The Anecdotal Life Part. 89
So where was I? So much water over the dam, literally lately, and figuratively as well, that it is difficult to trace the thread sometimes back to the beginning of a new era. But in order to pay for the boat, I took the job. Census Taker for 2010 the Capital Newspaper said. I am part of what has become a cult following. The Capital is no five pounder like the Washington Post. In fact, it is rather slight. However, the news is all in there. Comprehensive brevity. They slipped a little on the Census Taker bit though. What we were to do actually was pave the way for the Census Takers to come in 2010. Our collective efforts were to ensure that every single individual in the U.S. , large or small, richer or poorer, whatever nook and cranny they hung out in, would be counted, and that each soul mattered. This was what I increasingly found to be so profoundly important, that they all mattered.
We had to take what looked like an IQ test first. I passed Summa Cum Lucky. We had to be inspected, fingerprinted, sworn in, and trained. Ah, that was so much fun. All training was done for auditory learners, ninety miles a minute, scrambling through manuals for eight hours straight. Yeee Gods. I did not prevail, but I survived.
Once we hit the streets with our little badges around our necks, our officious little sign on our cars, our brief cases loaded with the manuals and disclaimers as to the public's loss of privacy, it all got a little clearer, but no less difficult.
We walked. By God did we walk. On the first day I managed only an hour and a half before I had to take a break. By the time I ended the production segment of our duties weeks later, I was walking five and a half hours on Friday, six and a half hours on Saturday and on the last day, which was Sunday, I was out for eight and a half hours in order to complete our task. We were known as listers , production, enumerators. We checked numbers on houses, on fence posts, garages, mail boxes , doors, and hopefully one found them someplace. Eventually you wished they'd be anyplace, because when they weren't , it meant taking time out to interview the nearest soul who may or may not enlighten you. Curiously, this turned out to be the best route for so many puzzles. The older the individual the better, except in term of efficiency. I often thought what hell it must be for delivery people. That little act of defiance embedded in the refusal to post one's numbers on one's home.
Partial numbering was almost worse. Parts of numbers that had fallen or rotted away , disappearing with time, cost me a good hour one fine afternoon. I was driving on a country road where most of the drivers practiced for the Indy 500 knowing there wasn't a cop to be had for twenty miles when I saw what I thought to be the mailbox I was supposed to check. By now I had moved up to quality control and was checking on what the listers had entered in the gizmo ( hand held computer) we all carried. It became a natural or unnatural extension of the body after several weeks. On rainy days we placed plastic bags over it for protection and kept on going. For privacy's sake , let's say the number I was searching for was 4785. I was to correct or confirm the listers determination that the house "does not exist". On the mailbox was the number 47. Nothing more. I looked up over a good ranch type fence to an empty hill with pastures stretching out beyond for quite a distance. I was for those few moments in complete accord with previous lister, but with cars careening by me I had to back up the road next to the box in order to turn around and make a wild but well calculated left turn. As I backed up the hill I saw two stone pillars marking an entrance to the pasture. But aaarrgh, there on the pillar was the rest of the number hanging precariously off one stone-- 85. I groaned and knew I was in for it. I parked the car equally precariously, marched up the rise and through the pillars, looked out around the back of the hill now and could easily see for a mile at least... where way out , unseen from the road, was a long dusty road riddled with no trespassing notices , bad dog signs and potholes. There a dusty old house sat near the edge of a woods. I went back to get the car. No way was I going to even think about climbing out and stumbling up to that door... but I had to know. As I drove, no dog rose or dashed out to meet me. All the way up to the path to the door it was silent. I finally decided I would take the chance and get out. Gingerly I tiptoed up to the door and knocked. Nothing. I did hear a TV at the rear of the house. I tiptoed over yard debris and really pounded on the wall near the television set. After a minute the front door creaked open; a dusty old dude came blinking into the sunlight, arms wrapped around himself and looked somewhat astonished to see me. I thanked him kindly for coming out, said I was correcting addresses for the Census Bureau and was this 4785? "Yep, he said." " Do you think you could fix your numbers?" I asked smiling. He gave me an amiable look, but seemed puzzled about there being any problem. I told him I was going to put him on the map by entering his address in my computer and that was all I needed from him. So I stood and created the mapspot and he stood and watched from the doorway. As I drove away I wondered when was the last time he had actually spoken aloud to anybody. I left feeling satisfied with myself for having recovered a house. That became my favorite part of the job. Solving little mysteries and recovering houses supposedly no longer in existence and making certain those people living within would be counted.
We had to take what looked like an IQ test first. I passed Summa Cum Lucky. We had to be inspected, fingerprinted, sworn in, and trained. Ah, that was so much fun. All training was done for auditory learners, ninety miles a minute, scrambling through manuals for eight hours straight. Yeee Gods. I did not prevail, but I survived.
Once we hit the streets with our little badges around our necks, our officious little sign on our cars, our brief cases loaded with the manuals and disclaimers as to the public's loss of privacy, it all got a little clearer, but no less difficult.
We walked. By God did we walk. On the first day I managed only an hour and a half before I had to take a break. By the time I ended the production segment of our duties weeks later, I was walking five and a half hours on Friday, six and a half hours on Saturday and on the last day, which was Sunday, I was out for eight and a half hours in order to complete our task. We were known as listers , production, enumerators. We checked numbers on houses, on fence posts, garages, mail boxes , doors, and hopefully one found them someplace. Eventually you wished they'd be anyplace, because when they weren't , it meant taking time out to interview the nearest soul who may or may not enlighten you. Curiously, this turned out to be the best route for so many puzzles. The older the individual the better, except in term of efficiency. I often thought what hell it must be for delivery people. That little act of defiance embedded in the refusal to post one's numbers on one's home.
Partial numbering was almost worse. Parts of numbers that had fallen or rotted away , disappearing with time, cost me a good hour one fine afternoon. I was driving on a country road where most of the drivers practiced for the Indy 500 knowing there wasn't a cop to be had for twenty miles when I saw what I thought to be the mailbox I was supposed to check. By now I had moved up to quality control and was checking on what the listers had entered in the gizmo ( hand held computer) we all carried. It became a natural or unnatural extension of the body after several weeks. On rainy days we placed plastic bags over it for protection and kept on going. For privacy's sake , let's say the number I was searching for was 4785. I was to correct or confirm the listers determination that the house "does not exist". On the mailbox was the number 47. Nothing more. I looked up over a good ranch type fence to an empty hill with pastures stretching out beyond for quite a distance. I was for those few moments in complete accord with previous lister, but with cars careening by me I had to back up the road next to the box in order to turn around and make a wild but well calculated left turn. As I backed up the hill I saw two stone pillars marking an entrance to the pasture. But aaarrgh, there on the pillar was the rest of the number hanging precariously off one stone-- 85. I groaned and knew I was in for it. I parked the car equally precariously, marched up the rise and through the pillars, looked out around the back of the hill now and could easily see for a mile at least... where way out , unseen from the road, was a long dusty road riddled with no trespassing notices , bad dog signs and potholes. There a dusty old house sat near the edge of a woods. I went back to get the car. No way was I going to even think about climbing out and stumbling up to that door... but I had to know. As I drove, no dog rose or dashed out to meet me. All the way up to the path to the door it was silent. I finally decided I would take the chance and get out. Gingerly I tiptoed up to the door and knocked. Nothing. I did hear a TV at the rear of the house. I tiptoed over yard debris and really pounded on the wall near the television set. After a minute the front door creaked open; a dusty old dude came blinking into the sunlight, arms wrapped around himself and looked somewhat astonished to see me. I thanked him kindly for coming out, said I was correcting addresses for the Census Bureau and was this 4785? "Yep, he said." " Do you think you could fix your numbers?" I asked smiling. He gave me an amiable look, but seemed puzzled about there being any problem. I told him I was going to put him on the map by entering his address in my computer and that was all I needed from him. So I stood and created the mapspot and he stood and watched from the doorway. As I drove away I wondered when was the last time he had actually spoken aloud to anybody. I left feeling satisfied with myself for having recovered a house. That became my favorite part of the job. Solving little mysteries and recovering houses supposedly no longer in existence and making certain those people living within would be counted.
posted by The Anecdotal Life at 6:47 AM
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