I thought I saw a $9.19 fare. I picked up Andrew near downtown Orlando on a Saturday afternoon, overcast. He was a short, wiry guy, with a faint Southern accent, ash blonde crewcut, glasses, and a humble-looking smile that started in his baby blue eyes. I helped him put the grocery bags and a cooler in my trunk and climbed back in. And then I saw his destination.

Two hours and forty-five minutes away.

“I know it’s a big commitment, boss, and I’m sorry”, Andrew said. “I’d understand if you’d want to cancel”.

I considered for a brief second. It was late noon. D. was home alone, but Y. was probably about to leave work. And then I saw both the fee and Andrew. The fee was about a day’s work, which I very much needed right now. But more importantly, I wondered how much had this poor guy waited (he told me at least two drivers canceled on him), and how hard was it going to be to make the trip.

“Nah, man”, I said at last. “We’re here already. And I’m not doing that to ya. Let’s go”.

So three hours later, with a nap and some pretty good conversation, I dropped Andrew, a construction worker, at the house he and his buddies were working on in New Port Richey, Florida. He tipped me good, shook my hand, and I drove back, giving me plenty of time to think about my year.

A year that shall live in infamy, to paraphrase FDR.

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