He didn’t intend to write a book—at least not in the beginning. But as he shared the stories he learned, he was encouraged to write them down. And Yellow Cab (University of New Mexico Press; $18.95) is the wonderful, disturbing result.

Leonard’s portrayal of Albuquerque’s dark face and its nocturnal inhabitants is curious, even weird and yet at the same time brilliant and tender. “It [the cab] became a kind of yellow confessional, without the possibility of condemnation," he noted in a recent interview with the Des Moines Register. “People, in general, are unappreciated. No one says, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ We don’t ask each other that. But people want to talk about themselves. They don’t want to be in a cab, so they talk, knowing they are not likely to see you again.”

Yellow Cab is an unusual collection of colorful vignettes and realistic poems that show how sometimes the greatest teachers are those to whom the least attention is paid. In “A Gift from God,” he tells of waiting impatiently at a red light without a fare (“cabdriver purgatory”) when he sees a man, homeless, but with an elegance that belied his clothes, spot a half-cigarette in the crosswalk, still burning. “He approached the small pyre slowly,” Leonard writes, “and with great gentleness, almost as if he was dealing with a sacred object, he stopped, bent over, picked up the cigarette, the, straightening, brought it tenderly to his lips. He closed his eyes and took a puff … He sighed deeply, his eyes opened, and he turned them toward the heavens. And there, in the crosswalk at Tenth and Central, he silently mouthed these tender words to someone or something above us all—thank you.”

Some stories that are both alarming and touching. In “Volunteers,” we are sitting with Leonard as he and a new driver watch the post-bar rush, the final few stragglers going home—young women drunk, broke and alone. Men cruise the area almost, as he notes, like vultures seeking prey. One woman tries for his cab, but is refused unless she can produce money up front. When she can’t, he directs her to a hotel five blocks up where she can use a phone. They watch as a cop stops her to talk, but then allows her to continue her unsteady way toward the hotel. We know what will likely happen—if not to her, then to others—and Leonard’s own recognition and sadness at the probable outcome is powerfully rendered.

“Listen Up,” a particularly short piece, accentuates the reality of cab drivers’ lives when he tells of a message sent simultaneously to all the drivers from Butch, the dispatcher, about a phone call that had come in. “Some guy wanted to know if our drivers were armed, and if cabdrivers made very much money,” he writes of Butch’s message, “So watch your backs tonight, drivers.” There’s no fixed ending to this—could there really be?—but he manages a touch of humor in the final semi-joke about the shovels.

Poems, as I mentioned, act as regular interludes among the stories. They are rough, poignant, strong, opinionated. (It is not surprising, in my opinion, that Leonard is fond of Billy Collins’ poetry.) They are of the road. And they are potent. “Disney World” offers this harsh look at the truth of the night streets:

            Lovely little Maria,
            in her daring red beret,
            white cotton blouse,
            short denim skirt,
            and red vinyl heels.

            use her brown eyes,
            bright smile,
            long legs,
            and TV sitcom
            good looks and personality,

            to help raise money
            for her nephew Fernando’s
            school trip to Disney World.

            by lifting her skirt
            at Third and Central,

            for two bucks
            a peek.  

His frustration is rarely shown—he tends far more to understanding and sympathy—but in a single paragraph essay he has entitled “Lucky,” it comes roaring out in a worthy, albeit fiery, diatribe against “businessman husbands and boyfriends.” His tender side is shown in his portrayal of James, a regular  customer and self-described “oldest queer on the strip” who is leaving the town that no longer feels welcoming to him, and of Henrietta and Beth and Julie and Marvella, whores for whom he harbors a compassion for their lives and sorrows.

The Afterword is as fascinating to read as the rest of the book. While taking the job was a necessity, it also intrigued him as an anthropologist, so much so that, as he noted, “my life will never be the same … it [driving a cab] is fascinating, addicting, rewarding … I quickly found out that some very interesting things happen out there in the world that ‘normal’ people rarely see, and I have written about some of them here.”

Though Yellow Cab is set in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the people  and their stories  belong to every city. This is a remarkable volume with a unique writer’s voice, an empathic anthropologist’s heart and an amplified perspective. It is worth reading, and it is worth the disquietude it will almost certainly bring into your life.


Since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to almost anyone who will listen. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats and nearly 1,000 books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it