Census Employee Crushed by Typo

As yet another U.S. Postal Service semi-trailer disgorged its entire contents onto the lawn of local widow Nora Justice, the recently hired Census Bureau temp employee stared in disbelief. “They needed counting help 10 hours a week,” Ms. Justice protested. “I can count. Somebody else, obviously, can’t.”

Justice had taken the part-time Census job a month ago after being laid off as a scandal hot-line receptionist for The Nosy Neighbor. “They told me this would be easy. Just open envelopes and feed the forms into a scanner,” she said while watching a front-end loader dump still another heap of Census form envelopes atop the 12-foot high pile now nearly surrounding her house. “Ain’t gonna live long enough to do all these.”

After 3 weeks of 6-days-a-week nonstop truck deliveries, Ms. Justice finally complained. Following a 45-minute wait in line at the post office, then 30 minutes in another line, she described her harried situation. “Sorry, ma’am,” replied the Postmaster. “We deliver. That’s our motto. Signed the oath in blood. Your address is on ‘em, so you’re getting ‘em.” He said the problem was with the sender.

Ms. Justice then called her Census supervisor, but landed in an automated phone tree. “For Spanish, opprima le numero uno. For Français, composez le numéro deux. For German....” Finally, “For English, press 94.” She angrily punched in 9-4. “Geez, how anal can they get?” she thought. The synthesized voice continued, “Speak the name of the person you’re trying to reach.” Justice replied, “Eve L. Deaman.” “I’m sorry,” the robotic voice responded, “I didn’t understand that name. Please try again.” Fifteen tries later, Justice slammed down the phone.

Exasperated, Ms. Justice jumped in her car and stormed over to her Census Bureau boss’s office. “Make it stop,” she pleaded. Deaman was stunned at her predicament. “Oopsy. You should have gotten a few hundred envelopes, not a few hundred truck loads,” she told her. “I’ll get right on it,” Deaman promised.

Finally, one week later, her house no longer visible under the flood of Census envelopes still growing in her yard, Nora got a call from Ms. Deaman. “Got you all straightened out. Just a typo. Soon, no more forms at all. Think you’ll be done with those by a week Friday?”

Ms. Justice was not amused. Then a knock on her front door. “Sorry ma’am, but you’re breaking every ordinance in the book,” the County Deputy barked. “Public nuisance. Illegal dumping. Fire hazard. A whole bunch more. You’ve got 24 hours to get rid of this mess.”

Justice phoned her boss hopping mad. “For Spanish, opprima le numero uno....” “NOOOOooooo,” Justice screamed and cursed. “OK,” she reasoned. “I’ll just go up the food chain.” After digging through the phone book, she called her Congressman. “Thank you for calling our office. To complain in Spanish, opprima le numero uno. For Français, composez....” Nora’s phone exploded into a million pieces as it hit the wall.

Sobbing on her living room floor, Ms. Justice looked up just in time to see the Census mail mountain outside her window begin to tremble, then crash inward, crushing her house. Though knocked flat, she managed to pull her cell phone from her pocket and dial 9-1-1. “Thank you for calling the ‘What’s Your Emergency?’ service. Your call is important to us. For gunshot wounds, press 1. For carjacking, press 2. For robbery, press 3....” Sadly, tragically, Nora expired before her option was reached. “For building collapse, press 892.”

The next day, the Sherriff showed up to haul Ms. Justice off to jail. After an arduous climb, he reached the Census envelope summit and looked down upon the remains of Justice’s house, now overrun by rats and vultures. “Sumbitch,” he shrugged. “We got ourselves here a gen-u-ine disaster. Better call FEMA.”

04.18.10