and cried on the phone. I thought I’d messed up with her so bad that she’d never talk to me again. But you know… God and his second chances.”
She turns into the airport parking lot, but she is still looking at me in the mirror.
“I get to be a mom again. And I’m gonna do it right this time. I’m gonna show my daughter and her beautiful baby that I ain’t no screw-up. I’m imperfect, I know. But I’m so loved. We’re all so loved. I don’t know if anyone’s told you today, sir. But you’re loved, too. You are loved. Please don’t forget that, sir.”
Cab drivers, I have discovered, have a lot to teach us.
