My NRFU Diary - Part 1

I got a laff yesterday at the first day of training for my new career with the Census Bureau. Everyone had to stand up and introduce himself, specifying whether she had ever before worked for the government, revealing what had attracted him to censusing. I have often found it effective in such settings to stand up and say, "My name is John, and I'm an alcoholic," and this was no exception. The neediest member of our...crew of 17 — the one who's forever asking questions just for the joy of getting the instructor's attention — said, "Hi, John," which was a nice piece of work. Those not acquainted with the protocal of 12-step meetings are probably scratching their heads at this point; trust me, though: it was hilarious!

I confessed that I had indeed worked previously for the government, but said that if the other 16 were to know more, I'd have to kill them. When the gales of appreciative tittering died down, I finished by claiming that, while other boys had dreamed of becoming cowboys or firemen or astronauts or Dallas Cowboy tailbacks, I'd always dreamed of being a census...enumerator.

Elsewhere, the laffs were few and far between. Our crew leader is an attractive young woman with the intonation and manner of a kindergarten teacher you'd want your child to have. She revealed sheepishly early on that federal guidelines, or whatever you call them, compelled her to read everything she said to us out of a book, and spewed acronyms. We learned, for instance, that our mission is to conduct NRFUs — Non-Respondent Followups. That is, we're to track down those wanton scofflaws who didn't fill in their census forms earlier in the year and get in person the information they failed to provide the easy impersonal by-mail way.

We learned that PII stands for personally identifiable information, which we are forbidden by law to divulge. We were issued attractive shoulder bags bearing the Bureau of the Census logo and containing pencils, a ballpoint pen with which we were to fill out the never-ending paperwork to which we devoted our morning, pencil sharpeners, erasers, paper clips, and a bunch of informative books. We swore to preserve and protect the Constitution, and were fingerprinted.

It wasn't as glamorous as I've made it sound. It take forever to get that black stuff off your fingertips.

I was reminded of the early summer of 1982, when, just back from three months in the UK and Italy with my future first bride, I — the former king of Los Angeles, the rock critic all America most loved to loathe, a former Warner Bros. recording artist and confidant to the stars, a universal object of female desire — took a job typing forms at UCLA just to get a little (a very little!) money coming in. 'Twas awful and demoralizing then, and it's no more pleasant now, though probably even less so for the out-of-work financier I chatted with during one of our breaks. Life has a knack for teaching a person humility.