我在纽约市做出租车司机已经有28年零3个月12天的时间了。现在，如果你问我昨天早餐吃了些什么，我可能都回答不上来。但是有一个乘客给我留下了颇为深刻的印象，在我的有生之年，我永远都不会将其忘记。

那个故事发生在1966年的春天。那是一个阳光灿烂的周一上午，我沿着纽约大街缓慢行驶以兜揽顾客。在这一个明媚的天气里，不适合开得太快。当我发现一个衣着体面的男人急匆匆走下纽约医院门前台阶时，我把车停在了医院对面的红绿灯前。他向我招了招手。

就在那个时候，绿灯亮了，我后面的司机开始不耐烦地按起喇叭；我还听到了警察的口哨声。但是我不想丢掉这份生意。最终那个男人来到了我的车边，迅速坐了进来。“请带我去拉瓜迪亚机场，”他说，“谢谢你等我。”

真是个好消息，我心里暗想。周一上午，拉瓜迪亚机场一般客流量挺大，如果幸运的话，我或许在返程的时候也能拉到客人，这样一来，我一天的任务就完成了。

和往常一样，我对我的乘客充满好奇。这个男人是健谈，是闷声不响，抑或热衷读报？过了一会儿，他开始和我攀谈起来，话题再普通不过：“你喜欢开出租车吗？”

这真是个老掉牙的问题，我也给了他一个老掉牙的回答。“还行吧，”我说，“我以此为生，偶尔也会遇到一些很有趣的人。但是如果我能找到一个周薪比现在多100美元的工作，我当然愿意，换你也会这么做的。”他的回答激起了我的好奇心。“我可不会因为每周少拿100美元而换工作。”

我从来没有听到有人这么说过。“你是做什么的？”“我在纽约医院神经科工作。”我一直是个好奇的人，总想从别人身上学点儿什么。车程较长的时候，我会和我的乘客建立良好的关系——事实上，我那些做会计，律师和水管工的乘客给过我不少好的建议。可能是因为这个男人表现出来的对自己工作的喜爱，也可能是那个明媚的春天的早晨给我带来了好心情，我决定向他求助。我们离机场已经不远了，所以我单刀直入地进入话题。

“我能请你帮我一个大忙吗？”他没有回答。“我有一个儿子，今年15岁，是个挺不错的孩子。他在学校表现很好。今年夏天我们想让他参加一个夏令营活动，但是他却想做一份兼职。但一个15岁的孩子是不可能被聘用的，除非他的老爹认识某个开公司的人，可惜我不认识这样的人。”我停顿了一下。“不知道你有没有可能帮他找到一份暑期工作——不要薪水都行？”

他还是不说话。我开始觉得跟他提出这个话题真是愚蠢极了。最后，在接近终点的坡道上，他说，“唔，医学专业的学生有个暑期研究项目。或许可以把他安排进来。让他把他的学习成绩寄给我看看。”

他想从口袋里摸一张名片给我，却没有找到。“你有纸吗？”他问道。我从棕色的午餐袋上撕下一片纸，他在上面潦草地写了些什么，付给我打的费，然后就下车走了。那是我最后一次见他。当天晚上，我与家人围坐在餐桌边吃饭的时候，我从衬衫口袋里拿出那张小纸片。“罗比，”我自豪地宣布道，“这个可能给你带来一份暑假工作。”他接过纸片大声读了出来：“弗雷德•普拉姆，纽约医院。”

我妻子问：“他是一个医生吗？”

我女儿问：“他是一个李子吗？”

我儿子问：“他在开玩笑吧？”

我对儿子软硬兼施，使出了浑身解数，最后还威胁他说要削减他的零花钱，他才在第二天早晨将自己的成绩单寄了出去。我们拿这件事开了好几天的玩笑，但后来大家就逐渐淡忘了。

两周后，当我结束一天的工作回到家里，发现儿子一脸笑容，神采焕发。他递给我一封装在压花信封里的信，收信人写着他的名字。信头写着“弗雷德•普拉姆，医学博士，神经科主治医生，纽约医院。”信里邀请他给普拉姆医生的秘书打电话预约面试。

罗比最后得到了那份工作。作为志愿者工作两周后，那个暑假剩下的时间里他拿到了每周40美元的薪水。当他身穿白大褂跟在普拉姆医生后面为他跑前跑后的时候，他觉得自己比实际上重要多了。

接下来的那个夏天，罗比再次来到纽约医院做暑期工。但是这一次，他承担了更多的责任。随着高中毕业的临近，普拉姆医生还好心地为他写大学推荐信。令我们欣喜不已的是，罗比最终被布朗大学录取了。

第三个暑假，他依然在纽约医院做暑假工，并慢慢喜欢上医疗行业。大学毕业的时候，罗比向医学院递交了申请，而普拉姆医生再次为他写了推荐信，证明他有相关的学术能力，并且性格也很适合做医学方面的研究。

罗比被纽约医学院录取了。在获得医学学位后，他在妇产科做了四年的实习医生。

罗伯特•斯特恩医生，一个出租车司机的儿子，成了哥伦比亚长老教会医学中心妇产科的住院总医师。一些人可能会认为这是命运使然，我也这样想。但是它也表明一些重大的机会往往来自于看似平淡无奇的邂逅——甚至一次再普通不过的出租车之行。

The Taxi Driver and the Doctor

For 28 years, three months, and 12 days, I drove a New York City taxi. Now, if you were to ask me what I had for breakfast yesterday, I probably couldn’t tell you.

But the memory of one fare is so vivid, I’ll remember it all my days in this world.It was a sunny Monday morning in the spring of 1966. I was cruising down York Avenue looking for a customer, but with the beautiful weather, it was kind of slow. I had stopped at a light just opposite New York Hospital when I spied a well-dressed man dashing down the hospital steps. He was hailing me.

Just then, the light turned green, the driver behind me honked impatiently, and I heard a cop’s whistle. But I wasn’t about to lose this ride. Finally, the man reached the cab and jumped in.“LaGuardia Airport, please,” He said. “And thanks for waiting.”

Good news, I thought. On Monday morning, LaGuardia is hopping, and with a little luck, I could get back-to-back fares. That would make my day.

As always, I wondered about my passenger. Was this guy a talker, a mummy, a newspaper reader? After a few moments, he started a conversation. It began ordinarily enough: “How do you like driving a cab?”

It was a stock question, and I gave him my stock answer. “It’s OK,” I said. “I make a living and meet interesting people sometimes. But if I could get a job making $100 a week more, I’d take it-just like you would.”

His reply intrigued me. “I would not change jobs if it meant I had to take a cut of a hundred a week.”

I’d never heard anyone say such a thing. “What do you do?”

“I’m in the neurology department at New York Hospital.”

I’ve always been curious about people, and I’ve tried to learn what I could from them. Many times during long rides, I’d developed a rapport with my passengers-and quite often I’d received very good advice from accountants, lawyers, and plumbers.

Maybe it was that this fellow clearly loved his work; maybe it was just the pleasant mood of a spring morning. But I decided to ask for his help. We were not far from the airport now, so I plunged ahead.

“Could I ask a big favor of you?” He didn’t answer. “I have a son, 15, a good kid. He’s doing well in school. We’d like him to go to camp this summer, but he wants a job. But a 15-year-old can’t get hired unless his old man knows someone who owns a business, and I don’t.” I paused. “Is there any possibility that you might get him some kind of a summer job-even if he doesn’t get paid?”

He still wasn’t talking, and I was starting to feel foolish for bringing up the subject. Finally, at the ramp to the terminal, he said, “Well, the medical students have a summer research project. Maybe he could fit in. Have him send me his school record.”

He fished around in his pocket for a card but couldn’t find one. “Do you have any paper?” he asked.

I tore off a piece of my brown lunch bag, and he scribbled something and paid me.It was the last time I ever saw him.

That evening, sitting around the dining room table with my family, I pulled the scrap from my shirt pocket. “Robbie,” I announced proudly, “this could be a summer job for you.” He read it out loud: “Fred Plum, N.Y. Hosp.”

My wife: “Is he a doctor?”

My daughter:“Is he a plum?”

My son: “Is this a joke?”

After I nagged, cajoled, yelled, and finally threatened to cut off his allowance,Robbie sent off his grades the next morning. The fruit jokes continued for a few days,but gradually the incident was forgotten.

Two weeks later, when I arrived home from work, my son was beaming. He handed me a letter addressed to him on richly embossed paper. The letterhead read “Fred Plum, MD, Neurologist-in-Chief, New York Hospital.” He was to call Dr.Plum’s secretary for an interview.Robbie got the job. After working for two weeks as a volunteer, he was paid $40 a week for the rest of the summer. The white lab coat he wore made him feel a lot more important than he really was as he followed Dr. Plum around the hospital, doing minor tasks for him.

The following summer, Robbie worked at the hospital again, but this time, he was given more responsibility. As high school graduation neared, Dr. Plum was kind enough to write letters of recommendation for college. Much to our delight, Robbie was accepted at Brown University.

He worked at the hospital for a third summer and gradually developed a love of the medical profession. As college graduation approached, Robbie applied to medical school,and Dr. Plum again wrote letters attesting to his ability and character.

Robbie was admitted to New York Medical College and, after getting his medical degree, did a four-year residency specializing in obstetrics and gynecology.

Dr. Robert Stern, the son of a taxicab driver, became OB-GYN chief resident at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center.

Some might call it fate, and I guess it was. But it shows you that big opportunities can come out of ordinary encounters-even something as ordinary as a taxi ride.