When I left my beloved filth infested shores of pre-Giuliani, pre-sanitized New York behind for this damp clime of promise, I knew I was going to Portland to live my dreams and try make a real difference in society. To wit, last year I successfully turned my alcoholism into a cottage industry, and this year I'm proud to say I've degenerated beyond my parents' wildest despairs and I have become a cab driver.

Since my folks have been waiting for me to "get back on track"and go to grad school ever since I finished college six years ago, I thought they'd be delighted to hear that I'd decided to continue my education. Unfortunately, Cabby College was not their first choice. Even when I described the rigorous five day course content, my mother was not any less displeased. I must say that I myself was rather disappointed to find that C.C.'s campus not only lacked ivy covered halls, but was in fact limited to a dingy snack room. But I was able to look beyond the lackluster facilities in eager anticipation of our astute instructor. And I was not to be disappointed. The room instantly hushed with respect when our mentor swept in. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lloyd Bridges (only bigger and more intimidating), he had a unique teaching style, which I can only ascribe to his years of service in the USMC. I think what I most admired about him was the way he sensitively dealt with the special needs of the English as a second language students. Whenever there was any question or confusion on their part, he immediately began to repeat himself at ever increasing volume until he was assured that every student was eager to progress to the next topic. I can honestly say that when I graduated I felt ready to leave the classroom behind and head out onto the mean streets of Portland as quickly as possible.

So now I'm a cabby. I work the weekends, crisscrossing PDX's toned and trim underbelly in pursuit of truth, justice and the airport to Wilsonville fare. I make a mediocre living off of shuttling prostitutes, partiers and the occasional politician around. For twelve hours a night, I'm companion to little old ladies, lonely punks, developmentally disabled drag queens, reformed bank robbers, and snotty corporate climbers, whether they like it or not. It's like being in a Bukowski book. With all the real life taxi-cab confessions, I feel like I'm vicariously living dozens of different lifestyles. In one night, I go from an all-man leather bar, to a Mormon high school dance, to a chi-chi gallery opening, to a couple of Eagles aeries and a few weddings. For someone like me, who always wants to know what's behind the door, it's great. I had no idea that being a cabby would allow me to indulge my inner party crasher to such satisfaction!

I have discovered that I have a bit of the voyeur in me. From the cab, I can stare at and watch just about anything with impunity. Sometimes I feel like an Ozium huffing hussy, shamelessly making eyes at the attractive boys I pass. But, hey, I'm just seeing if they need a ride.... Like a cop, I can park anywhere I damn well please, and I can get out to watch whatever I come across, from the burning of an apartment building in downtown to drag queen races in front of Satyricon. (I've taken to bringing a camera with the hope of perhaps one day being remembered as the Weegee of Portland.)

My passengers are usually pretty cool. Nine out of ten are in some state of intoxication, from the frothily pleasant to the slightly scary. But, bar room queen that I am, drunks are my people. I'm in my element, in and out of bars all night, performing the initial reconnaissance I need to maintain my position as avatar of alcohol, barfly supreme. (I'm preparing a new monograph on the bars of Portland.) Since my own liver is struggling to regenerate from the past days' exploits as I ferry the party animals around, I do not sit in judgment behind the wheel. I talk to everybody, and try to keep them entertained. I'm getting used to misplaced but enthusiastically given approbation and slurred praise from the happy drunks. "Whassh yer name? Yer sweet. Yer doing a GRREAT job! Whassh yer name? Ishint she great? What a nishe gurl..." Some I'm sorry to see go, others I'm just glad stayed calm. Not that I'm afraid, though! Beneath my benign facade, I'm a rough, tough New Yorker in Niceytown. Hell, everyone seems so concerned for my well-being, sometimes I feel like my grandparents are in the back seat. As a one of the few and the proud female cabbies in town, the ice breaker is always my fortunate choice of chromosomes. Touchingly, many people confess that "I'm their first." I hear words to the effect of "It's a girl!" so often that I feel like I should pass out pink cigars or something. Maybe it's the beer goggles, or else the back of my head is particularly alluring, but I get hit on at least ten times a night. With the exception of the retarded guy who hopefully thought I might be willing to prostitute myself for the evening, it's really been quite flattering. Apparently, I'm "the most attractive cab driver in Portland”. Since I know that wouldn't take too much, I'm trying not to let it go to my head.

With that happily egotistical remark, I must be off. But never fear! I'll be back with more reports from behind the wheel in Portland. And keep your eyes open: Remember, I could be picking you up or cutting you off at any time. Just look for the GIRL!