The Census found me today.
I heard a knock on my door late morning and had to scramble to answer. Not only is it unusual for a knock to occur at the Hermitage but (ugly secret here) when you're an old, divorced, unemployed man living by himself -- there are no pants. Pants are for society. Pants are for proper people.
In three months, I've had three knocks on the door. One from a dude who had to access a path to work on the damn that forms Lake Lemon. The second from my landlord handing out free, fresh tomatoes from his dad's garden. The third today from the long arm of the U.S. government.
The census employee seemed pleased by his diligence. Until he realized from my answers that I'm a nobody.
I'm in-between addresses, I told him.
There are no family members in the state.
Despite my girth, I am not eating for two.
I am not a member of any protected class.
I am not a registered voter. (It's an objectivity thing -- you have to live your life, I have to live mine.)
Yes, I'm a Libra but I don't know what that means.
No, I don't get my news from TV.
I prefer strawberry to chocolate ice cream -- but free is best.
My two favorite pies are hot pie and cold pie.
I do not attend a church as I would be wary of any church that would have me.
I do have a child, a member of the Coastal Elite, but she's working on a memoir, "Damn You Daddy, Sir." (SCTV fans get that joke.)
Have I ever had an original thought? Um, what's my time limit on that question?
He seemed disappointed that finding a residence, hidden from a private road, down a series of precarious steps he found -- me.
But hey, at least I count now.