Funny, these potheads are some of the friendliest, most courteous people I've encountered in my door-knocking U.S. Census enumerating. I call them potheads for lack of a better term. Being thoroughgoing libertarians, they have a live-and-let-live approach to life, including their roommates.
"Is this person male or female?"
I hate asking that question, especially when asking directly to the person who has answered the door, as in "are you male or female?" One can never presume, especially when said interviewee is 90, wears her/his white hair short, wears nondescript slacks, has a sunken chest, and speaks with a gravelly voice. I usually brush through that question in a mumble or pose it with a twist of humor. 90-somethings tend to be hard-of-hearing anyway. Why do parents give their children gender-neutral names? It only frustrates census enumerators every ten years.
These potheads are closer to 19 than 90 and they are definitely guys. The unseen roommate is another matter.
"[Roommate] was a he, then changed to a she." Pothead One is speaking.
"Or was it the other way around?" Pothead Two is speaking.
I calmly reply, "What I need to write down is how this person self-identifies now."
I'm answering the friendly potheads who are deliberating over the gender identification of one of their roommates. But they are gracious and engaged with me and I am grateful that they do not seem the gun-wielding type. Gender angst is not near as threatening to my doorbell ringing as Second Amendment angst.
Apartment complexes are different than sprawling neighborhoods mostly in that you can cover a lot of Narfus (non-response follow up) in one stop. This complex seems to be full of 20- and 30-something males footloose and fancy free on a midweek afternoon. They tend to work – and party – at night, so daytime is a good time to find them home and somewhat coherent.
Whoever laid out this complex had his own to deal with – complex, that is. It is a sprawling non-sequential mess that must make every pizza stone cold upon delivery.
Ah, but the view. Three massive Cascade mountain beauties on the clearest of days and a front row view of the prevailing rains otherwise.
But do they know their neighbors? Not any less than the more secluded (and wealthier) types higher up in the West Hills who work days and sleep nights while these footloose guys lower down the hill clean and guard the office buildings of the upper-crested people.
Potheads One and Two are firm. They don't know anybody, not even their gender-angsted roommate, but especially not the condo next door. Suspicious-acting clean-cut kid verifies his neighbor moved out months ago – and good riddance. He agrees to be a proxy, as if that act could somehow wield vengeance. Maintenance man with a funny European accent won't give me his name to put down for proxy – besides, he suddenly can't remember what he just told me about those tenants.
Proxy is when you stand in for someone else.
As in this apartment is vacant and I, Census Guy, can't vouch for it even though it's obvious through the windows that there's not a stick of furniture in the place. You see, I am the enumerator. I report. I don't verify. I can't be a proxy on my own report.
Neighbors verify. As in we live in community and we care about our neighbors. As in we're willing to take risks and stand in for our neighbors. Nice theory that doesn't work uphill or down.
Guy-in-B2 is quick to tell me his neighbors are there only once a year and otherwise they are in Mexico, or so he says with a where-they-belong sneer.
"Can I put you down as proxy to verify this Mexico place is vacant?"
"No, I don't know anything about the place."
Like a good neighbor.
I try to reassure B2 that any information I take down is strictly confidential for 72 years and I and any of the hundred other people who will handle this apartment information have sworn on oath and turning over of first-born (tempting sometimes) not to divulge. Not that anyone cares except maybe your descendants 72 years from now – if you have any descendants, that is.
Supervisor (later): "Put B2's name down as proxy for his neighbor anyway." He won't know for 72 years.
G4 has big dog, live-in fiancé, no kids. When I left a notice of intended visit yesterday, he told his fiancé he would pull a Saturday Night Live gig on me about census takers. ("80 people live here.") Thus the friendly smirk when he opens the door.
I tell him he can say anything about me as long as he doesn't divulge my actual ID information for at least 72 years. (No such rule applies to my ID, but what does he know?) I'm returning the favor to him as I write. Nice guy. Big dog. Great view. I can't vouch for the fiancé. She wasn't home.
Maintenance guy: "We have 20 illegals in the basement." He doesn't know anything about SNL, but he does know he doesn't want to be proxy. He's pulling the humor-evasion #27 technique.
Funny how few of us in this modern day are willing to proxy for our neighbor. Would make a great parable. Samaritan, anyone?
interesting - my mother always knew about the neighbors even though she said she never looked through the curtains.
ReplyDeleteYou know we've lived in the same house for 25+ years. When we first moved in, we pretty much know everyone on the street in 6 months. Standing, talking in the summer was just something you did with each other. Now, we know maybe 10 of the 25 neighbors. The old crowd will come to a neighborhood watch party but the new people don't come out, don't show up.
ReplyDeleteNow the newer neighbors are younger, probably have more demanding jobs? I don't know, how do you make people be friendly? Maybe too, our neighborhood was a closed circle. Now the fields have been developed and there is more than one way in and out. I don't know