With more than 15 months of being a day cabbie in Albuquerque under my belt, there was one major challenge I had yet to embrace: New Year's Eve night. The cab folks allowed day drivers the opportunity to switch their shift to work the biggest cab night of the year. I decided it was time to officially shed my rookie status and dive into the New Year in a big yellow Crown Victoria. I even lived to tell about it.

Armed with a liter of Mountain Dew and a map of the city, I went to work at a quarter to five in the afternoon. I lined up with all the night drivers that I usually saw at the end of my shift. I had switched sides. They are an odd bunch, those night drivers, but you really have to be to deal with the dark nights in the desert. They teased one driver who picked up a guy last New Year's Eve who wanted to go to Farmington (a three-plus hour drive away). He got stuck in a snow storm and didn't make it back until well into the next morning. We chuckled and announced that we would do no long distance rides tonight.

The first few hours were disappointing. With extra cabs on the road, it was difficult to get the dispatcher's attention. There were not enough rides to go around, so we desperately bid on the calls that came across the board. I did what I could and got by. There was the drunk guy who used to drive a cab and hated the dispatcher. A six-buck ride and he tipped me with a pinch of freshly-pinched home grown marijuana (that was a first!). There was the guy at the fairgrounds casino who had blown his wad too early. He stopped to buy lottery tickets and talked dreamily about winning and meeting the Hilton sisters. Rides here and there, but nothing beyond the ordinary.

Around nine o' clock, the tempo picked up. People started going to their New Year's destinations. Downtown, the new NE Heights four-club complex Graham Central, and Midnight Rodeo. Everyone was calm, polite, and nervous about whether they would have a good time or not. As the cool-headed cabbie, I chit-chatted about surviving another year, but the passengers were not that talkative. Among others, there was a quiet stripper, a guy who grew up in Jal (close to my youthful hometown), a couple girls who couldn't get any of their other friends to party with them, a gaggle of dudes who couldn't say a decent joke between them, an old drunk black lady who cringed when she discovered her husband was at home when we arrived, and a young drunk Indian lady who wanted to be told she was pretty. She asked for a cheek kiss when the ride was over and I obliged (my only smooch of the evening).

As midnight approached, I found myself going to a call on South Broadway and feeling underwhelmed about the night thus far. I was up eighty bucks (plus $100 set aside for my cab lease), but the night equated to a normal cab day. No glorious tales, not too many interesting rides, just folks trying to do something with their New Year's night. As I stopped on Cromwell, a kid of about nineteen hopped into the cab as fireworks and gun shots went off. Happy Freakin' New Year. The kid wanted to go to 6000 Gomez, and I checked the map. That address did not exist. He called the party, and they told him it was already breaking up and not to bother. He sat in the cab with nowhere to go. Me too, buddy. Me too. He asked if I smoked bud, and I said yeah but not tonight. Then, it dawned on me. I hadn't enjoying this evening, this kid had no plans, and there were no calls on the board. Light it up, kid. We split a joint while gun shots went off around us. 2003, we hardly knew ye.

The kid went back to his house, and I motored away. I cracked open my Mountain Dew liter and began life on the other side of the New Year. All the sober rides were gone. I was mildly stoned, the passengers were drunk, and suddenly everything was in sync. There were flags all over downtown. I cruised up Central and three folks hopped in wanting to go home to the West Side. Drunk Spaniards (not Hispanics, bro) who had gotten kicked out of the bar. They rattled off stories of drunken belligerence, and I smiled and spoke calmly. At the end of the forty buck ride, the loudest guy kept throwing one dollar bills in the passenger seat. I told the dispatcher I was on the West Side, and he told me there was a call in Ventana Ranch (never heard of it). It's a subdivision on the very Northwest end of town. A drunk yuppie couple going home from a private party. Nice friendly folk. A thirty-buck ride later, and I was at Midnight Rodeo picking up six (count 'em, six) drunk early twenties Hispanic kids. Underdressed for the cold and full of drama, they wanted to go cross-town to the South Valley. They went on about fights they should have gotten in, what to do next, and jabber jabber jabber. Again, the cool cabbie spoke calmly to counteract their drunken boasting. Thirty bucks ride, kids. You made it back home.

After that, the night took on a surreal quality. The later it got into the night, the more desperate the public was about wanting to get home. Everyone was appreciative. The old blind couple guessed my age correct from my voice (almost thirty). The lone almost-broke partier on Central wanting to go up to San Mateo and Osuna. I gave him a twenty buck deal. The guy who opened the door at forty miles an hour to puke (not a drop in the cab). The obnoxious house partiers who spoke loudly of eight balls and Jack Daniels. All the way to the couple at 4:30 a.m. who had been ditched by another cab because they weren't quick enough. 250 miles and 12 hours after I began, I finished the rest of my Mountain Dew, gassed up the cab, and cruised back to the yard at a quarter to five in the morning. Tipped four bucks to the mechanic, three bucks to the cashier, and four bucks to the phone operators. Time for the lone cool cabbie to go home.

Throw the money on the bed and count it up. $300, almost on the nose. That beat my best day shift ever by twenty bucks. Rent will be paid, folks. The night was not full of fantasy, but it will have to do for a New Year's adventure. If a better option does not present itself next year, I just might do it again. So Happy Freakin' New Year, folks. It's 2004, and for now, I will say no more.

Chris Jungle usually takes to the streets from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.