“Wait! Please!”
The man thrust his arm through the open window of my cab, running alongside it as we tried to pull away from the curb.
The driver stopped and began to protest, but by then, the man had already flung the door open and thrown his bags in.
“What are you doing?” the driver asked. “I have this man. I have a fare.” He pointed over his shoulder at me. I sat and looked at the man. His face wore a panicked expression as he held his wife’s arm.
“Please, can we come with you? We are going to miss our flight. Heathrow terminal 3. We are going to Dubai.” He looked at me intently.
It was a humid day – one day after London’s hottest day ever recorded. The air was thick and the silence hung heavily as he waited for my answer. The London Underground train broke down en route to the airport, stranding all of its passengers – me included – halfway between ldowntown London and Heathrow Airport. As a result, I was in danger of missing my flight, and now this man and his wife wanted to come with me, going to a different terminal. One, or all, of us could miss our flights if it didn’t pay off.
Fuck it.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “Get in.”
They piled into the back of the cab with me, squeezing in tightly with all of our luggage. The husband began making phone calls, speaking quickly. He wiped sweat from his face and neck. His wife asked me where I was going.
“Dublin,” I said.
“We were visiting our children,” she replied. “They’re studying here.” Her husband continued to make phone calls. During one, he paused to ask the driver how long it would take to get there.
“35 minutes,” the driver answered.
“What time do you need to be there?” I asked.
“Seven.”
I looked at my watch – 6:35 p.m.
“Ah, we’ll be fine,” I said, trying to inject some optimism into our stiflingly-hot cab. Their worried faces showed they likely thought otherwise.
The cab sped down the highway.
6:50 p.m.
“We can’t possibly make it,” the husband said. “We’re going to be stranded here.”
“What’s your flight number?” I asked. “Heathrow and Gatwick have been slammed today. Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll be delayed.”
He told it to me and I punched it in to Google.
The results read: “Delayed by 40 minutes.”
I let him know.
Their faces softened in relief.
We were lucky.
We pulled up to my terminal first. I gathered my things. “That’s on your card, sir,” the driver said.
“Wait,” the husband began.
“Don’t worry about it,” I interjected. “Just get there and travel safe.”
He gave me a thanking nod as I closed the door and the cab sped away.
I don’t know if they made it on time. I hope they did. But what I do know is that when people need our help, we should do our best to help if it’s in our means. It feels good. It gives people a chance.
Sometimes that’s all we need. A chance.
We can be that chance for others if we choose to be when the moments in life present themselves.
And that’s worth remembering.
Love you all.
Ian
This post was originally published on July 26th, 2019
Ian Estabrook 