黄诗阳英语美文阅读欣赏带翻译：片刻的欢乐

2021年1月17日发(作者：精彩极了和糟糕透了)

英语美文阅读欣赏带翻译：片刻的欢乐

A Moment of Joy

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a
cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.

What I did not realize was that it was also a ministry.
Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving
confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total
anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered
people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and
weep.

But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late
one August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in
a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up
some people who had been partying, or someone who had just
had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early
shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2：30 a.m., the building was dark
except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under
such circumstances, many drivers just honk once or twice,
wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many
impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means
of transpor- tation.

Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to
the door.



This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance,
I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
“Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice. I could
hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long
pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before
me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a
veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her
side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for
years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were
no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the
counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with
photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I
took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the
woman. She took my arm, and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. “It's nothing,” I
told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would
want my mother treated.” “Oh, you're such a good boy,” she
said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then
asked, “Can you drive through downtown?” “It's not the
shortest way,” I answered quickly. “Oh, I don't mind,” she
said. “I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.” I
looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I
don't have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor
says I don't have very long.”



I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What
route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She
showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where
she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She
had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular
building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness,
saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she
suddenly said, “I'm tired. Let's go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,
with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies
came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must
have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the
door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her
purse.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered.

“There are other passengers,” I responded.