God and Country
by PHIL JONES
Okay, so I’m working the census this summer, and with all the poisonous paranoia being spewed by Rush Limbaugh and the geniuses on “Fox News,” I’m expecting most people to be hostile and uncooperative, possibly even violent, right? I locate my first address late on a Monday afternoon. My left leg is killing me. Some kind of nerve problem is shooting pain from my knee down to my ankle, and I’m walking with a pronounced limp as I get out of the car. There is a young woman sitting on the porch. As I hobble slowly up the driveway, wearing a pair of reading glasses on my 58-year-old nose, I call out, “Hi, how’s it going?” and she responds pleasantly. I explain who I am and why I am there, and she consents to the interview, and it goes smooth as glass, just like in training class. I couldn’t have asked for a better start to my new career (which will last about two months, give or take).
Down the street I see a young man pushing a baby in a stroller as I ring the bell on the next home on my list. Turns out it’s his house. He doubles back to talk to me, and we conduct his interview smoothly also. Things are going great! I arrive at another home just as the couple is backing their sports car out of the driveway. We agree I should come back in the evening, later in the week. Although things are going well, my leg is just killing me, so I call it a day after only about an hour in the field.
The next morning is my first morning in the field. My boss has assured me I will be wasting my time, going around during business hours, because nobody will be home. However, I have already completed four cases, and I have managed to locate a couple of addresses that even Google couldn’t find (let’s hear it for Mapquest!), both on the same cul-de-sac. I approach the first one, clipboard in hand. It’s a nice, kid-friendly place, with a pair of athletic shoes and a comfortable looking bench on the shady porch. Nobody answers the door, which is not surprising, since there are no cars in the drive, so I leave a notice on the door, and go across the street to the other address. There are several cars out front, but nobody answers the door, so I leave a notice, and go back to my car. Then I discover, oh crap, I’ve locked my keys in the car! Oy.
Fortunately, I didn’t lock my cell phone in the car, so I call my wife. As luck would have it, she is already planning to come to Buda for a business meeting, so she leaves a little earlier than she had planned and heads my way. It will be an adventure, directing her to this out-of-the-way spot, using only my memory of this neighborhood I have never set foot in before this morning. I can’t get back into my car, so I decided to avail myself of that comfortable looking bench on the porch of the first home. I’m sitting there playing Brick Breaker (badly), and a few minutes later, a Sheriff’s unit goes rolling slowly by, turns around, and pulls into the driveway of the home where I am loitering. The deputy gets out slowly.
I get up and hobble over to meet him. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” I say with a smile. He smiles back and says, “That’s right.” I explain the situation to him, and he smiles. He says there is an ordinance in that neighborhood against going door-to-door, but since I am working the Census, I am exempt. He also says apologetically that the Sheriff’s office doesn’t unlock cars any more, because on a recent attempt, the officer accidentally damaged the wiring in the door, and the owner sued. He leaves, and I return to the comfort of the porch.
It is a few minutes past noon now, and another car pulls into the drive. This time, it’s a van, and the driver is a youngish man wearing what looks like medical scrubs. He seems reluctant to get out of the car. I walk toward him with a smile and say, “I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing on your porch.” He says, “Yeah, actually I am.” So I explain the situation to him and he chuckles, and invites me in to conduct the interview. Ordinarily I don’t go into the house with the respondent, for safety reasons, but under the circumstances, I don’t feel like I can refuse the man’s hospitality. So we go to the kitchen and he generously offers me something to drink. I politely refuse, because I’m expecting my wife any minute. We conduct the interview, which goes very smoothly, and when it’s over, my host repeats the offer of a cold drink. Though I appreciate his hospitality, I still decline, wish him a great day, and just as I walk back out the front door, my wife calls. She is in the neighborhood, so I talk her through the turns and walk up to the corner, in case she has trouble locating the street. Before I get to the corner, she has already turned in.
My wife goes easy on me about locking my keys in the car, even points out how fortunate it was to have happened on that particular day at that particular time. They say God watches over fools and little children, and on this particular day, this particular fool, yes, the shoe fits.
