Fashioning the Body: Versions of the Citizen, the Self, and the Subject

It was nearly empty, being another drizzling Monday night. I liked his looks, the shape of his face, the tiredness in his eyes, his quietness. I found, inevitably, an opportunity to speak to him. I mentioned that I hadn't seen him before and that on a drizzling Monday night mostly just regulars come by.

"I'm from out of town." he said, slightly defensive, or maybe his voice only sounded that way. He looked quite tired, that's for sure.

"What on earth could you be doing here in Fairborn? There's hardly anything here." I said.

"Oh? I haven't looked really. I got here today and I'm leaving early tomorrow."

"On some kind of business?" I asked, very interested now, because there is no business in Fairborn.

Perhaps he saw my question as suspicion. He shifted his body back towards the bar, starring at the bottles lining the wall.

He must've worked hard to look so tired, but I couldn't imagine what work he could find for one day around here.

After a few minutes he turned abruptly back towards me. "I'll tell you, because I'm about to leave and I know you're curious. Although it's all very boring to me. Except on rare occasions."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm a census taker. From Centerville. That's why I'm here."

"Hmm." is all I said.

"You're right," he said. "It's just like that."

In a moment he finished his drink, stood up with some effort, and left. I tried to recall the man's face as soon as he was gone, and I couldn't.

On my way out I asked Andy, who was filling out some business form as he leaned over his little table, if census weren't taken only every ten years.

"Yeah, that's right. Every ten years on the spot." he replied without looking up.

"But it's 1953." I said.

"Yep." Andy replied without pause.

"That strange guy just in here said he was a census taker."

"I don't think so," said Andy, finally bringing his eyes up. "Probably just some drifter."

Probably he was right.