Person 1

Our crew leader’s name is Popeye.

The crew in question belongs to the United States Census, by which I mean the Decennial Census, mandated every ten years by the Constitution. Our crew does not belong to any one of the dozen other door-to-door operations conducted by the U.S. Census Bureau to determine, for instance, how many toilets exist in the state of Montana. Unfortunately, these other censuses are conducted at the same time, which causes different strangers to make multiple visits to the same address, identify themselves as being from the government, and start asking personal questions. This fact leads to confusion, and the occasional shotgun. So, to reiterate: this census is the Big One. It determines how much money your state will get for roads, schools, and human services in the next decade, and how many people will represent you in Congress. Please do not unleash the dog.

Because it is so important, the Decennial Census is conducted almost entirely by out-of-work artists and office staff, who tend to test well on map-reading, addition, and which-of-these-things-does-not-belong. It’s a temp job. I had a nice conversation about existentialism and craft jewelry with the woman taking my fingerprints for the federal government.

Because he works for the U.S. Census, our crew leader’s name is not actually Popeye; I’ve chosen Popeye because it resembles in no way our crew leader’s actual name.

The first thing Popeye tells us during our training is that PII stands for “Personal Identifying Information.” Personal Identifying Information is strictly confidential and may never be revealed. We are told there is nothing more important for us to understand. We must find every home, no matter how difficult the journey; knock on every door, no matter how fettered or abandoned; and recognize each person, no matter how forgotten or denied. We must never reveal anyone’s Personal Identifying Information. We will work for months in the rain and the heat; a retired postman will show us how to slip our hands to the paper beneath a plastic sheet, to keep the weather from erasing our words. He’ll also show us how to keep a foot unobtrusively against a porch door so that a dog attacking from inside the house can’t tear out your throat. His affect in teaching these two skills is the same: patient, methodical.

A toothless woman will stand on her lawn and scream continuously at me until I pass out of sight. A small, bent man in a cardigan sweater will invite me in for tea; when I tell him I cannot enter his home unless he can’t stand up outside to answer questions, he tells me it isn’t his home. He potters away into the living room. “Close the door behind you,” he says, “or the rabbits will get out.” The house is full of rabbits. “I’m just looking after them while my wife’s in intensive care,” he says. “My ex-wife.” He talks to me politely for a long time, his face a mask of unvoiced grief—like the woman on her porch swing who offers me a blanket and a place beside her, and tells me her concerns about registering people and the Holocaust. She asks if I am sure the information I gather will never be misused, a question I can’t honestly answer. I needed a job. I was late in starting with the Census because someone lost the paperwork relating to my mandatory military draft registration. The man in the cardigan sweater gives his permanent address as a homeless shelter. When I leave after taking his Personal Identifying Information, he thanks me for my time and wishes me every happiness.

A large, dark man scowls out as I perch precariously on the tiny dead-end balcony of his fire escape. He tells me brusquely that the only way he’s going to answer any questions is if I come inside. “Yeah, I’m disabled,” he says. “I’m dead tired. That’s my disability.” As the tired...