The Compassionate Taxi Driver

The taxi driver didn't ask for extra while I was boarding.

I was running a bit late for a Cinemalaya movie screening at CCP. I was a bit irritable from my medicine so I just kept quiet and listened to the radio jokes.

I saw the driver smirking from the mirror. He was a young driver, the type with the shades and the bling-bling, and the metallic punk smell. He had the belly of a drunkard.

Contrary to his gangster look, he was not arrogant. In fact, he was shy, too timid that when we had gotten too comfortable with the viscous traffic and we'd been talking, I had to draw closer and ask him to repeat what he'd said several times.

Those thirty minutes of brief biographies had been an exchange of compassion unlike any other. You could imagine help for the countless flood victims, where needs are easily met with relief help. Or you could imagine rescue for a bloodied victim. But who would have imagined compassion flowing freely between two seemingly normal men, let alone strangers––a father who would seem to have no problems, what with the bling-blings, the laughs, the motorcycle-gangster aura, and a young guy with his metal brace hidden under a jacket the taxi driver hadn't even noticed?

There we were, listening intently at each other: he, imparting the many lessons he had had learned during the many fights with his wife and the many missed opportunities; and I, graciously sharing the hope that I had been struggling to have during my darkest times.

We professed our weaknesses to each other, trying to encapsulate all problems in that brief car ride.

My short stint as a counselor would end with a surprise. We reached CCP, but we were both reluctant to separate and stop talking. I pay him a little more than what was on the meter, but he gives me back the fifty-peso bill! He'd wanted me to pay less than what was on the meter (What? Is he paying me for the talk?)

Not only did he not ask for more than what was due, but he had also demanded less than what was required. Wow! How many taxi drivers are like him?

That stalled my being late even more, and it got me thinking.

Both parties insisted that the other get it. Finally, I had to break the foolishness and the pause. I won the argument of course, and he got it.

I will miss the driver. Bless his soul.