Hello, My Name is Dan, I Work for the U.S. Census...May I Approach?

Day 77-85

The human body tells you things when it absolutely must. Stuff like, "That fire hurts, better take your hand out of it," or, "You have to poop soon or else you will suffer great shame and embarassment," and, "it's time to take a break on the drinking, I'm about to die." It is good to listen to your body when it communicates with you. On Monday, I did little but catch up on some great TV and drink kombucha in the hopes of inducing some detoxification, knowing I need one of a little more comprehensive strategy and duration. It was a day where I muddled my way through everyday thoughts that by this point in my life should be second nature. I experienced an inside-outness that made me a pants-pooping danger to myself, feeling like the singed edges of a patch of hair, the smell, the stickiness morphing into a feeling, so much more whole than a mere hangover.

Even the next day, after trying to jump start my whole human engine system with massive amounts of caffeine at Austin Java, forcing the words to flow through my fingers, I still felt like a wet matchcbook. Meeting up with Miranda that night, I could only get one Lonestar down. Poor fucking baby, right? I listened, I put down the drink and just knew I couldn't make the rebound quite yet. While the SXSW hangover persisted, and the funds I had were dwindling dangerously, the stroke of fortune smacks me on the ass and says "attaboy" once again when the US Census Bureau called me this day to offer me a temporary job. I took the test to work for the census about four weeks prior to this phone call, back when my itinerary was vastly different from the one that my complex, adaptive travel schedule has become. I expected that I'd be hired immediately for a few short weeks of intense work before I'd make an ultimate exit from Austin on a rigorous two week schedule halfway up plus halfway across the rest of the states. The need to slow and settle got the best of me and the ability to potentially exploit the cost of living in Texas tempted me too greatly, so when the census called me, I accepted the job that started paying me to train the following day. I had been thinking that I could recuperate a lot of money between Austin pedicabbing and the census in the following three weeks, until the day where I'd go back East for family visitation, an oral checkup, and an expected pedicab marathon of ten lucrative Red Sox games straight in a row. I was half right, but what I didn't make up in money was overcompensated by Irish-Jewish luck. I don't know what's up with the things that happen to me, maybe I've got mad karma points like Jim Kramer's got mad money. Maybe it's built up from the Famine and the Holocaust, or maybe serendipity is setting me up for a heart rending ending. I like to think it's not the latter.

Before I begin to describe the transpirations of working for U.S. Census Bureau, I need all you to understand that I will have to obscure certain details in the name of the law that could imprison me for 72 years or something for revealing Personally Identifiable Information about people who have taken the census or even people who have worked for the census and have processed its information, operated under, or closely under the guidelines that have been standardized for these government operations. But free speech does not prohibit me from criticizing these things, or saying, "Suck it, Census!" Hahaaahhhh....take that, government that I helped!

I went to training the next morning at the place where I took the test in the first place, we may even have been in the same room where I felt embarrassed by my inability to answer every question correctly. I felt like I was taking a smaller SAT test and I couldn't believe I got one wrong and knew that if I showed my dad the score, he'd ask me why I didn't get a perfect score, or wouldn't believe that the one I missed was a math question. I believe I may have some residual high school performance insecurities. I got in a couple of minutes late-I could not for the life of me retrace my steps to the test location, though I had the recall to get almost all the way there. If it wasn't for that little spelling error of "Friedrich" as "Frederick" on my iphone, I'd have made it on time. Upon walking into the room, I looked around and saw my name written on a card in front of a chair. I glanced at the other faces to see who my census contemporaries would be, and it seemed a regular old lot of folks, young to old, all of whom I'd grow to understand a whole lot more about in short time. The training session began led by a late thirties dude named...let's call him Fletcher. From the outset, I had a good feeling about the way things would proceed. He was clear, took what the manual said with a grain of salt, and didn't hesitate to interject with how he felt about the things he was teaching to us, at one point explicitly mentioning that he is a socialist. He let the way the class was learning and conversing dictate the pace of the class, and this encouraged in we the trainees a confidence in him and aided everyone to learn faster. I later discovered that certain other classes could not complete the training in the three eight hour work days alotted for it, and subsequently felt impressed and emboldened by how efficiently, yet thoroughly I knew the information versus other groups with different crew leaders. Of note, other crew leaders were canned for sucking at their jobs. None of this matters too much. Nothing lasts forever, especially U.S. Census jobs.

About 20 minutes after the first day of training began, a latecomer arrived. Everybody turned to look at the new person entering. She greeted the room, apologized for being late and introduces herself as...let's say...Violet. She said she was late because she was biking, though no real excuse despite the damp morning, but I'm actually stricken by her frazzled entrance. Maybe it looked familiar to many experiences I've navigated. I focused, but I wanted to talk to her. We got a break and while people took care of whatever it is they needed to do, I struck up a conversation with Violet about bikes. I have something fairly interesting to say since I recently was nearly run over by a motor vehicle and bought a helmet. The conversation was friendly, though brief, and interrupted by class resuming. Just fine, it's $17 an hour after all.

Later on, lunch is about to occur, and Violet doesn't have all her documents to get her properly paid by the U.S. government, and it's a bad idea to allow that to happen since the work necessary to follow up on the back end is kind of circuitous and littered with red tape, you'd better just get it right the first fuckin' time lest you curse yourself for not getting it done the first fuckin' time, because it is after that time passes that one becomes fucked and scorns the past times as "fuckin' times". Right before lunch, the particulars of how she will procure the appropriate documents from her home are being hashed out and it comes out that I have a car. She serves, "I'll buy you lunch if you can give me a ride back to my place," I return, "How bout I give you a ride to your place and you DON'T buy me lunch." She lets the ball bounce past her, giving me the point saying, "OK." She thinks my car is "neat" and I like that and feel validated because I'm emotionally attached to it now.

It's apparent that we are in a similar age range and we are both smart and have similar sensibilities after spending the next hour talking about ourselves to each other and coming to know we have a great deal of common ground as people, but this is all business, friendly coworkers here, perhaps something of a friendship is potentially available. To tell you the truth, which I've been doing all along and strangely haven't yet used that very expression, I'm impressed with Violet the individual. She's quick, clever and thoughtful and intelligent, an improviser, an artist, owns this energy around her, is classically beautiful, and we are having a little difficulty not laughing too hard at what the other is saying. We made contacts out of each other to discuss potential carpooling. I couldn't keep too much focus after lunch, but fortunately the process of learning the protocol of U.S. government business is riddled with redundancies. Riddled with redundancies. Riddled with redundancies. Bureaucracies sure do know how to turn four man hours out of two.

The second day of training proceeded in a different location. I'm early, so unlike me to be more than punctual, but I'm beginning to realize that the government gave me a sweet pig to fuck, all I have to do is hold the tail up. I that stretching a dirty metaphor too much for an opening sentence? My filter has disintegrated since I've left the East, my East coast friends might agree that I've come a little more unglued than the old 1st grade Elmer's pasta picture I used to be. I desire to start this sentence here with, "So this pig fucker..." but I'll only reveal the thought and refrain from practice. The seating arrangements have been shuffled, and our names are in certain positions so I sit next to people I had not the day before. Behind me is a girl who is austere, but emits a quiet cool that I feel like winning over by getting her to smile. It's a slow business trying to crack jokes to the presence behind me in a subversive and incendiary fashion without tipping too many others off to the fact that I'm not paying attention. I get caught out once or twice for my lack of focus, but everyone understands that it's early and they've observed what a cracked-out caffeine hound I am, so I get a pass and others do too when they suffer the same moment.

Lunch comes our way again, and I pointedly asked Violet if she'd like to join me. She accepted and we go back in my car to The Triangle, a spot full of restaurants and shops and offices, and apartments where two major streets in Austin converge. I have The Galaxy Cafe in mind, they do a pretty solid lunch, but everyone else who works in the area has already parked and we struggle for a spot. I mentioned that I have this handicapped parking pass that used to belong to my grandmother, until she got one with more current expiry dates. I say I use it in emergencies, and after about 10 minutes of dwindling lunch time searching for parking, a few K-turns and a discussion about the impropriety of abusing the benefits of such a parking pass, we both rationalized its current necessity, hang it on the mirror, and go eat. So she's not over-principled. Points. Don't get me wrong, I'm not keeping track of points at this stage, and nor am I that obsessive and/or compulsive in paying such close attention or maintaining a point system for the people I meet, but I write in retrospect and remembering this moment is dually embarrassing to admit about my character, but revealing of her character as I explore the development of what came to be. And whatever, my mom fucking does it all the time. But if anyone should ever be offered preferred parking for no good reason, it should be my mom.

When I got back to my place, I discovered that the last of my documents to obtain my pedicab license has arrived. I jump up and down about it, and then I freaked out, realizing that the next day is the last day that all of my documents are concurrently valid. I find it a reason to text Violet to ask her for Fletcher's number, but end up finding it myself and implored him for no more than an hour and a half to go get my license to pedicab in Austin, employing the excuse that allowing the day to pass won't just cost me the $25 of procuring the first document again for validity's sake, but the potential $500 I'd make pedicabbing this weekend, and the argument is quite convincing.

Victorious in negotiations, I went out on another social ride without anyone to hang with. It was boring, I felt like people had walls up and they didn't want to be too social at all, not with anyone they didn't know. I rode along anyway and stayed up a little too late chasing ghosts of potential friends on bikes and into bars, knowing I'd have to hoist myself out of the sack the next day and zombie through some real important activities.

I got up anxious and excited at the C of D to be right outside the licensing office in order to be the first guy dealt with. It's cold, and I danced around like I had to pee. The doors open and I warmed up still waiting for the office I need to open. It happens, I go in, and we filed papers, baby! Then they hit me with the test. A multiple choice exam that intimidated me and I sweated getting the 14 questions right that I needed to pass. I took way too long to finish. I could have been at training a lot faster, but I felt my fate in Austin hinging on this test. While plotting out how many I potentially got wrong, and second guessing certain answers, Violet texted me that Fletcher said I should bring donuts. I love it, and plan to abide. I turned in my test to get graded an A minus. Only two wrong. I gave a good look for my license photo, and looked up donut shops that were on my way.

I stroll into class with donuts in my arms, a coffee also in one hand, knowing I'm going to be the five-minute hero, the kid whose mom made cupcakes for everyone in his class on his birthday. Nobody else knew I was prompted, so they figured that I was just trying to be cool and all were thankful, and Violet was amused that I followed through, not to mention that Fletcher was slightly won over and ended up letting me keep the pay for the 1.25 government training hours I had missed out on. Bonus. Donuts that pay for themselves!

We talked more about PII and the jokes about our government process flowed fairly freely in class. One guy in the room is a very large UT student with a proportionately large sized mouth that lets disproportionately awkward jokes fly out into our classroom air, a dangerous air that threads propriety and serious government business with a self-effacing understanding of asinine rote processes. He makes certain jokes several times as if we didn't get them the first time, second time, or third. He clearly thinks he is smarter than everyone else, but also desires to be funnier than everyone. It annoys. "Burns my ass" is the expression that comes to mind. When his jokes or statements flop it spawns this visceral disgust, a deep embarrassment, the feeling of a barely viscous grime on the skin, for essentially no reason at all. It is winning when on the third day of training, he unleashes his "Captain Redundancy Redundancy" joke for the 5th or 6th time, and Violet volleys with a sentence that starts strong and deliberately trails off with disjointed timing, and is so loaded and full of passive venom and buckshot that it took him down a few pegs, saying, "I like how you keep...saying that." The training class which spans from 18 year old UT students to Vietnam vets, with young pro's and crusty hippies in between erupts on it because it was just a matter of shooting it out of the air, and Violet smashed it. It delivered him a strong message that I like to think stung him like lake water on a flopping belly, "We know you're telling a joke and it's not funny." I later tell her I particularly appreciated that sentence, and we laugh so hard all over again and trash talk our associate, and in that we inch closer. Later during actual Census operations our colleague, despite his first impression, turned out a capable and sufficiently affable guy, perhaps out of discovering his place in a team, a professional world where he surrenders control to superiors, and where conceited attitudes are reviled, but perhaps it was just one sentence that gave him a pretty good head check. So suddenly I'm a Violet fan.

Bored in class, I friend Violet and text her that I've done so. She accepts and we start checking each other out online and revealing lots of PII to each other. The day ends and I'm hashing things out with Flether about the earlier hours and after we wrap our little meeting at the trunk of his car, Violet asks me if I can give her and her bike a ride home. I'm happy to, and we go down towards her place and as we go, it's vaguely clear that we've progressed into flirtatious territory. I feel like I'm running out of time to seize on that, so I suggest grabbing lunch and a beer to wrap up our training, and it's a good suggestion. We sit down over at the Snack Bar, near enough to her place, and have a fun little lunch, a few chuckles, they fuck up my order but I don't stress about it, and we chop the check in two. I reassembled her bike from out of my back seat and I suggested a toss of the frisbee the next day and some studying of our government protocol over coffee, or something to that effect and we establish tentative plans to even potentially sing karaoke later and head off on our ways. She bailed, but I shrugged it off and went out for some East Side beverages with this girl Dawn I had made a connection with at the Red Devil shop. No mind, no matter, nothing great to say about her, she came out and told me she was wearing a wig for fun. Okey Dokey, don't call me, I'll call you.

I started writing the next day at home, editing my business, even though you might think I don't edit my work. The early afternoon frisbee thing didn't look like it was going to pan out, but adaptive plans developed. Violet was off working at a glass shop, making bottles and such while I crafted words, so we agreed to let our creative selves burn out and meet up to leave our right minds for census land, a place filled with payment forms to file, people as numbers, and super secret dealings that often surprisingly occur in full view of the public. We aimed to convene at this elusive taco truck that is not reliably open during its posted business hours, and second to arrive, we changed course for Torchy's Tacos. The menu has tacos that have names. Of note are two tacos that are entitled "The Democrat" and "The Republican," which I ordered for irony and called it "The Bi-Partisan". She appreciated how I ordered for comedic value. She liked my bike, which I had just gotten back the day before with it's hot new wheel and fork since the SUV incident. We rolled up South 1st for coffee and sat outside to review our handbooks and manuals, but it was monotonous stuff and we much preferred the new pleasure of entertaining each other. The books shut. She talked passionately of her art, I mirrored that energy regarding my blog, this very thing, and we wanted to know more. She invited me to her place, and I was about ready for a beer, so we agreed that we would call it the four hours of government mandated necessary studying time that we were tasked to do, and went to drink beers at her place while talking about art and writing. This, for $17 an hour, and I was still better prepared to operate than others trained for longer. I'm proud to be an American.

The nature of our relationship already toed the illicit border line since fraternization should not progress beyond strict professionalism. I later received a warning from SmAsher that it was necessary for us to keep it friendly, and I played the awareness card, of course! I told him we were just developing into good friends with a great deal of common interests and are in the same age bracket, which is funny because a bracket, by nature, holds whatever you define it to; books, NCAA basketball teams, income, and let's just say the ages of 24-28. Perfect! What a bracket! We spoke to each other in educated terms, assumed intelligence of the other and revealed our creations which struck me as deeply intimate. And we got tipsy. In the essence of full disclosure and honesty, I revealed to her that two of my top "display" teeth come right out, which to my relief, she thought was pretty damned funny. I made mention that I was already kinda hanging out with someone and it wasn't serious, and it washed like soap off my hands. We viewed and read and ended up on the couch next to each other and music played and the air got thick and our thoughts turned to the obvious thing-we desired to touch, and beyond incidental flirtation, it was only a matter of how the spark would start the fire, so I let my heart drop in the risk, grabbed her hand and led her near. It felt bold to me since I thought highly of her and I was wary of the fact that we'd be working together for the next few weeks, but the communications I experienced with her capable mind assured me that any error in this action could be professionally handled. I felt I would be man enough to overcome any potential emotional interference. I moved in and it was electric.

It strikes me as apropos that I had been drinking Lucky U IPA's that night because I was starting to feel the threads of a good thing weaving together. The next morning I wanted to take her out to brunch somewhere Texas and fantastic before we attended a census meeting, and so I found a place with real country style cookin' and we ate such a delicious buffet style meal that we needed to walk around for a while. We went to the park and climbed a knobby tree together, something that overwhelmed me with cuteness when we kissed on the support of its old branches. I managed to squeak out before laughing at portraying the old rhyme, "Dan and Violet, sittin' in a tree..." So dorky, but we all know that this stuff is passable as genius for the guy-girl cuteness exchange, and I believe others may have failed to seize upon such a moment in their lives. We played on the swings, and now as a man four times older than I was when I made regular practice of playing on swings, I fret for the weight I exert on the intermittently stressed chains that carry me back and forth. I remember the grimy cuts of gravel pinching my skin when I failed a proper dismount, and presently feared them. I think of my young backwards bailouts from the backswing's high point on larger swingsets now as completely out of the question, but we played and swung laterally towards each other jabbing and smacking and engaging in swing-footsie, for lack of a better child-like term. We laid in the grass, all new and thrilled at the edge of this found thing, so much still to discover about each other, with plenty left to find that we'd like. We knew the time for being census workers would come upon us, and we planned a staggered entrance. We kept cool to each other at the meeting, and I only laid out a minimal amount of jokes specifically directed at making Violet laugh, attempting to place them in a social context. I saw a little fear in some of her stifled laughs at letting the cat out of the bag in one shared look or something of a tell, but I understood the game we played. When the meeting ended, I walked out with Violet and asked her where she parked her bike. "Right next to yours." We risked a dangerously observable kiss before we parted.

The next few days are filled with enumeration, and I don't know how much I should really grapple with the intricate detail of certain events due to the fact that the wrong person getting ahold of these materials could can my ass in a cell for revealing too much, but I suppose I hurt the picture I paint if I forego the juicy stuff. I picked up the material we learned fairly well, scored highly on our final exam in training, and arrived at an enumeration facility that contained other crew leaders with other enumerators who had gone through training with their respective crew leaders. At the risk of being boring, I'll sum these people up as poorly trained. The group I trained with was better prepared to oversee tasks than some of the other crew leaders. A certain crew leader asked us questions about process, and with furrowed brows, we released to him the information he might know if he looked in his Enumerator Handbook, tidbits of information he ought to have retained before he became a crew leader. His failure to work effectively became my gain as I absorbed hours of work for him.

The following day, tasks were unclear. About 20-25 census workers stood around outside of a food shelter attempting to have all attendees fill out a form. The process that we were to follow made no sense, but it was the way we were told to do it. I devised an effective way to capture as much information as was possible for the assignment, but it ended up imperfect, and one of the people from my crew who I gave a task to could not undertake the task with efficacy since he began delegating responsibilities to other unprepared, confused enumerators. The tasked failed, in my opinion because the method in which we were attempting to acquire the information was STUPID. We had a chance to blanket the line of people and soak up information before they ate, but we ended up clamoring for people to fill out their forms once they had finished eating, when they were no longer beholden to the meal they anticipated having. I could only do so much, and in believing in the importance of the operation for our country for the good of our citizens, and observing the inefficacy of the system, I became disheartened. Wasted money, resources, and thousands of people, maybe even more than a million could be overlooked countrywide.

The real close up experiences were the captivating part of the job, one might even label it adventure. We all trepidatiously awaited Wednesday at midnight when we'd wander out into homeless encampments to find those people that lived independently without addresses and escape the confines of typical societal dues and duties. The fun part is that at this time of the night, most homeless people are either asleep, or getting FUCKED UP! Before we startedlooking for them, we met up with our crew leader who split us into groups. I was secretly stoked because Flether placed Violet in my group, but I think since he and I had formed a little bit of a friendship already, he liked teaming us up because he knows we're capable, work well together, and if we like hanging out why not make it easier to do the work by allowing it. That, and we have been warned about unprofessional fraternization, so we ought to be good to go. We were given information on meeting two guys at a bus stop or in front of a supermarket that will bring us to another guy that will finally bring us to a large homeless encampment. It felt convoluted and mysterious, like we were searching for the City of Gold, but in this case Gold=bums.

We went off to find and count the homeless and we all had our official badges and bright orange vests, just so people can see us in the dark. It seems like it would be a safety measure, but apart from being one man grouped with five girls that I am out with searching for our contacts to the homeless community, I somehow still felt vulnerable with this bright orange target for some insane and intoxicated derelict who feels a little stabby about the census. And for good measure, there are patches of reflective yellow on the chest and bordering the vitals area on the back, just to indicate the really good places to stab, because you know, it's kinda hard to see in the dark woods, and you need something that's going to absorb enough light from the full moon to get a visual on them. Also there are five additional female targets. It's the stuff that good horror films are made of.

Before we arrive at the location we are assigned to, we pick up some double cheeseburgers at McDonald's, in case any of the people we speak to want some food. It is a singular moment in my life when I'll order five McDoubles. We parked when we arrived and the group of us walked around and searched for the original two contact people for a while until we all concurred that we may have done better just driving around. We drove around and didn't find anything. At this point, we just started asking anyone around if they know any area homeless people. "Excuse me, I'm with the US Census, where are all the homeless people around here?" We looked like crazy documentarians trying to find an animal in the wild, but we are being paid to obtain information for the government. An attendant at a gas station tips us off to a guy nearby named after a weather event and we found him with relative ease. He gave us as much information as possible and seemed like a really nice guy. We gave him a McDouble, even though we were supposed to save those for the "gatekeeper" of the encampment we are looking for.

We walked around just a little bit and tried to work it out so a few of us could use a restroom, since we'd all had too much coffee, but one pool hall wouldn't let our one enumerator who didn't have her ID in to simply pee, so that was kinda dick. We're acquiring issues left and right before we decided to just walk around a little more looking for this one guy that for the sake of him having a name, I'll call him Rocket, which is not even close to his real name. So nearly as quickly as our search began, results are yielded as we turn the corner behind the pool hall and discover a gentleman. To me, it is clear that he is masturbating, and I want to continue walking, because as a man I understand what it's like to be interrupted while pleasing your cock. Others later told me he gazed through a peep hole to view pool hall patrons, though I fail to see how that is worthy as beat off material. I motion to Violet and a few others to keep walking, it's not a good idea to disturb him, let the man get his rocks off. This will sound weird, but I'm willing to stick around somewhere nearby to wait until he's taken care of business, but it's me and five other girls, and I have the hunch that one of them, we'll call her Lily, who reminds me a bit of Dora the Explorer in her oblivion, does not know the intricacies of emotion, vulnerability, and privacy involved in rubbing one out, and so upon discovering a human in a back lot, she's interested to know if it is in fact Rocket. "Rocket" she asks in a completely inappropriately friendly tone that finished with an upward inquisitive whine. It was the tone that your mother would take to let you know that dinner was ready, but you were rippled around a dirty magazine, or arched out at a computer. Shame on you for masturbating at 6 o'clock! Alas, nay, it was healthy past midnight for his wanking and when he heard his name, he did an about face that would make a general proud. Fortunately for his comfort and his ability to hide his penis after clearly having been jerking off he donned the elastic waistband sweatpants, and so put the gun away to greet us. At ease, soldier. To my surprise, he presented himself almost cordially, and knew we were coming, despite some clear agitation, and a great deal of visible lotion slathered all over his hands, pants, shirt, and a little on his face. We conversed and tactfully ignored the globs of lotion glooped all over him and started to lay out the deal to him as it had been presented to us, we give you burgers, you show us the money, and in this case, money=homeless people. He got so incredibly offended, and here's where, as a man I could argue, the blue balls set in. He could not believe that we were trying to bribe him with burgers. He lectured us on how we should never ever bribe a homeless person, and I tried to diffuse the situation by being accepting, understanding, and capitulating to his every scold. He warned us that someone else might get really mad, that he's cool, but we could get fucked with if it was someone else, don't bribe him with food, but he expects ten dollars. We had to pony up, because we knew the government would have our back somehow, right? Here, in spite of the demand for money, I started to learn that many homeless have a great deal of pride in the lives they lead, and to them, the only thing they are missing is a proper address. In talking him down, I feel I regained his confidence, and it became clear that everything was A-OK when he offered his lotion soaked mitt up for a handshake. I grabbed it and shook without hesitation, and with as little smooth hand friction as I could possibly control, looking him in the eye, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing, or if he was really that drunk, or if he thought he could put one over on us that he was in no way shape or form previously performing a solo on the skin flute. "He has soft hands," I thought, followed by, "Where did he get that bottle of Jergen's?"

Rocket began to lead us around to different place where he expected people to reside. The parade of us led by a drunken, questionably sane individual bore little fruit. He clung to his lotion bottle, fully expecting to continue his love-fest after his duty was done, while we trod around behind him traversing rural route intersections and dipping under bridges. We found one extra person that didn't want anyone to come very near unless it was Rocket, and before finding this out, I started to accompany the party down to the habitation, and fell on my ass, banana peel style. I think everyone's commotion to find out if I was OK may have startled whoever lived under the bridge there, so score one for the census hiring the most graceful and careful people around.

The last place Rocket took us had a trail that led up into the woods to a series of encampments that contained an unknown number of people. We stood on the precepice of this trail and Rocket began to brief us on what we were in for if we ventured up there without him. He made several mentions of getting stabbed if he didn't accompany us. The preparatory conversation did plenty to spook everyone out about where we intended to go, and after he completed describing the sensitive nature of entering that rogue society with its own code of ethics and forms of justice, he said, "OK, now only two of you can come with me." I stupidly didn't think about how dangerous this could be, even after copious mentions of stabbings, and I stepped after to follow him and Violet and others start calling my name, a rebuke for what could be a danger to my safety. I snap back to reality and realize they're right, there are far too many variables in play. The guy that stabs me, just might be the guy warning me about all the stabbing. I tried to break it down to Rocket and calmly explain to him that we all felt uncomfortable following him into an unfamiliar place like that in the dark, and he took it pretty well. I guess it ended up being less work for him, but in saying goodbye, he now wanted to converse at length, which turned into rambling. Lily kept the conversation going and I frtohed with the desire to exit the area, and so when she prattled on and on, not taking the hint that we. were. wrapping. it. up., I took my U.S. Census Bureau bag, and surreptitiously smacked it into her leg. She finally got it. But before we went, Rocket, in his ramblings started mentioning his past service in the U.S. Army during Desert Storm. He brought up his service and it made me angry and disappointed that a guy who says he did three tours in Desert Storm ends up a pariah, even if he only did one tour. He asked the group if they knew how long a tour was. I knew, and it made me worthy of several more silky handshakes before we departed. Oh, and he shook hands with everyone else too, just for good measure. I laughed on the inside as I watched them all take their medicine.

We retreated to a Denny's near I-35 to catch up with our crew leader and tell him the good news. When Flether learned about all that transpired, he filled with a deep disappointment in how far askew the operation had gone. We tried to joke around but it didn't bring him back to good spirits very much. The whole evening was not even half over. We still had to go driving around other areas where homeless people were known to sleep. A gap of hours bridged the two missions and so it became an opportunity to take my mandatory break in working and sneak in a nap in my car. Violet needed the rest as well and so across the brown cracked arm rest of the Longshot, we held hands and shared our small suffering and the prone state of needing peaceful rest. A small, sweet kiss goodnight to risk our jobs once more.

Consciousness returns to haunt us after a meager hour and three quarters. I don't reach deep sleep, I'm certain, maybe not even any sleep at all, but the conservation of the energy I formerly used to keep my body upright and talk did make a difference. Once again I felt capable of counting bums. It didn't really get interesting until about 9 in the morning when we met up at a halfway house and spoke with a dude who had a comprehensive understanding for the area and the way many homeless people choose to lead their lives. They served us a bacon and eggs breakfast which gave me a remarkable rebound, and Violet as well, so when more hours were offered to us to wander around through the encampments we previously declined to enter in the dark with Rocket, I jumped at them with Violet teetering and finally following suit.

We trailed the dude I shall name Mark into the woods and the first place we found stunned nearly everyone. The place was set up so meticulously with a pragmatist's skill and decorated to boot! An adorable dog greeted us as we approached the camps. Mark knew these guys and introductions were exchanged, and they showed us their digs and a hospitality that I did not for the life of me expect. It impressed me to learn how comfortable some homeless people are in arrangements like these, and how skilled they were in appropriating what they needed, and how much they respected their own environment. It certainly impressed and enlightened me to see it, but we had great luck in experiencing this. Most of the places that followed fit closer paradigms of homelessness stereotypes.

We checked under bridges, woke sleeping people to obtain information, and tramped through maze like twisted paths to empty campsite after empty campsite. I'd say that the later morning attempt got us a bunch of information, but not as much human interaction. Everywhere Mark took us was a place that he knew people were or had been living. Violet exercised a little more diligence in completing forms than anyone else and counted the absentee folk whenever Mark could describe the people that were currently not at the places they go to sleep. Some of the sites were embarrassing to view, piles of trash so near to where the residence/tent stood that it spawned a fury for the existence of these conditions inside the borders of a country like ours. How did these people get forced into this state? The choices they make?

Not every worker tailed Mark so closely, but I hungered for the knowledge of what our society often overlooks. Mark took us through an area that had not too recently been cleared out by the police. Old sites rested slightly off the main path, surrounded in trash around the clearing of the former tent area. At one point, Mark smelled something dead and turned the group around. Our last stop brought us to a property now owned by some corporation and the travel involved to find the people we knew existed stretched, but bore us witness to a dirtbiking course so intricate and plain old big that everyone still present that hadn't gone home expressed disbelief at the sheer amount of man hours necessarily involved in its construction, and demanded to know what brilliant minds engineered it. We arrived at a clearing where a shack lofted above its foundation, and Mark called out to approach. "Hello," he said, "Anybody there? Mind if we come over?" His greetings were not government issue, but sounded far better than "Hello, my name is Dan, I work for the US. Census. May I approach?" We found kids there. My age. Impressive guys, the two that greeted us and the one we didn't meet. Violet looked around at the home they composed for themselves in awe, saying "This is how I'd wanna live." I could see it being a life of simple satisfaction, but allowed the thought of needing a city to attack the mind I tried to open. She interviewed them and I perceived a longing and wonder in her eyes in speaking to them. We interviewed them far beyond census business and one of the fellas played us an impressive tune on his clarinet. It made the entire tired zombie march through empty places completely worth dealing with to see these handy gents out in the woods, self-sufficient and living beautiful, wild lives, the lives many hipsters shittily tattoo on their chests and legs and never actually stand for. We peaked and valleyed back through the dirtbike course as we heard the clarinet fade, our exit music for our coffee sweating walk back to warming cars that would bring us to beds that would accept us no matter what we smelled like, no matter what we saw, that we'd sadly part with too soon to return to government business, and the sham it may or may not be.

Statistics:
$252 for repairs to my bike
6 slimy handshakes with a man who had very recently used his right hand to masturbate with lots of lotion
5 girls who shook that same hand once
34 hours of consciousness in a row for the enumeration of the homeless
$64 taxable government dollars paid to me to hit it off with Violet on a pseudo date
2 bagels
Infinity iced coffees from Austin Java for 2.84
2 awesome girls I am suddenly seeing.
3 times I almost cried from the experience of seeing the conditions that we let people fall into combined with the futility of our operation
7 times I expect my father to call me a bleeding heart liberal for that previous statement.

Drinks from...

Day 77

Nothing

Day 78

454 Lonestar @Miranda's

Day 79

455 Live Oak Big Bark Red @Hole In The Wall
456 Lonestar @Long Branch

Day 80

457 Stash IPA @Mellow Mushroom
458 Widmer Black IPA
459 Ranger IPA
460 Lonestar @Metz Park
461 Lonestar on East Side
462 PBR @Jackalope
463 PBR

Day 81

464 Elissa IPA @Snack Bar
465 Ranger IPA @home
466 Ranger IPA
467 Ranger IPA
468 Live Oak IPA @Whole Foods
469 Amnesia IPA @home
470 Dr. Lovingstone @East Side Show Room
471 Rogue Double Dead Guy @The Good Knight

Day 82

472 Lonestar @home
473 Amnesia IPA
474 Lucky U IPA @Violet's
475 Lucky U
476 Lucky U
477 Lucky U

Day 83

478 Shiner 101 @Moonshine Patio & Grill
479 Amnesia IPA @home
480 Lonestar

Day 84

481 Lonestar @home

Day 85

482 Lonestar @home


Next: The enumeration operation changes, I have one of the worst pedicab experiences of my life (flat tires, puke, near death), and I have two girlfriends. How will I fuck it up?