The Cabbie

Every night for 70 years, the cabbie found himself in the same cab. When darkness came, he ferried the souls of a dead to their final destination. It was his damnation; his punishment for a past sin. Like Moses, he couldn’t enter the promised land.

He was forced to comb the city of San Diego, looking for souls to transport.  He was like an oarsman on the River Styx; he’d transport his passengers across to their final destination where they’d enter.  But not him. Nope. Not his soul. He just drove the city looking for fares. Night after night. The meter was always running.

In 1942, he and his fellow Marines were about to ship out to war. Their ship was in the harbor, ready to head to an unheard of place called Guadalcanal. He and his buddies celebrated their last night in America going out drinking.  Beer flowed and a curfew was missed. The Marines stole a cab and rushed back toward their barracks. They never saw the young girl crossing the street.  A sick-sounding crunch of metal and a crumbled body lay in the street.

The young Marine panicked and ran from the driver’s seat of the cab.  And he never saw the car coming right at him.

The last thing he remembered was a brilliant flash before he ended up in the front seat of the cab he had stolen.  The doors were locked; they wouldn’t open.  The first night, he just screamed to the top of his lungs for help. But the living could not see or hear him. The good people of San Diego went about their nightly business.  He watched as his ship left the harbor. And more ships after it. He saw VJ day and the Marines and sailors come home.  Time marched on which out him.  He just did his job, night after night as the years sailed on.

Tonight he transported a 65-year-old Alzheimer’s patient from the hospice.  He took the six-year-old little girl with leukemia from SDSU hospital.  And the executive who had a heart attack while cheating on his wife with his secretary? He picked him up, too.  He transported them all.  The Dispatcher would radio in their locations. He’d drive them down to the San Diego Harbor front to the ghostly transport ship.  Some said that it was a Liberty Ship that had been torpedoed by a Japanese submarine.  But to him it looked much nicer than any Liberty Ship he saw during the war. He couldn’t get close enough, but he swore the rails were made of gold.

The passengers would embark at sunrise.  Then the ship would sail past Point Loma and into the Pacific where it would sail toward the western horizon. He’d drive his cab to Cabrillo Light House and watch the ship vanish until the first rays of sunlight caused him and his cab to evaporate into the mist.

Saturday night he got a call to pick up an elderly lady from a La Jolla nursing home.  The Dispatcher, in an unusual move, did not give her name. The cab driver just pulled off the 5 (the north/south interstate in San Diego) and headed into the rich little seaside town.  He honked the horn (as he always did) and waited. The doors opened and an elderly lady with white flowing hair walked out toward the cab.  With every step she took, years melted off her face.  And as her hand touched the cab’s door handle, the cabbie realized with shock who she was.

Amanda. She was the young wife he had left behind.

Words left both the cabbie and Amanda. They just stared at each other.

They had gotten married the day after Pearl Harbor. Sweethearts since school, he finally got the courage to pop the question when he knew he was going to join the Marines.  He had always known he wanted to be with her.  But the crumbling world gave him the incentive to make it so. It was an amazing three months.  Night after night of love. He knew what he had to live for now — her. Her beautiful face. The small of her back. The smile on her face. Her.  Amanda. She began to speak.

“I moved on with my life but I always missed you. It wasn’t fair to my second husband. He was a good man and we raised an amazing family.  But you — I always loved you.  When I heard you had died, part of me died, too.”

The cabbie tried to speak, but couldn’t.  Tears flowed and he cursed the fact there was glass between him and his beloved passenger.  He put his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.  “I’m so sorry God. I’m so sorry. Forgive me, Lord.  Please allow the young girl I killed to forgive me, too. Please allow Amanda to forgive me, too.”

The cabbie waited for a response, but got none.  He just looked at the face he had loved and started to drive to the harbor.  He tried to soak up every mile — because he knew she’d soon move on without him once again.  “Hell couldn’t be any worse than losing her twice,” he thought as he slowly proceeded down the 5.

He looked at his watch. He had to hurry — sunrise was only an hour away.  He got off at the airport exit and headed down by the Harbor.  He turned next to the U.S.S. Midway and pulled into the parking area next to the ghost ship.  He looked at Amanda one last time and said, “I will always love you.”  She looked at him and said, “And I will always will love you, too.”

And then a strange thing happened. The cab’s doors unlocked.

The cabbie was shocked at first but then immediately threw open the driver’s door. He ran back and opened Amanda’s door. Both embraced each other, kissing like they hadn’t in 70 years.

Then the cabbie realized it. He had been forgiven. All he had to do was ask. He turned around and looked at the cab in front of the San Diego skyline and smiled.  “Thanks for the ride,” he quipped. Then he and the love of his life headed to the ship that’d take them on their final journey.

The cabbie had picked up his final fare. The meter was finally turned off.  And the cabbie found peace at last.