Making Sense of the Census

What I like most about the taking of the census is that it’s fair. Once every ten years everybody counts and everybody counts the same:

One.

Even Bo Derek. Imagine, Bo Derek a "one." Somehow, I can’t imagine that.

Something else I like about the census: It’s thorough. Most Americans probably mailed in their census reports April 1, but canvassers soon will be going into places like pool halls, dives, and fleabag hotels in big cities to count heads.

That is important because, otherwise, a pool shark or a wino could be missed. The last time there was a census, for instance, my boyhood friend and idol, Weyman C. Wannamaker, Jr., a great American and part-time pool shark and wino, wasn’t counted. He was taking a nap (passed out) underneath a load of turnips in the back of his pickup truck when the census-taker came around.

I can’t wait for the results of the census to be released. I realized a great deal of the information we gave the government is supposed to be kept confidential, but this census thing is costing the taxpayers a bundle, so why shouldn’t we be privy to some of the juicier material?

I just happen to have with me a list of questions I would like answered by the census:

• The 1980 census had the audacity to ask people if they have indoor plumbing. Did any of my neighbors mark "no"? (I have suspected the Bloomingraths. They spend an awful lot of time going back and forth to Mr. Bloomingrath’s "tool shed," and they never have any beer parties.

• Does anybody really live in North Dakota?

• What is the population of my hometown Moreland, Georgia? The last time there was a census taken, there were 300-plus, but that was before the Rainwater family moved out. (There were so many Rainwaters, they ran out of names for the last four children and had to name them after dogs in the neighborhood. "Spot" Rainwater was one of my closest friends.)

• How many teenagers are there in America, and when will they all grow up so rock music will finally die out?

• Ten million people live in New York City, where the air is foul, the streets are dirty and the weather is terrible. Hardly anybody lives in Yellville, Arkansas, where the mountain air is refreshing, there are many streams and rivers for fishing and boating and swimming naked, and you don’t have to lock your doors at night. Why?

• Who is the oldest person in America, and has he or she ever jogged?

• Under "sex" how many people put down "undecided," and are any of them in my tennis club?

• How many people in America are named "Englebert Humperdink"?

• Did the name "D.B. Cooper" show up anywhere?

• When is my wife’s birthday?

• And, finally, just exactly how many people do live in this country, and with the government doing the counting, how can I be certain that figure is correct?

I can’t. If the government knew beans about simple arithmetic, it wouldn’t just now be balancing its own checkbook for the first time since it was taking the 1960 census. Incidentally, they missed Weyman C. Wannamaker, Jr. in 1960, too. He hid in the family "tool shed," which used to be none of the government’s damn business.