TAXI

I never planned on ending up in a taxi. Honestly, if someone had told me just a few months earlier that I would spend my nights behind the wheel, waiting for people from every possible corner of life, listening to their stories like a priest in a moving confessional, I probably would have laughed. But life has a strange way of pushing you into a corner, only to show you a door you didn’t know existed. That evening, when I received my first company car, the city looked different than ever before. The streets seemed longer, stretched out under the dim yellow streetlights that flickered as if they themselves were nervous about the night ahead. I stepped inside the car, closed the door, and felt a soft “click” that sounded like it was locking away something much bigger than the vehicle itself. Maybe a phase of my life. Maybe a piece of who I used to be. I started the engine. It growled quietly, as if reminding me it wasn’t perfect, but it would faithfully take me wherever I needed to go. The smell inside was a mixture of old fabric, air freshener, and something else I still couldn’t quite identify — maybe fear, maybe excitement. The app was open. There was no turning back now. The first tone — my first ride. Even now, years later, I remember it in detail. The passenger was a young man, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. He entered quickly, without hesitation, like someone who was used to rushing through life. He sat behind me, bumped his knees into the seat, and muttered an address that, at that moment, meant absolutely nothing to me. Just another place out of a thousand I would eventually drive to. “First night?” he asked after a minute of silence. He hit the bull’s-eye. “How did you know?” “The way you’re holding the wheel. Too tight. Like you’re flying a plane, not driving a taxi.” I don’t know why, but that sentence relaxed me instantly. Maybe because it was the most honest thing I could have heard that night. When you find yourself alone with a job you know nothing about, the worst thing that can happen is someone showing off like they know everything. But this guy… he was just himself. Direct, but not unpleasant. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just relax. People aren’t usually bad. Annoyed, drunk, idiots sometimes — but rarely bad.” That was the first lesson I received that night. And the first of many I never asked for but got anyway. --- The second ride was completely different. A woman in her late forties, neatly dressed but with red, exhausted eyes. She entered quietly, as if afraid someone might notice her existence. She sat in the back seat and stayed silent. She didn’t give an address — she only said, “Drive. I’ll tell you where to stop.” That’s the kind of sentence you really don’t want to hear on your first shift. The city flashed through the windows; each streetlamp threw a brief light over her face, and every time I saw the same expression — lostness. Not the “I don’t know where I am” type of lostness, but the heavier kind, the kind that slides under your skin and lingers there. “Here,” she finally said. I stopped in front of an ordinary apartment building, nothing remarkable. She remained seated for a few seconds, as if gathering the strength to step out. Then she whispered softly, “Thank you. I needed this.” “The ride?” I asked, though I already knew it wasn’t that. She shook her head. “Just… not being alone.” And she left. Second lesson. --- Later that night, when the streets were nearly empty and the air had started to smell like morning, I picked up my third passenger — an older gentleman, neatly dressed, but with tired shoulders. He sat in the front seat and said only: “The cemetery. Take your time.” We drove in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt more… ceremonial. Only when we parked among the white stones and long shadows did he turn to me and say: “A year today. I didn’t want to be home alone.” I had nothing to say, but I don’t think he needed words. Sometimes people don’t want advice. They just need a driver who will take them where the heart hurts but the soul must go. Third lesson. --- When morning finally arrived and I parked the car, my hands were shaking from exhaustion, but my mind was wide awake, buzzing like I’d had three coffees. I hadn’t expected my first night to be like this. I thought it would be simple: a few rides, a few addresses, nothing worth remembering. But now I knew what every taxi driver learns early on: there is no simple night. There are no “ordinary” people. There are no boring rides. Everyone steps into the car carrying something of their own, and a part of it — whether you like it or not — they leave with you. That first night, I realized one thing: You don’t become a taxi driver because you drive. You become a taxi driver because you listen.