清晨的空氣仍帶著些許潮濕，街角的燈號閃爍不定。老陳雙手輕握著方向盤，不像是在等特定人，更像是在等待一種看不見的頻率。

他知道，今天的乘客不會多，真正會上這輛車的人，必須在心裡準備好一段不尋常的旅程。

路人瞥見車身上的字樣，有人皺眉，有人好奇，也有人只是匆匆走過。老陳不急，他明白，這不是一輛隨招即停的車，而是一趟必須用直覺兌換車票的旅程。

有人上車，是因為聽見了自己的身體在呼喚；有人離開，是因為尚未準備好聆聽那聲呼喚。

這輛車內裝整潔，撥放著老陳喜歡的音樂，只是不提供食物，會有一群人願意持續搭乘，把自己交給一次陌生而深刻的經驗。

老陳稱自己是「叫客司機」，因為他知道，這不是攬客，而是在等緣分。

 

我不常搭計程車，只有在特定場合才會走進等候隊伍，像是松山機場、南港高鐵站之類的地方。那樣的搭車方式不同於路邊攔車：無法挑車，更不能挑司機。

說到「挑車」，得先多費幾句。如今台北街頭，仍有極度老舊的小黃，那些車多半由白髮蒼蒼的司機駕駛，對智慧型手機的操作還不甚熟稔。對他們而言，無線電才是計程車的靈魂，否則就像過去那個滿街空車繞行的年代。

想想看，一座大城市滿街都是空跑的小黃，真是資源浪費的寫照。

回顧我近二十年的跑車生涯，偶爾會遇上一位願意共乘的乘客，偶爾是兩位，但大部分時間，空車的比例仍高得驚人。乘客不會嫌我的車老，也不會嫌我年紀大；只要聽到「車內禁食」，往往退後三步。

太太看我辛苦卻收入有限，常勸我換工作。我總笑說：「再撐幾年，我就換大車，載更多人。」

 

台北是一座通勤人口龐大的城市，尤其是來自基隆的上班族。忠孝東路與逸仙路口，曾是知名的計程車乘車點，許多基隆人在此集合，等人數齊備後再一起回家。

我發現，基隆的鄉親在台北生活的人數眾多，我也認識不少從小在基隆長大的台北人，他們熟知每一個回鄉的搭車據點。

至於「計程車叫客」這種事，或許在都市已成往事，但我猜，在鄉下的街角，仍留有司機吆喝的文化。

我這些年的工作，像極了叫客司機，只是不靠喉嚨，而是靠車身上那幾個字：「初斷食」。

幸好有了網路，這部車的名聲與口碑漸漸傳開。網路叫車的乘客越來越多，民間聽過「初斷食」的比例逐漸升高。

我保留了那部老爺車，又添購一輛可容納更多人的大車，把車身的字樣換成「長斷食」，定時、定點開車。買票上車的人越來越多，我終於不必再日曬雨淋的在街頭等客。

我依舊偶爾跑車，但最期待的，是每年兩階段的三週長旅。我們的隊伍從三年前的十來人，倍數成長，今年秋天正式突破五十人，浩浩蕩蕩前行。

 

為何自稱「叫客司機」？因為乘客會挑車，而多數人並不願意上這輛車，司機與乘客之間，需要一種奇特的緣分。

上車的人，多半認真考量過餘生的生命品質，憑著愛自己的初心，以及對直覺的敏銳，才坐上這趟旅程。

有位名叫元元的乘客寫下感言：「2023年初，我帶著滿身病痛，第一次走進自律養生教室。老師抬起頭迎接我，那一瞬間，全身像是接收到訊號：『對了！』回想起來，那是我第一次聽懂身體在對我說話。」

我的叫客方式，其實是憑藉著人與人之間的頻率共振。乘客追求的，不是浪漫的邂逅，而是遠離病痛的希望。

就像我搭 Uber 時，第一眼看到司機的神情，直覺便能判斷這趟路上是否適合交談、頻率是否契合。

大多數人不知道的是，司機老陳也會挑乘客，態度高傲的，會被請下車；不守時的，也會被提醒尊重他人時間。

 

鏡頭回到那輛「長斷食」專車：年紀最輕的乘客二十出頭，最年長的七十多歲，全車的唯一共識是，盡可能降低身體的汙染程度。

對一般人來說，三週不進食簡直不可思議，但車上的每一位乘客都經過基礎訓練，讓身體主導平衡的意願強烈而清晰。

一路上，除了欣賞風景，大家唯一做的，就是彼此鼓勵。我常想著，他們當初是以何種契機踏上這趟旅程，有人與自己的意志力纏鬥許久，有人則在短短時間內立下「捨我其誰」的決心。

我們為每位乘客在座椅上刻下名字，期許每一次啟程，都能再見他們堅定的背影。

這是一趟融合了機會、責任、榮耀與超能力的旅程。在台灣，甚至在世界的範圍內，這群人的聚集都具備足以載入史冊的實力。

未來，乘客只會更多；而叫客司機老陳的原則永遠不變：頻率對不上，就不勉強上車。

 

（有時候，搭上長程回家旅程的感覺真好。）

 

The Passenger-Calling Driver, Old Chen

Prologue

The morning air still carried a trace of dampness, and the traffic light at the street corner flickered uncertainly. Old Chen rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel, as if not waiting for a particular person, but for an unseen frequency.
He knew there wouldn’t be many passengers today. Those who would board this car had to be ready, in their hearts, for an unusual journey.

Passersby glanced at the lettering on the side of his car—some frowned, some were curious, and some simply hurried past. Old Chen wasn’t in a rush. He knew this wasn’t a taxi you could flag down on a whim; it was a ride you could only board by trading a ticket for intuition.
Some got in because they heard their bodies calling to them; some walked away because they weren’t yet ready to listen.

Inside, the car was clean, playing the music Old Chen liked, but there was no food service. Still, there were always those willing to keep riding, surrendering themselves to a strange and profound experience.
Old Chen called himself a “passenger-calling driver,” because, to him, this wasn’t about soliciting business—it was about waiting for fate.
—

Main Story

I don’t often take taxis, only joining the queue at certain places—like Songshan Airport or Nangang High-Speed Rail Station. This way of getting a ride is different from hailing on the street: you can’t choose your car, and you certainly can’t choose your driver.

Speaking of “choosing a car,” let me explain. On Taipei’s streets today, there are still extremely old yellow cabs, usually driven by elderly men with white hair, some of whom are still unfamiliar with using smartphones. To them, a radio is the heart of the taxi—without it, it would be like the old days when empty cabs roamed the streets endlessly. Imagine a big city with streets full of empty yellow cabs—what a waste of resources.

Looking back on my nearly two decades behind the wheel, there were occasional passengers willing to share a ride, sometimes two, but most of the time the percentage of empty runs was shockingly high. Passengers didn’t mind my old car or my age, but as soon as they heard “no eating in the car,” they often stepped back three paces.
My wife, seeing how hard I worked for modest earnings, often urged me to change jobs. I would smile and say, “Just a few more years, and I’ll get a bigger car to carry more people.”

Taipei is a city with a massive commuting population, especially office workers from Keelung. The intersection of Zhongxiao East Road and Yixian Road was once a well-known taxi pickup spot where many Keelung residents would gather, and once the seats were filled, they’d head home together. I realized how many of my fellow townsfolk from Keelung were living in Taipei, and I met many Taipei residents who had grown up in Keelung—they knew every pickup point by heart.

As for “passenger-calling taxis,” perhaps it’s a thing of the past in cities, but I imagine that in rural towns, you can still find drivers calling out for passengers from the roadside. In recent years, my work has resembled that of a passenger-calling driver—except I don’t use my voice; I use the words painted on my car: “Beginner’s Fasting.”

Thankfully, the internet helped spread the reputation and word-of-mouth of this car. More and more passengers booked rides online, and the number of people who had heard of “Beginner’s Fasting” steadily grew. I kept my old car and bought a larger vehicle that could carry more passengers, changing the words on the side to “Long Fasting.” I drove on a fixed schedule and route, and more and more people bought tickets to get on board. Finally, I no longer had to stand by the roadside under the sun and rain, waiting for passengers.

I still occasionally drove regular fares, but what I looked forward to most were the two three-week journeys I led each year. Our group had grown from just over ten people three years ago to more than fifty this autumn, setting out together in a lively convoy.

Why call myself a “passenger-calling driver”? Because passengers choose their ride—and most don’t want to get on this one. Between driver and passenger, there must be a certain rare kind of connection.

Those who do get on board have usually given serious thought to the quality of their remaining years, boarding with a starting point of self-love and a sharp sensitivity to intuition. One passenger, Yuan Yuan, wrote this reflection:

> “In early 2023, burdened with illness, I walked into the Self-Discipline Health Classroom for the first time. When the teacher lifted his head to greet me, the moment our eyes met, my whole body seemed to send out a signal: This is it. Looking back, that was the first time I truly understood my body speaking to me.”

My way of calling passengers depends on the resonance between people. What my passengers seek is not romance, but the hope of escaping illness. It’s like when I take an Uber—at first glance, I can sense from the driver’s demeanor whether it’s a ride for conversation and whether our frequencies match.

What most people don’t realize is that Old Chen also chooses his passengers—those with arrogant attitudes are asked to leave, and those who are late are reminded to respect others’ time.

Now, back to the “Long Fasting” special bus: the youngest passenger is just over twenty, the oldest in their seventies, but everyone shares one commitment—to reduce the body’s level of pollution as much as possible.

For the average person, three weeks without food seems unthinkable. But every passenger on board has undergone basic training, with a strong and clear motivation to let the body take the lead in restoring balance.

Along the way, aside from enjoying the scenery, the only thing people do is encourage each other. I often think about how they came to board this journey—some wrestled with their willpower for a long time; others made the decision in a flash, declaring, “If not me, then who?”

We engrave each passenger’s name on their seat, hoping that with each new journey, we will see their determined figure again. This is a journey that combines opportunity, responsibility, honor, and superpower.

In Taiwan, and perhaps in the world, the gathering of such a group is a record-worthy event. In the future, the number of passengers will only grow—but Old Chen’s principle will never change: if the frequencies don’t match, there is no need to force anyone on board.