Stories from the Census: Southern Hospitality

I hope my mother does not read this blog.

That is to say: I have to admit that sometimes, during the Summer of the Census, the heat just did me in. It addled my brains. It made me make decisions that I would now classify as "poor."

But it was 102 degrees outside all summer, and I was carrying that stupid polyester messenger bag the whole time, and no one ever answered their door, and I was just so damn hot I could have cried.

I knocked on door after door after door. Night came, and morning followed. The fortieth day of enumerating. With a slight delirium settling upon me one afternoon, I banged on one more apartment door and pressed my forehead against a nearby post.

The door swung open, and my eyes met a navel. I gazed upward: a swath of dark skin stretched over a protruding ribcage. Upward again, to crying eagles and Gothic lettering and barbed wire tattooed across a skinny chest and collarbone. Upwards further, to a toothless grin.

"Hey, lady!" said a mildly creepy and very tall man.

I smiled. I showed my badge.

"Census lady!" he said. "Come on in."

Here are things I did not do:

1. Peek my head inside with trepidation
2. Smile and decline sweetly
3. Accept, but then remain safely just inside the doorway
4. Pass GO
5. Collect $200

There was no hemming, hawing, or waffling about like I had done during my first dozen home visits. It was hot and my flesh was melting off of my body. "Oh, thank you!" I said and positively leapt through the doorway into the cold air of the apartment.

I blinked my eyes, adjusting to the dim room. I took in my surroundings, both admiring the decor and formulating an exit strategy should things turn out poorly. Having staked out a secondary exit, I then made a comprehensive mental list of items in the apartment (you know, in case I needed a weapon).

Zebra print rug. Check. Inflatable mattress. Check. Five-foot-tall pyramid built entirely from Red Stripe bottles. Check.

Aaaaand... we're done. That was pretty much it. My new friend, the minimalist, lived a life few could imagine. He also, judging from the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen, was a hell of a cook.

"It smells amazing in here!" I said, peeking over the island into the kitchen. "What are you making?"

"I'm making jambalaya, Miss Lady!" he said. "You want some?" My stomach rumbled.

"There is no way she's saying yes," you may be saying to yourself.

"Yes," I said.

I know! I know. I don't know what I was thinking. I almost never do something my mother would disapprove of. I have watched plenty of terrifying, children-snatching episodes of 20/20 and 48 Hours. I have completed all of the Stranger Danger puzzles in the McGruff workbooks. I have no excuse!

There is no moral to this story except that, when heat-addled and hungry, I make questionable decisions. "Yes, I will take a bite of your potentially-poisoned, delicious-smelling jambalaya, O Half-Naked Red-Stripe-Drinking Stranger," I said. And then I took a bite. Heck, I ate an entire bowlful. It was delicious.