"My name is Bill," he told me right before I exited from the cab we had been sharing for the past thirty minutes.
An hour before, while waiting for a cab outside Georgetown Hospital in the torrential rains of the evening rush hour, we empathized with our inability to catch a cab.
Then, suddenly, this six-foot-two stranger leaped forward and said with assurance, "I see a cab: I am going to run after it. Follow me!"
The race was on. I deliberately placed my feet beyond the puddles in order to keep up with his long strides and purposeful gait, but still he disappeared among the multitude of hand-held umbrellas dotting the flooding streets.
"Oh, well," I thought. "He had a train to catch. It’s okay. I’ll just keep singing in the rain until another cab appears. He meant well. Intention is almost everything!"
I clutched my pink polka dot umbrella in both hands, so the winds wouldn’t turn it over, and I patiently walked towards the main street where my hopes for finding a cab soared.
I heard a honk. I turned to see a man waving from the far side of the cab. I moved involuntarily towards him.
"Come on in! We have been looking for you and your pink polka dot umbrella. It wasn’t easy to spot in the darkness of the night."
I slid into the dry, warm front seat next to the cab driver and expressed my simple gratitude, "Thank you so much."
His name was Bill, but to me, he was goodness on a rainy day in the nation’s capital.