The Census 2000 Money Hole

The American government, in its infinite wisdom, paid and overpaid for everything I did except for the initial testing. I can't remember much about the test except that it was much more difficult than I expected. After all, I thought I was applying for a job counting people not quarks. Nevertheless, at the end of the testing session, the tester informed me that they would call when there was work and gave me a phone number I could call in a few weeks to find out about my test score, which I did. Anything above 77 was passing. I got an 88. So I was happy, waiting for them to call, imagining myself counting people like so many eggs for $18, make that $15 (they lied), an hour.

One day the phone rang and a cheerful voice asked if I could go to a two-day Enumerator (censusese for people counter) Training session at such and such a date and time. First question, “Do we get paid for the training?” “Oh yes, $15 an hour, 8 hours each day.” “Count me in.”

True to form, the training session at the local Police Headquarters started late because the forms hadn't arrived yet. Our jovial teacher tried to keep us amused with personal anecdotes for half an hour. Looking back I know why he was so happy; he had already found out what the rest of us were shortly to discover and that is that in the Census 2000 you “work” five hours and get paid for eight. After the forms finally arrived, we spent the next hour filling them out. There were about 15 of them. It was amazing, not only in sheer quantity, but also how difficult it was for the 40 or so people in attendance.

One financial form was about method of payment, either check through the mail or direct deposit. The teacher and his assistant very convincingly urged us toward the direct deposit method with many horror stories of people waiting months for checks that never came. So I filled out the direct deposit form and turned it in. Finally we got to the actual training and it was time for lunch—one hour. Some bright lad asked, “Do we get paid for lunch?” “Oh no,” the teacher replied wryly, yet at the end of the day we did get paid eight hours for being there from 9:00-12:00 and 1:00-3:00. The key to this wonderful overpayment was how you fill out the daily time sheet: We were instructed at the end of the day to put down 8:30-12:30 and 1:00-5:00. Officially.

After lunch we got down to the brass tacks of counting people and filling out Census Questionnaires. This process involved excruciating repetition. All in all we were only at it a couple of hours when we were told it was time to go home at three o'clock. But, as I mentioned earlier, we would get paid as if we had worked till five o'clock. Jubilation all around.

First thing next morning we were told we needed to have a representative from our bank sign the direct deposit forms we turned in the previous day. As we waited for him to hand them back to us we were told he didn't have them. “OK…how do we get them back?” “When you are called for work your crew leader should have them or you can fill out a new form,” he stated. “Can we have a new form now?” “No, I don't have any more.” This apparently was my initiation into the secrets of government strategy.

Needless to say, I was not called for work and did not receive payment. Numerous calls to the local Census Headquarters got nowhere. One girl told me to go to my bank and get a direct deposit form from them, which I tried to do, but my bank told me my employer had to supply the form. Exasperated, I exclaimed it was for the government, the U.S. Census, I had to have it. Therefore, she hand wrote a note of some sort with my banking information on it. It didn't work. But finally after a month of calling, the money appeared in my checking account. One deposit of $111.21 one week and another $111.21 the next. Why two checks? Billing is always Sunday through Saturday and my training was Saturday and Sunday.

But still no work for me. At one time during this three month period one helpful woman at the local Census Department said to me over the phone, “Oh, hey, everyone's going to be here from 3:00 to 4:00 today for a big meeting. I bet if you come right over before the meeting you could find someone to give you work.” I asked, “Who is everyone?” “All the big wigs,” she replied, “the crew leaders and stuff.” That sounded too much like begging or something. It was creepy and strange. I didn't want to do that and besides, it was pretty far away. It would take too long and I might not make it on time anyway. That was the only “job” offer I received until after the Census was over.

Around mid-June a message on my phone machine asked if I wanted to work for the U.S. Census 2000. It had to be a joke; they had already announced the results on television. I didn't call back. A week later there was another call and it turned out they did want me. Not for work, but for another training. Unbelievable. I told her I already had the Enumerator Training; I just never got a call to actually work. “This is a different training,” she explained, “although I think you would be doing something similar. It is a follow-up census.” From previous experience I knew it was pointless to press for further information. She stated that it was a three-day training at $15 an hour, 8 hours a day. If history repeated itself, I would take home a cool $333 for sitting somewhere for approximately 15 hours. No need to worry about payment I was thinking, I'm already in the system. I said, “Count me in again.”

About 12 people were gathered at the appointed place and time when I arrived. The trainer was there too, but guess what? We had to wait because the forms hadn't arrived yet. So the trainer amused us with personal anecdotes for half an hour. Maybe that is part of their job description, “must be able to amuse people for a half an hour while waiting for forms to arrive.” Along with her monologue, we learned we were going to be taught basically the same things we were taught before (there was only one person who hadn't already gone through a training). When the forms finally arrived, they were identical to everything we had been given the first time, including all the financial employment forms. “Do we really have to fill these forms out again?” I implored, “I'm already in the direct deposit system.” “Yes,” she stated calmly, “this is a different program. You must fill out all the forms again. I strongly suggest you use the direct deposit method of payment.” There was no use protesting. At least this time she told us right away to have the form signed by a bank employee. So if the day proceeded as before, we'd be out by 3:00 and I could go to my bank. Which was just how it happened.

Weeks went by again and no one called, but at least this time I got paid when they said I would. So I was thinking, if they never call it would just make perfect sense, I will have received a total of $555 for learning something that I will never use and which could have been taught in one day for $111. That's a 400 percent markup. Probably dead-on by government standards.  Finally I did get a call to work—on July 4. Somehow that seemed so fitting. They told me to report to my local Census Department at 10:00 AM. I tried to tell her that at the training we were told to report to a crew leader and would not be going to the Department. She calmly stated, “Welcome to the Census, that has all been changed. You need to come here every day to pick up and drop off your work.” I exclaimed, “You mean that office way out west?” “Oh yes, that office everyday.” I thought I might as well go; by the time I got there tomorrow the whole thing would probably be closed anyway.

It was with serious doubt that I went the next morning, but to my surprise there were people there and they knew what I was talking about. I sat down at a table across from a smiling young man who rather nonchalantly asked me how many forms I would like. I explained that this was my first time so he gave me nine official Census questionnaires to be followed up and completed. Real work. All the addresses on my questionnaires were in a three block radius of Wrigley Field. Around six that evening, with my official U.S. Census 2000 bag, over my shoulder I was ready to make my first house call.

It was with some fear that I rang that first doorbell, but mostly what I felt was amazed amusement. After all that time, I was actually about to start counting people. There was no answer. Just as well, I left a notice that I had been there and would return. Without going into detail, by the end of about an hour and a half I had tried to contact all nine residences and had actually completed four forms. But the dark underbelly of the follow-up Census 2000 had revealed its threatening form to me: All my respondents said they had already filled out and returned their Census forms and were fairly upset to be bothered again. As the next few days went by I bothered a number of people who said they had actually been visited by two, and in some cases three other Census workers.

What was more interesting was the ingenious way I was instructed to fill out the daily payment form. When I returned to the department the morning after my first day, a cheerful worker asked if I had included travel time on my payment form. “Yes” I replied, “half an hour for going to the location as I was told I could do.” He happily informed me I could count one half hour each way and also one hour for my time to and from the Department every day. So I smiled back at him and thanked him while he helped me fill out a new daily payment form. Here is how it worked out; I spent 30 minutes going to and from the Department yet received one full hour of pay; I counted people for one and a half hours but got paid for two and a half. So I worked two hours total and got paid for four and this is what happened for the whole six days I actually worked for the Census. On the sixth day I called as usual to find out if there was more work and was informed that the Census was over, and I should return all my complete or incomplete questionnaires immediately.

Surprised at that news, I drove to the Department the next morning with my forms, my official U.S. Census bag, about 15 pounds of reference manuals, instruction books, forms, papers, and more forms. I turned in my final daily payment form and proceeded to hand over the bag with the stuff. She looked at me with a slightly irritated and confused expression, “What I am I supposed to do with that?” she asked me. “How do I know?” I exclaimed, “It just seemed like you would want it.” Grudgingly she accepted the stuff and I left for the last time.

About three weeks later, an official letter from the U.S. Census Department arrived for me, indicating that I must return all Census forms and paraphernalia under penalty of law. Laughingly, I threw the letter out, musing how perfect an ending that was to my experience with the government. Next day I received two more exactly identical letters, each individually stamped and postmarked. I bet three happy clerks in three separate departments mailed each one separately at the same time. All according to government regulations.                               Z

Virginia Meredith is a painter. She has a masters degree from the Art Institute of Chicago.