A Bit of a Problem

I recently had another repeat customer of note. I’ve had several repeat customers, but few affect me on our first meeting as this woman did. And I don’t mean it as a good thing.

Very early in this stint driving a cab, I received a late night call to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Upon arrival I went in to the ER and announced that I was the taxi driver called in. One of the ER staff called out the woman’s name — for our purposes, Lana — and my attention was diverted to the slightly mannish figure I had passed on my way in (I originally thought she was a college-aged boy!), huddled in a chair, apparently sleeping, and wrapped in a hospital blanket. She got up without a word and staggered to the taxi, where she crawled into the back seat and lay down.

I got behind the wheel and asked, “Where to?”

Lana labored to tell me her address, which I entered into my GPS unit.

Several times throughout the 10-minute trip, Lana moaned or grunted. Her manner and apparent incoherence had all the earmarks of someone coming down from alcohol intoxication. And, from the looks and sounds of it, this woman had been several stations beyond hammered. I wasn’t certain, of course, but it was a strong hunch. So strong, that I feared with every moan or grunt that she would spew her stomach contents all over the inside of my cab. I also feared that she would be unconscious by the time I got her home, and that I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my cab.

We neared the point to which the GPS was directing me, and she sat up, and blurted, “Here. This is good.”

I looked around. We were at an intersection between a couple apartment complexes and some sort of commercial buildings. Lana whipped out a credit card.

While I filled out the slip, Lana lay back down in the seat. She signed with an unintelligible scribble, and I said “Thanks.”

Lana opened the rear seat door and leaned out. She grunted in what sounded like apprehension. “Can you help me?”

“Sure,” I said, and got out and went around to help her. She was doubled over and very unsteady on her feet, and I had no confidence she would make it to her home — wherever it was. “Where are you going?”

She pointed to a building that was at least 100 yards away, and atop a hill. She grunted and a word came out. “There.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you make it?”

“Help me.” It sounded more like a general plea than a specific request.

“Okay, let’s go.” I offered my arm.

Lana remained doubled over as we walked. Though it was late September, the night air was quite crisp and chilly, and Lana wore nothing more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of athletic shoes. Despite the concrete stair path about fifty yards away that led to her building’s door, Lana made a bee-line for the door up the grassy hill. We had made it about one-third of the way up when she stumbled and stopped.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Hold me.” Again, it sounded like it came from deep within her soul.

On her right side, I gripped her right wrist with my right hand and pulled, and I placed my left hand on her back and pushed.

At the door to her building I waited as she fumbled for her keys, got them in the door, and got it open. Without looking at me, she muttered, “Thank you,” and shuffled into the depths of her existence.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Two months later I received an order to pick up on the same street. When I arrived I realized the address was the same building where I had dropped off Lana that bizarre, chilly night. And sure enough, when the door opened at the top of the hill, Lana came bounding down the stairs. Looking to be around 40, with sandy blond, short-cropped hair, she was a 180-degree turn from the last time I had seen her. Aside from a somewhat vacant, lost look in her eyes, one would never suspect at her appearance that she had any dirty secrets.

She got in the back seat and dictated directions to a destination I did not know. Only a minute or two into the ride she spoke. “Have you ever picked me up before?”

Attempting to sound as neutral as possible, I answered, “Yes. I picked you up at the emergency room one night, and brought you home.”

“Yeah. I thought you looked familiar. I’d remember a handsome guy like you.”

Right. I’m sure you do, I thought.

“You helped me get to the door. I appreciate that.”

Oops!

Her directions brought us to the door of a liquor store literally only about a mile from her apartment.

“Right here,” she said. And then, almost sheepishly, “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She paused. Did she seek comment or acknowledgment? “I’ll be just a minute, and then you can take me right back home.”

She went in to the liquor store, and, neutrality no longer needed, I shook my head.

She emerged from the store only two minutes later, empty-handed. She got in the car and said, “Okay. Take me home.”

She offered no explanation. I had an array of possible scenarios, from she’s battling demons and she won this round by resisting the desire for liquor to the liquor store clerk recognizes she has a problem, and refused to sell to her. But I’m sure it’s somewhere between those possibilities.

At the bottom of the concrete stair path she again offered her credit card as payment. It was a few minutes to fill out the slip and process the card. She spoke.

“Do you have a card or something? I need cabs every now and then.”

I handed her my card, provided by the taxi company, with my name and mobile number hand-written on the back. I told her that my schedule varies, and to try to call me at least an hour before she needs a ride, if possible, to determine if I’ll be available to pick her up.

Her credit card was approved. I handed back her card and her receipt. She opened the door and spun on the seat to get out.

“Thanks!” she said, raising my calling card in a gesture to me. Then she smiled. “You’re a cutie!” And she was gone.

In a split-second my mind visited the possibilities present in entertaining her interest. “HELL NO!” I shouted in the otherwise empty car.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Just a few nights ago, as I was outside the door of a customer awaiting pick-up, my mobile phone rang.

“[Farrago]? This is--”

“Yes?” I spoke over the voice, missing her name.

She gave the address. “I need a ride.”

“Who is this?” I asked, though I was certain I recognized the voice, perhaps instinctively.

“Oh,” came the voice on the other end. She reacted as if she had been told she had the wrong number.

“I’m with another customer right now.”

“I need you.”

“I’m not available right now,” I said.

“How long will you be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where he wants me to take him. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done with him and see if you still need a cab.”

There came a couple of uncertain grunts from Lana, and she hung up.

The customer was a local ride, not too long, and as soon as I dropped him off I called Lana, her number saved in my mobile phone’s “Calls” list. There was no answer.

Just to be sure, I drove to Lana’s apartment building and tried to call her again, also banking on the possibility that she was waiting for me to arrive. There was still no answer, and she never came out.

It’s in our nature to recognize need in people and to want to help. Some problems are within our capacity to solve, or at least to offer possible solutions. Others are beyond our help. The taxi driver is often a confidante, sometimes a co-conspirator. There is no oath of secrecy or privacy, though it seems one is implied. Nor is there a Hippocratic oath to help those in need. The damning reality is recognizing when someone is desperately in need of help, and the chasm between ‘want’ and ‘can’ is impossible to bridge.



°