Dusty’s Sad Passage Hits Home For Us

His name was Dusty. Off and on for nearly 10 years he appeared at different doorsteps of my life to take me home. He did the same for many people in this community. That was his job. He was a gentleman cabbie who took his final run in March. He was murdered by his last passenger.

I first met Dusty when I worked at the old St. Regis Cafe, now Luigi’s, on Bernard. The job was a break between the end of college and the beginning of what I then thought of as my real life.

Between loan payments and rent I had just about enough money left over each month to buy Spaghetti-O-s and remaindered books. There was no car in my budget. I biked, bused or walked everywhere.

One evening, after the late-night rush from the Opera House had cleared out, I went outside the restaurant to find my bike had two flat tires. The last bus had already left Riverside. I could bum a ride from the bartender if I wanted to stay until 2. I counted up my tips and decided to splurge on a cab.

The driver arrived almost immediately. He said his name was Dusty, that all his friends called him that and so could I. He was a big man, a natural storyteller. His voice was slightly scratchy, as if all his years of storytelling had left him hoarse. I gave him my address in the West Central neighborhood, and we started out.

That night we talked about food and science fiction. At the trip’s end he told me he would wait until I got inside the house before he left. He wanted to make sure I was safe. I waved from the window, the signal that all was well. He flashed his lights and drove away.

Over the next few years I had the privilege of riding with Dusty numerous times - a trip to the hospital, a late-night run to the airport, another flat tire. Each time he offered the same easy talk and reassuring presence. On the rare occasions that he got lost or mistakenly took a longer route, he would deduct a little off the fare. He apparently made the some offer to his killer only moments before being shot in the head.

I asked him once if he ever got scared out there, driving around in the dark picking up strangers with unknown intentions. He said no, that most people just wanted to get to where they were going. He admitted to having had some scary moments, but they were only moments. He had lived to tell.

I didn’t know any of the particulars of his day-to-day life - who he loved, what he thought about at four in the morning, how he like his coffee. We were not friends, really. We were people whose lives touched only peripherally. The way all of our lives touch each day. Eventually, I retired my bike to the weekend and got a car. Dusty faded from my life.

Yet, when I saw his face flashed on the late-night news, a murder victim, I felt I had lost a piece of goodness. Another piece broken from the heart of this big small town. A place growing fast enough to consider last month’s murder as yesterday’s news. But it isn’t. It’s today’s loss and tomorrow’s sorrow. Only the names and the places will change.

The accused killers are young men. Someone’s children, maybe even someone’s hope. Somewhere they took a turn, long before they took a cab. And that terrible turn led further into darkness. Dusty, who worked the night shift, met them there.

But before that last run into the night, there were many others. Passengers of every age and description, each with a personal story to tell, each with a different destination. Dusty Hutsell got all of them home safely.

He listened to their stories, he shared his own.

He did his part to make the passage good.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman-Review