I love Facebook. It is a vehicle wherein I can reconnect with old friends I have wondered about though out my life. It has also allowed me to make new friends of common interests, some of whom I have grown to love although I have never seen them face to face. It lets me share photos and keep up with family members where ever they live in the world. Among my group of friends are people living in six of the seven continents.
All that being said, Facebook does have its dark side.
I am not talking about salespeople or predators or anything of that sort. I am talking about people with real problems toward whom I should be compassionate and have empathetic concern were it not for their direct and deliberate efforts to slander my name and assassinate my personal character.
The first group are usually young leftists who can be readily identified by their profile pic and the name they chose to use on their wall. It is not a photo of them and it is not their name. It is a caricature and it a pseudonym. This way they can spread their filth and venom with complete anonymity and no fear of direct confrontation. It emboldens them to make brash threats and hurl vicious insults. Ironically, these usually champion the political party that says it is all for sweetness and light and "can't we just all get along?" I have come to think that a great many of these are about 14 years old, socially clumsy pimple faced punks who operate out of dark rooms in Southern California. Of course this is not always the case but is amazing how often it is.
This generation lacks all the social graces that previous generations were taught to live by. OMG, WTF, and MoFo are not just disgusting initials they use on Facebook. The phrases the initials represent are a large portion of the language they use in every day speech.
The second group consists of people who at first seem stable and firmly based. These usually become friends because I have posted something they like and they request I befriend them. We can go for weeks, sometimes months, carrying on polite interesting conversations. Then one day I will say something that will set off the bomb. I know immediately when I did because what follows is a tirade of paragraphs basically telling me what a slug I am.
Generally what sets them off is they discover something about my race, creed, politics, or religion. That would be bad enough if it ended there. But it doesn't. These people now make an activity of searching the web for places where I post and comment with vicious slander and lies. It doesn't stop there. They go further looking for disciples who will band against me.
Many poor souls believe the first thing they read and unfortunately that would be what they read from these types. I have tried to rebut the onslaught but it only irritates the person who initiated that particular dialogue with no benefit to me. Eventually these types go away -- eventually.
Thankfully, the great majority my Facebook friends are very wonderful people.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Cab Ride by James Sullivan Prine
Personal experiences are the best. I am grateful to James Sullivan Prine for allowing me to share his. The place is New Orleans.
THE CAB RIDE
A few years back, I was a Police Officer and also drove a United Cab for additional income. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.
But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. 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 80's 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 asked. I took the suitcase to the cab, and 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 out in Kenner, and then asked, "Could you drive through the City first?"
"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 rear-view 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 and turned off the dispatch radio. I wouldn't be logging ths load, either.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours or so, 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.
"Not a cent," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"Driving you was an honor, and a privilege. If anything, I owe you, ma'am." I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you." I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut.
It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk, and I avoided others.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the load, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
A few years back, I was a Police Officer and also drove a United Cab for additional income. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.
But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. 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 80's 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 asked. I took the suitcase to the cab, and 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 out in Kenner, and then asked, "Could you drive through the City first?"
"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 rear-view 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 and turned off the dispatch radio. I wouldn't be logging ths load, either.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours or so, 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.
"Not a cent," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"Driving you was an honor, and a privilege. If anything, I owe you, ma'am." I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you." I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut.
It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk, and I avoided others.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the load, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
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