I call him Lo because he told me the story of Lo, the poor Indian. It was a typically blustery February Boston morning. Traffic was tied up and drivers were glaring at one another. Everyone was unhappy - everyone, that is, except Lo, my cabdriver.
“You don’t seem to be upset that we’re not moving,” I said.
“Nope,” he said, very calmly. He gestured at the lines of traffic in every direction. “We can’t go anyplace. What’s the use of getting excited?” He lit a cigarette, took a deep puff, and turned around to face me. “You play golf?”
I nodded. “When I can, but I’m not very good.”
“Ever get to the tee and find two foursomes along the fairway waiting for a foursome on the green? And another foursome waiting on the next tee?”
“Lots of times,” I said, somewhat mystified as to what he was getting at.
“No place to go,” he said. Then he pointed to the surrounding traffic. “Same thing here.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “What’s the sense of getting excited? Or mad?” He shrugged. “Nothing anyone can do about it. Yet they all get mad and get ulcers.”
“I suppose they all have to get someplace,” I said, looking at my watch to notify him that I, too, was going to be late for an appointment. “Business meetings or planes or something.”
"Oh sure," he agreed. “That’s why they’re in cabs. Everybody’s got to be someplace except the cabdriver - he’s already there. Now look at that guy,” he said, pointing to a well-dressed man who had gotten out of his automobile and was talking to a police officer standing helplessly in the midst of the traffic. “That guy is practically having a stroke.”
“He’s probably late for work.”
“I’m never late for work. I’m on time as soon as I get in my cab.”
We sat watching the traffic cop trying to untangle the vehicles for a while and then we were on our way.
“You seem to like being a cabdriver,” I remarked.
“Wouldn’t be anything else,” he said.
“Have you tried anything else?” I asked.
He nodded. “Lots of things. I was a yeoman in the navy, then I did office work, and for a while I was a runner for a stockbrokerage firm. But no more of that stuff for me.”
“Wouldn’t you make more money doing something else?” I asked.
“Oh sure,” he agreed. “If I stayed with that stockbroker I might have even become a millionaire. Who knows? But I’ve got no ambition.”
“Everyone should have ambition,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked.
No one had ever asked me that before. Everyone seems to accept the need for ambition the way they accept other self-evident truths.
“Why?” I repeated. “Well, everyone should have ambition or they won’t get ahead.”
“So?” he asked.
“So? Well, so they can have a nice home, good clothes, do things for their family. You know, get ahead in life.”
“I’m not married and I don’t have any family,” he told me.
“Even so,” I said, “you should still want to get ahead.”
And then he said it: “It’s just like the Indian,” he remarked.
I was nonplussed. “The Indian? What’s just like the Indian? What Indian?”
“Lo, the poor Indian,” he answered. “I’ll tell you the story.” He settled back behind the wheel and began. “There was this Indian who was sitting by a river fishing. This white guy used to see him there every day, and whoever he was with, he would point over to the Indian and say to his friend, ‘Lo, the poor Indian.’ So one day when he was alone, he went over to the Indian and talked to him. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Fishing,’ the Indian grunted. ‘That’s all you ever do,’ the white guy said. And the Indian just grunted. So the white guy said, ‘You ought to get a job and work.’ The Indian asked, ‘Why?’ The white guy said, ‘You’ll make a lot of money.’ The Indian said, ‘So?’ The white guy said, ‘You can invest it and make yourself a lot more money.’ What do you think the Indian said to that? He just said, ‘So?’ Well, the white guy blew his stack. ‘So,’ he told him, ‘if you’re rich you can do anything you want to.’ The Indian looked at the white man, then turned back to his fishing. ‘I’m doing that now,’ he said.
The cabdriver laughed. “Lo, the poor Indian.” He puffed on his cigarette, then threw it out. “That’s me.”
I thought about it for a minute. “You’re doing what you want?” I said.
“Right.”
“And you’re satisfied?”
“Right,” he said. “Take all that traffic back there. Everybody’s unhappy but me. Why? Because they’re not at work; they’re not where they’re going; they’re losing time, or money or something. But not me. I’m not going anyplace; I’m already there. I’m not losing time, or money, or anything. They got to get out in the cold and walk through snow, or slush, or rain, or whatever. Me, I’m in a nice, warm, dry cab. Do you know when I get out of this cab?”
“No. When do you get out?”
“When I feel like it. When I want a coffee or a bite, or I feel like going in someplace and talking to the guys. I get out when I want to, not when I get to someplace where I’ve got to get out because I’ve arrived. That got to stuff’s for the passengers, not for me.”
“You’ve got it made,” I said.
“You said it, brother. Now take the good weather,” he said. “Summer and spring, or even fall, when the leaves are out and turning. What do you hear people say they want to do on a nice Sunday afternoon? They all want to take a ride, right?”
“A ride through the country,” I agreed. “My aunts used to do it every Sunday.”
“See the foliage, go by the water, go through the park, ride around someplace,” he said. “And not just older people. How about the kids? Do you ever watch the teenagers and the kids in their twenties? What do they want to do except ride around and see the sights?” He pointed towards the Charles. “In the summer you’ll see me driving by the river with my windows down. And I’m getting paid for it.”
When I got out at my destination, he spoke again. “I don’t know what you do for a living, Mister, but whatever it is, I hope you like it. If you don’t, I hope you get to be a millionaire so you can do whatever you like. Me, I’m not a millionaire, but I don’t have to be one to do whatever I like. I’m doing it now.”
As he drove off, I looked after him a long time. Here was I, where I didn’t want to be, going into a building to see a man I didn’t want to see, and doing some work I didn’t want to do.
Lo, the poor cabdriver, I said to myself. And I went about my business.
Governor Foster Furcolo
This story comes from the book "Soul Food." For more information, please click here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0062514423/ref=sib_dp_pt/002-2682294-8360832#reader-link
