Um, thanks?

I like coffee, and like a good American I like my coffee to taste like exploitation. Every morning I head down the street in my suburban dystopia (just kidding, it's really more like an insane asylum) to the local coffee shop. I'll give you three guesses for which franchise it is, and the first two don't count. I wander down, usually stopping inside (not a fan of drive-through windows) and perhaps making idle chatter with the barista/o in residence.
I've always marveled a little at the nature of everyday human interaction in places like coffee shops. There is often a depth of feeling exchanged that, however brief, surpasses that of emotional displays between longtime friends. I suppose you could call it sympathy, especially from those who have also worked similar jobs (food service breeds a species of camaraderie) but it's more than that. I honestly believe that the particular kind of anonymity that is derived from the sheer number of these basic interactions allows for comfort, more so than might be found in more invested relationships. There's an understanding: "I don't know you outside of this atmosphere, and therefore (quite naturally) don't care. You have much the same opinion. Q.E.D. if I tell you that I want to commit a homicidal act upon my boss and you have similar feelings, we can commiserate in perfect harmony for the next 15 seconds. Yay."
All that being said, the boundaries of this kind of relationship (and yes, there are boundaries) were stretched the other day when a barista randomly interjected the following into our banter: "Hey, you're from Kentucky." Now, it's true, I was born in Kentucky. I moved before I began forming memories (I was still in diapers) but yes, I was born there. I have not, however, formed any memory of meeting this woman, have never disclosed any personal detail aside from my drink preference (chai, if you must know, and judge as you will) and really have no frame of reference involving her in my life. This statement, then, was such a remarkable non-sequitur that I literally could not respond. This does not happen to me often. I'm not always successfully witty, but I usually manage to return a comment in some form. That day, I had nothing.
What do you say to that? "Congratulations, those stalking lessons are coming along nicely." "...and from your accent, you must be ex-KGB!" "Please, please, don't arrest me for that thing in Detroit. I swear the donkey was that way to begin with!" Among all the multitudinous possibilities, I could not find a proper response. Her co-worker did that for me. "Holy shit, _____, that was creepy."
Yup. That'll do.
It turns out that while taking a test for the census enumerator position back in April, this particularly observant barista was in the row behind me and happened to remember the proctor of the test mentioning my birthplace. It was not a case of creepy behavior, but just solid memory and random association. Still, I could not help but reflect that this is a logical conclusion for the aforementioned depth of connection: sometimes, flirting with a barista will backfire... badly.
So the next time you order your coffee, reflect on how many times this particular person has seen your credit card, your license plate, and exactly how often they've reflected upon your dietary habits. I'll leave you with that comforting thought as you scramble to find change for their tip-jar.

Counting souls...

I'm a census enumerator. I count people.
In case you weren't aware, my job description is to BE NOSY. It's not creepy, I'm not an ass, I'm not here to steal your land (Unless you're Native American. Sorry, but when you take a job with the Federal Government, they make you swear an oath.) and I'm not going to sell your information online. I'm really not trying to make your life harder. I'm doing a job. A necessary job.
Think about it for a second: Even though we say at the door that this will take "about ten minutes," for most people I interview it barely takes five. Five minutes. Not just that, but five minutes every ten years. We don't do this every day. How long do you spend in a day getting coffee? How long do you spend checking your email? It's not that much. I'm not unsympathetic. I don't like answering my door for strangers. That's fine. You DON'T have to like me. You are, however, required by law to talk to me.
It isn't exactly a pointless conversation. There are any number of tangible benefits: voting districts, school districts, and (here's the one you'll really love) money. Money, in this beautiful, benighted country of ours, is apportioned by numbers. How much the government takes, how much it spends, how much it apportions out to the various institutions, funds and purposes; all this is determined by a decennial census. Seriously, in terms of proportional difficulty this rates alongside raising your hand when the teacher called your name at the beginning of class. It's not hard.
I swore and oath at the beginning of this process to uphold the secrecy of your information. This oath was sworn before my god, which isn't your god, but which I take seriously nonetheless. Are there dishonest folks out there who will misuse this information given half a chance? I have no doubt that there are, but the crucial point is that they are the vast minority. We're just people, doing what is (at its core) a patriotic job. Please, don't treat us like crap... please?

What a nice young woman...

I received a call from Rachel today. A very nice young woman, Rachel wanted to speak to me in regards to "my current credit card." This was a bit confusing, since I do not have a credit card in my name, but this kind young woman assured me that there was no problem... yet. In her steady, mechanically aided cadence she informed me that I should listen on for more information on how to combat my credit card debt and find affordable consolidation for my credit woes. It was very comforting, in the same way that being told that, by simply relinquishing your wallet, you can avoid being stabbed by a stranger on the street. At no time did this fine, pre-recorded specimen of the voice-acting profession even HINT that perhaps I, and by extension my fellow countrymen, should maybe slow down on the credit card spending. Never once was I encouraged to pursue a life of... no, don't say frugality, but rather conservative spending practice. No, the idea that someone will be there to bail me out of my own troubles at all times was reinforced by this mysterious stranger with her easy to remember phone number ("Blocked").
Listen carefully, friends, for the sound of her melodic ringtone. Wait, if you will, with bated breath for her message of hope and light. Never fear, my compatriots, my brothers and sisters in fiscal irresponsibility, for there is salvation: The machines are here to eat our debt!