Far to the west, the Sun set in a violet and crimson explosion hours ago. Sitting behind the wheel of my dilapidated Checker Cab, I am waiting for a potential fare to exit the Trailways Bus Depot. Though it was 3 O’clock in the afternoon when I first hopped into my cumbersome, old Checker at the garage, it was still a stifling hot day. Another day of 90* plus temperature; the air hovered close to that mark though it was nearing ten o’clock at night. Inside the cab, the air was oppressive.

 My disposition is anything but mellow; I’m feeling abandoned while trying to read my tattered paperback by the glare of the sodium lights that hang like a giant pterodactyl against the black sky outside the front windshield. The adjoining depot glows in the distance with a garish, pale light. The paperback perches precariously on the dashboard, as I attempt to read it by the dim light.

            It is an account of The Hillside Strangler Case given me by Weird Willy, one of our regular drivers; a strange one to say the least. Willy keeps an arsenal hid underneath the front seat of his cab that would turn green the heart of any mercenary. He is the type of person who you can’t determine if it is better to avoid or keep in your sites. Willy, undoubtedly, will grab headlines some day as he fires volley after volley upon a crowd from a high tower. Why the Authorities haven’t gotten wind of his strange behavior is beyond understanding. They’re probably too busy chasing Pot Smokers….Oh, Well!

           Turning the tattered page while simultaneously peering into the recesses of the depot, secretly, I hope no one will be there frantically waving for help in carrying 8 or more large pieces of luggage for transport to a residence three blocks up the street. Moreover, I am becoming extremely impatient for a call. In this game, if your wheels aren’t turning, you aren’t making money. “Another hot night in the Big City,” I speak to the paperback on the dash, as I turn a faded page.

            Suddenly, the lurid air titters from static screeching from the radio. The velvety rhythm of the night dispatcher, Janet’s, silvery voice, interrupts the clamor. “Number 52… Number 52, where are you?” Janet swoons into the night airwaves.

            Over eager, I reach for the mic and key on: “52 to dispatch… I’m right here where you left me beautiful. All alone and feeling neglected.”  I tease….She teases. It’s her favorite game. She has a crush on me, I suppose. All the male fares that ride with Yellow Cab in this city have a crush on her. It’s her voice. It drips with sensuality and she knows it. The second her voice disrupts the cackle of the radio, the fare will inevitably edge up on the billowy back seat, smile and ask: “Who’s the angel on the radio, Driver?”

            I usually chuckle to myself while casually describing the woman behind the voice as the epitome of every man’s wet dreams. Inwardly titillated, I offhandedly ignore their further pleas for more information about Janet. If only they knew. I admit, I fantasize her myself as the ultimate, statuesque blonde with ample breasts and endlessly long legs and clear, jade eyes, I describe. Hell, who needs reality on this job?

            “52, I have something for you,” Janet’s sultry twang rises above the static. “You want to know what it is?”

             “What ever could it be?” I pretend.

            “A police call in your area 52. Please take it for me won’t you,” She swoons once again. “I’ll reward you later, handsome. Please 52… Say you will.”

            “Anything for you, Foxy Lady.”

            “See the PD at the Hilltop Café out on Nine Mile Hill, Number 52,” Janet’s voice becomes all business. “Call me when you pick up, please.”

            “Will do,” I key off.

            Starting the engine, I listen to it roar to life, sputter and whine into the still night. Glancing furtively toward the bus entrance out of habit even though I have a call, I spin the heavy steering wheel and lurch out of the marked off taxi stand. Changing gears rapidly, the old Checker speeds down the pavement to the one-way street heading west. I settle into the rumbling ride.

            Janet is actually somewhat pretty, I guess. She is a bit big-boned though. A formidable character, she has to be tough in order to handle the myriad of insistent personalities of both customers and drivers on the night shift. I find it best to get along with Janet otherwise I might find myself in a holding pattern in the worst part of town. And that could mean starvation. Driving Cab is highly competitive and a driver won’t last very long if he doesn’t catch on to the hustle and bustle. I prefer flirting to sitting all night at the bus depot.

 Hot air rushing through the open window massages my face, as I light a Marlboro and fly through the row of synchronized signals on Lead Avenue. The rambling Checker becomes a soaring eagle gliding on the wind, as I breeze through the Park Plaza area and round the bend leading to Tingley Drive. There is something magical about these old Checker cabs. Whether you are driving or riding in the spacious back, you just aren’t in a taxi unless it is one of these enormous, yellow machines. Nostalgia, I suppose; images come to mind of old, black and white movies, wide, wet, tall building lined streets, top hats and jazz clubs blending in a romantic scenario the minute you enter the roomy back. The back seat lends a certain distance from the driver together with an air of mystery and elegance akin to a chauffeur driven limousine. 

            Nine Mile Hill is on old Route 66 leading west as it rises 9 miles from the valley floor to the cresting mesa overlooking the lights of the city. The Hilltop Café is one of the last roadside, truck stop eateries around that hasn’t gone the way of the commercial, super truck stop. It perches on a high ridge, the promise of the westerly road stretching invitingly behind her to the horizon. I can’t help wondering what it held in store for me on this sweltering night.

            Cutting through a residential area, I turn north on Tingley Drive to catch old 66, Central Avenue, heading further west. The pungent odor of exotic animals drenches the breeze wafting from the zoo, as I approach the small lake park, Tingley Beach. Shimmering in the moonlight just east of the mighty Rio Grande, in an earlier time, the beach was the center of social life in Albuquerque. A swimming beach then, now it is a quiet, sunny fishing spot perfect for picnics after a day at the zoo with the young ones. As I skim by, the surface of the water appears placid but for the shallow ripples flowing outwardly from underneath the ducks that frequent the cool water.  

            Rumbling up to the stop sign approaching the Central Avenue intersection, I see it is busy. Being a Saturday night, the Low-Riders are out in force. I wait my chance in traffic and make a swooping left into the crawl of cruisers on their lazy journey over the west side bridge.

            As I pull even to a low slung, brilliantly painted ’57 Chevy, I glimpse at the dark eyes and high hair-do’s of its occupants. Four lovely Chicanas sit slumped low beside the large windows; their flirty dark glances inviting the night. They fawn oblivious to the beeping and hooting of the young Chicanos in their customized cars trying vainly to attract their attention. Those smug eyes mirror the knowledge they are the draw of this particular sport and not the custom cars as it appears to outsiders.

            Getting a second wind, as I pass over the worn Central Avenue Bridge that spans this section of the legendary Rio Grande River, the bosque del rio, a wooded marsh that forms the banks of the grand river, lies to the sides. Ancient, snarled cottonwood trees blot the western sky momentarily from view, as my cab clutches the pavement and wheels effortlessly over the murky river. Over the side rails, moonlight reflects like glitter off the darker ribbons of water trailing lazily over the muddy bottom.

       During the late summer months, the river tends to dry up considerably, as it trickles to meet the Mexican border four hundred miles or so to the south. Not many people realize the Rio Grande is the second most irrigation tapped river in the world. It is the lifeblood of this region and possesses the undying spirit of this part of the west. “And rightly so,” I am thinking as I meet the traffic merging from the north and south valleys battling to get onto the bridge from the west side.