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Some Multnomah students do have a night life!

Change is good. Especially when $5-$15 worth clatters to the ground from a jammed parking meter. Needy people stoop to gather their find and then continue their pilgrimage behind parking meter collection workers such as Ryan Potter, a freshman at Multnomah Bible College.

On a normal shift, Potter works from about 2:30 a.m. to 8 a.m. on the abandoned streets of downtown Portland. While most of the city sleeps, he moves from one parking meter to the next and empties them of their silver treasure. Potter is one of about eight "meter pigs" from MBC. He explained the term: "Someone found a sticker on a meter, like 10 years ago," he said.

"The sticker said, 'Meter pigs eat their young.' It was the name of a band or something." The name stuck, Potter said, and now anyone with this job is affectionately referred to as a meter pig. Shawn McAniff, a junior at MBC, said that the entire meter pig crew is comprised of Multnomah students and alumni. He said Oregon Armored Services has a long history of hiring MBC students because of their character and reputation.

On this night, the three meter pigs working the shift ride together to Oregon Armored Services, which is located in Northeast Portland, about 10 minutes from downtown. Oregon Armored Services is known as "the base" among the meter pigs. Upon arriving at this large, gray, unmarked building, they leave their car in the parking lot and go inside to get the truck they will drive downtown. "It's a nervous place," said Sonny Varela, a speech communications major. Because of the amount of money stored there, security is an important issue. Meter pigs do not carry guns, but other people who work inside the base do.

After seven to 10 minutes, a garage door near the end of the building slowly raises and McAniff drives the truck out. Potter said that the vehicle, a white, boxy, Chevy Stepvan, looks like a big ice cream truck. The inside of the truck is primitive. McAniff sits in the driver's seat, slightly hunched over the round, schoolbus-like steering wheel. The three meter pigs have just enough room to fit. Square metal cans, 1.5 feet by 1 foot by 3 feet, fill the back half of the truck. Fluorescent vests hang along the sides. The trench between the driver and passenger seats is a breeding ground for miscellaneous belongings.

A large Gatorade container, a black Oregon Armored Services hat, a sandwich, and an empty Blue Diamond almonds container surround a New American Standard Bible. "That's the neat thing about this job," McAniff said. "We're all Christians. There is a dynamic of a work ethic, fellowship and teamwork. We can share our thoughts and feelings of the things we see in the city."

McAniff said the city has many different faces. The day shows one face, the evening another. When you go downtown at 3 a.m., McAniff said, you really see what the city is about. "We go downtown and we walk by homeless people sleeping or talking. We walk by drug dealers. We walk by city kids. We walk by the guys and gals that work at night," he said.

McAniff parks the truck next to a Texaco gas station and the three meter pigs step into the wind and rain. Varela opens the back doors and unloads three cans onto small, gray handtrucks. Potter, Varela and McAniff discuss the routes each will take and distribute the necessary keys. In moments, each is on his way.

Pushing the handtruck, Varela jogs to the first parking meter on his route. He is dressed in black warm-up pants, tennis shoes, a black shirt with the letters OAS printed in white on the back, a blue jacket labeled the same way and a black beret. Potter said each meter pig has his own outfit. Potter wears long underwear, jeans, a T-shirt and a long-sleeved shirt. He said that the weather is usually bad; the first hour out on the street is freezing. The job is physical, so he avoids dressing too warmly.

A long chain is attached to Varela's pants. Three keys dangle on the end. Varela stops abruptly at the first parking meter on his route. He inserts one key into a small hole on the side of the meter that faces the sidewalk. A round metal door flips back at a 45-degree angle and Varela grabs the small cylindrical canister inside.

Varela inserts the canister into a slanted slot on the top of his can. He manually turns the canister, and a pin from the bottom of the slot causes the change to fall into the can. Varela can tell how much any given parking space is used by the weight of the canister and the sound of the coins as they drop into the can. He never sees the money. If a meter is jammed, several coins may fall to the ground, but the meter pigs leave the money there. After a few seconds, the canister is empty. Varela returns it to the parking meter and closes the flap. He grabs the handle on the handtruck, pushes the can to the next parking meter, and repeats the process.

At the end of the block, Varela consults a map of his route. Potter said each meter pig completes approximately 10 routes a night. Those with more experience have many routes memorized. Potter added that each meter pig walks 10-13 miles a night. He said that when he first began working as a meter pig, he would wake up the next day with cramped legs and sore muscles. Potter has had this job since October, so "it doesn't even phase me anymore," he said.

A beginner, Varela noted the things that can go wrong. He said he fights with jammed parking meters and jammed cans. He has to familiarize himself with the many routes. He faces the ghetto neighborhood.

The time of night, the location, the potential for problems and the physical strain of the job all contribute to a rush that Varela feels every time he works. He said that at the beginning of the night, he feels like a small child playing outside at sundown. The sweat is sliding down the side of the child's face, and his mom calls for him to come inside. Varela smiled and said, "Now I get to stay out."

McAniff, Potter and Varela agreed that being a meter pig is not really dangerous. Varela rated the danger as six on a scale of one to 10. "Occasionally, people will joke with us," McAniff said. "But I've never once felt threatened, like I needed to carry a gun or something. "It does make you pray, though. It tests your faith that God is present everywhere you go," he said.

As Varela runs from one parking meter to the next, he said he listens to music through a walkman, prays for school and people back home, and thinks about the Bible. With every canister that deposits change, Varela's can gets heavier and heavier. By the end of the route, he said the can weighs about 100 pounds.

No women are on the meter pig team right now. Potter recalled a woman who was hired recently but quit. He attributed that to the physical demands of the job. He said that meter pigs do not use just their legs to run from one meter to the next. They push the cans every step of the way, and at the end of each route they lift the cans and push them into the back of the truck.

On this night, rainwater flows continually down the gutters. The drizzle soaks Varela's beret. The wind rolls a garbage can down the middle of the street and flyers flap frequently. Otherwise, silence pervades. If someone drives by, it is usually a bored taxi driver. Pigeons quietly roost along cold ledges and homeless people tuck themselves into alcoves and overhangs.

One night, five teen-agers huddled together at the entrance to the Guild Theatre. One boy called out to Clay Briggs, a freshman at Multnomah, "How can you run like that?"

"When you get paid, it helps," Briggs replied. Varela said he once saw an entire family asleep under an overhang. A woman, a man, and two cute little girls were snuggled together, fast asleep.

Potter said he has seen some strange people and events as a meter pig. He has witnessed drug transactions and was once asked if he had any marijuana. He said sometimes police cars take corners really fast or stop in the middle of the street and back up with great speed--all for no apparent reason. "I swear the cops practice their driving at night," he said.

On one occasion, Potter had just walked across the street. He was listening to a walkman and had his head down, but the walking light was green. Moments after he stepped onto the curb, two vehicles sped through the red light at 65-70 mph. Had they been any sooner or had he been any later, "I would've been dead," he said.

McAniff said God uses the job to give him an awareness and to cultivate his heart for the people of the city. He said he sees the people who do not sleep, and that causes him to appreciate what he has. Though interaction with the public tends to be unpredictable on this job, Potter said meter pigs hear one particular phrase quite often. People think they are funny, he said. They ask if he has any spare change. As everyone knows, change is good.