The cab day began at 4:45 a.m. as usual. It was the once-a-month day when I picked up my one personal whom I call The Methadone Man. I take him to and from the clinic during the first part of the five o'clock hour. On this day, he had shirts for me. They were big and long, but not big enough for his gut. He'd given me one the month before and said he had more if I wanted them. I took them. These gifts aren't normal, but I've been driving this guy for years.

As we drove to the clinic, the dispatcher told everyone he had a ride to Roswell that he was going to give out at 5:20. The Methadone Man asked if I wanted that ride. I said sure, but I never get excited about rides I have a low probability of getting. While he was in the clinic, as if on cue, the dispatcher called my number. "85?" I was in cab 285 that day. "85," I answered. "Do you want a pick up in Roswell?" I didn't think twice. "Sure," I said. "Call in and get the information," dispatch responded

My Methadone Man had to stick around and talk to his counselor (which happened every now and again), so I told him I got the Roswell ride and told him to call in for another cab. I didn't charge him for the fare. I'll see him again next month.

It turns out I was to pick up a UPS Flight Crew at the Roswell International Airport at 9:15 a.m. I didn't even know Roswell had an airport. Nevertheless, I cruised 60 miles east on I-40 from Albuquerque to Clines Corners. I veered off on U.S. 285 for 140 miles to the southeast all the way to Roswell. It's a nice split four lane road with nothing but rural terrain. I cruised through the practically dead town of Encino and stopped at the Allsups for coffee in the slightly more lively town of Vaughn. That's about it. The rest is road.

200 miles to Roswell, and I was in town by 8:30 a.m. These days, Roswell is pretty much famous for Aliens. Demi Moore grew up there, but that was a while ago. I cruised down Main Street, and the downtown strip had three blocks dedicated to Aliens. There's the Alien Museum & Research Center and some novelty shops, your basic small town tourist attractions. Back in the 50s, it was rumored that aliens landed near Roswell and were brought to Area 51. The government claimed it was a weather balloon, but the files have never been released, allowing sci-fi folks and conspiracy theorists to run wild with conjecture.

I got to the airport on the far side, and by 9 a.m. I located the right building with a little local assistance (you'd be surprised how many people don't know their own small town). I met with Charlie, the UPS representative, and he said nonchalantly "Yep, they haven't taken off yet."

"What?"

It turns out the UPS plane had a fuel issue and was still in Ontario, but the good news was that they got it fixed and would be taking off shortly. The flight took two hours. I called back to Albuquerque and told them the situation. They said I could charge waiting time to the bill (which UPS was picking up). Waiting time is $27 an hour. Long story short, I waited three hours.

The reason the plane was going to rural Roswell was that the airport also functioned as an airplane graveyard. This UPS plane was going for its last ride. It would be scrapped and discarded. There were dozens of planes like that there. Incidentally, the airport was also the old air force base where Area 51 used to be. Hmmmm, what do aliens want with old planes?

I finally got back on the road at 12:15 p.m. to take three UPS pilots to Albuquerque. The pilots took a two-hour flight, so they could then take a three-hour cab ride. A long tedious day for them, but they took it in stride. We cruised through the rural area again. There really isn't much to talk about between Roswell and Albuquerque. Nothing but land. The Trinity Site, where the first Atomic bomb was tested, was nearby, but you can only look at it twice a year. So we cruised to the big city in relative silence.

Roswell reminds me a lot of my old hometown of Clovis. Small Town America. Basic living. Not much going on one way or another. You'd be surprised how many people like living in these quiet little towns. I read the Roswell paper. Local sports seemed just as important as the national election or local politics. Housing is cheap, and the jobs are simple. No one complained about much. Someone stole dogs from the local animal shelter. That was the big story.

Strangely, no one that I met was staying in Roswell. Charlie was headed back to his home in San Antonio to watch the Spurs and Mavs play, the pilots were off to more destinations, and I came back to Albuquerque and worked in town for another hour in the cab. The ride to Roswell was $285 plus $81 waiting time. Take out lease and gas I owed (about $160), and I still came out with a pretty good day. Thanks, UPS.

I know Roswell is only 200 miles away, but it seems like another world to me. It's rural America, and really, the aliens got a hold of that place a long time before I showed up.

Chris Jungle can take fares anywhere in New Mexico and nowhere out of it.