Theft by Finding

by David Sedaris

  He was wearing a leather jacket, just trying to be funny.

  “It’s nice to know you think you can paint like that,” Stephen L. said. “But I don’t really care.”

  The guy’s face turned so red, it actually threw off heat. Now he’s branded as the class knucklehead. Between working for Harry, school, and the play, I worry I’ll lose my private reading time at the IHOP.

  September 15, 1984

  Chicago

  Harry and I are close to finishing the job on West Armitage. I worked in the living room today, putting tung oil on trim and talking to the painter, Mr. Johnston, who is forty-seven and has nine children and six grandchildren. He’s black and wore white pants with no shirt. Mr. Johnston has a huge stomach and told me that he has all kinds of girlfriends. “You don’t need to be young or handsome,” he said. “You just got to know the secret to unlock a woman’s mind.”

  The secret, I learned, is “Hit ’em.”

  “The harder you do it, the harder they’ll love you,” he said. “A woman will always crawl back after a good beating.”

  He invited me to listen while he called one of his girlfriends on the phone. “Listen here, Joyce,” he told her. “I want you to bring that pussy of yours to Milwaukee and Cicero at ten o’clock tonight.”

  He said the secret is to talk shit because ladies love it—that and beatings. The front door was off the hinges, and when a woman came up the stairs, Mr. Johnston turned to me and winked, as if to say, Watch this.

  “I’ll have to paint your apartment next,” he said to her as she passed. “Maybe we can work out a deal.” When the woman smiled politely, he stuck out his tongue and made a quick licking gesture. She was in her late twenties and was carrying a bag of groceries from an expensive store. She was dressed in a suit and was so clearly not a prostitute, it was ridiculous. The woman entered the apartment across the hall, and after she had closed the door behind her, Mr. Johnston told me he had her in the palm of his hand, that she was his for the taking. As he said this, I heard three clicks—one lock after another being secured. That’s how interested she was.

  September 25, 1984

  Chicago

  There was a long line at the Sheridan L station ticket window this morning. It was raining and I was carrying a big bag with paint and brushes in it. Off to the side of the booth, a black woman stood talking to a policeman. She was in her twenties, maybe, and plump. Her clothes were plain and she was pointing at a man who was standing nearby and calling him a motherfucker. She said it three times, and her voice got progressively louder. She told the cop that she had to get to school, that it started at nine, and that he, the cop, was making her late.

  When she tried joining the ticket line, the officer grabbed her. She broke free, and he trapped her in a corner and held his arms out to block her. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she yelled. “I didn’t do nothing and I gots to get to school.”

  The cop twisted her arm, and she kicked him and made a break for the turnstile. I guess her plan was to squeeze in underneath it, but she was too big. The cop grabbed her again, and this time she bit him. “Somebody help me!” she yelled. Again she went for the turnstile, thinking—what, exactly—that once on the other side, she’d be home free?

  The cop pulled out his walkie-talkie and recited a code. The young woman was hysterical by this time. Maybe she’d done nothing wrong. What did we know? The line moved more quickly once he got her cornered again. From up on the platform, we could still hear her screaming that she didn’t do nothing, that she had to get to school, that she just wanted to be left alone.

  October 28, 1984

  Chicago

  The first night of the play, back in the dressing room, Ken and I drank a pint of Scotch. The second night it was vodka. He was a nervous wreck both times, but then, he wrote the script and was responsible in a way I wasn’t. We had never performed for more than three people and weren’t sure where the laughs might come. Plus we’d rehearsed for so long, we’d forgotten certain things were funny. Both shows were sold out, and hopefully they’ll be next Friday and Saturday as well.

  December 7, 1984

  Chicago

  There’s a woman in my writing class named T. who was pregnant at the start of the quarter and had her baby a few weeks ago. Every so often over the past few months, she’d make a comment, but she’s never read any of her writing out loud. I can’t help but think she was drunk or stoned today. She said out of nowhere that she would like her story read and that Rose would be the one to do it. “I’m tired of hearing all this average stuff,” she told us. “It’s time for something good.”

  Rose started and was stopped by T. a few seconds into it. “You didn’t give people time to relax,” T. said, slurring her words a bit.

  The story, when Rose finally got to it, was about a young woman dressing for a lesbian party. She has recently decided she is attracted to women and wears jeans and cowboy boots. Once dressed, she leaves the house. The end.

  T. was angry that the story wasn’t longer. “It seemed longer when I wrote it,” she said. Then she blamed Rose for reading too quickly and making it sound less substantial. She told the class that she herself is a lesbian and that none of us could relate because we’re all afraid to confront our gayness.

  People in the class looked at one another, not knowing what to say. The women weren’t too keen to learn they were all insecure lesbians masquerading as heterosexuals. T. criticized people who think realism is using the word shit. She went on and on until someone told her to shut up. Then she put her head on her desk and fell asleep. She even snored.

  December 25, 1984

  Raleigh

  For Christmas I received:

  The Joy of Cooking

  Family Dancing by David Leavitt

  six pairs of underpants

  a shirt from Gretchen

  Fiestaware salt-and-pepper shakers

  a box of pastels

  $2 in cash

  a check for $125

  December 28, 1984

  Raleigh

  Amy, Tiffany, and I sat in the kitchen and talked until three thirty this morning. One of the things we laughed about was an old episode of The Newlywed Game. The host asked the wives, “What’s the most exotic place you’ve ever made love?” He was likely expecting “The kitchen” or “On a tennis court at night,” but one woman didn’t quite understand the question and answered, “In the butt.”

  1985

  January 9, 1985

  Raleigh

  Since I’ve been home for Christmas vacation, Paul has been leaving notes on the kitchen counter that say Please wake me up at 7:30. Signed, David.

  Last night Mom made lemon tarts for dessert. Paul took an empty shell and filled it with cold mashed potatoes. Then he topped it with whipped cream and fooled me with it. Mom is making him put down a $20 deposit every time he takes her car.

  January 10, 1985

  Raleigh

  Amy and I went from her apartment to the A&P. It was late, and as we walked back through the parking lot to the car, an old woman approached and asked us for a ride home. Her name was Eunice, and she settled into the backseat, saying, “Don’t worry, baby. I ain’t gonna sit on your tapes.”

  On our way to her place she pointed out landmarks—the Johnsons’ house, for instance. She told us that for years she worked as their housekeeper but lost the job when she had to go to New York and check on some furniture.

  Eunice said we looked like nice people. That’s why she’d asked us for a ride.

  “You look nice too,” we said. And she promised us that she was.

  When we dropped her off, Eunice told us that we should come back in the summertime and visit her. She pointed to a space in her dark yard and told us that in warm weather that’s where we could find her, sitting under the yum-yum tree.

  February 1, 1985

  Chicago

  There is a blind black fellow who comes into the IHOP once a week and has a friend who is also bl
ind. Neither of them wears dark glasses, and one of them speaks very formally. Tonight a Bill Withers song came over the sound system, and the one guy said to the other, “It may interest you to know that we can expect a new LP from this gentleman in the near future.”

  When his chicken arrived, the waitress, Barbara, cut it up for him.

  February 8, 1985

  Chicago

  There was a man at the IHOP tonight who had on two hats at the same time. The base was a stocking cap, and over it was a red floppy thing a woman might wear to a garden party. The waitress, Mary, ignored the guy at first. Then she took his order but made him pay in advance. He wanted coffee with his eggs, and when, after ten minutes or so, he still hadn’t gotten it and asked politely when it might arrive, Mary snapped at him and said that she was busy, OK? It made me uncomfortable to watch her be so rude.

  Had she had trouble with him in the past? Did it have anything to do with his two hats?

  February 16, 1985

  Chicago

  Tonight I saw police and an ambulance on the corner of Irving and Sheridan. There was a man lying on the curb, facedown in the snow. Had he been hit by a car? His shirt and jacket were up above his waist and the crack of his ass was showing. Maybe he was dead. I don’t know for certain.

  February 24, 1985

  Chicago

  Mary at the IHOP has been on a rampage lately, throwing people out left and right. Tonight two men walked in and she pointed to the door, saying, “Beat it!” One of the guys was thin and the other was obese and wore a V-neck sweater that wasn’t long enough to cover his stomach. The thin fellow wore glasses and had been thrown out before.

  “You can’t discriminate against us,” he said. Then he asked for Mary’s name.

  She refused to give it, and he said he knew the owners of all the IHOP restaurants in America. He said he’d write a letter and she could kiss her job good-bye. Adios.

  Mary said that would be fine by her, and when the men took a step closer, two cops seated at a rear table intervened and told them that they had to leave.

  “Yeah,” Mary said to the larger of the two men, “get the hell out of here, fatso.”

  July 10, 1985

  Chicago

  The meal on my flight back from Raleigh was a kind of Oriental barbecue. Across the aisle were two men who complained about having to sit in the back of the plane. They said it was unfair that the niggers got to sit in the front. One of the men had three bourbon and waters. Before we landed, the stewardesses used pincers to hand out hot towels that smelled like they’d been steamed in a dishwasher.

  July 28, 1985

  Chicago

  Odd family at the IHOP tonight. A big, loud husband who announced when he came in that his wife was pregnant and needed some pancakes. Barbara came to take his order and he gave her the once-over. “Looking good, looking good!” He put an arm around his young son and said that eating dinner with his family was one of the greatest joys of a man’s life.

  My favorite couple sat not far away. They’re old, and it took me months to figure out if they were a man and a woman or two women. Now I know that they’re brother and sister. The two are very kind and always ask after Barbara’s health. Tonight the brother ordered chocolate chip pancakes. Then he picked up the syrup and asked if you pour it over the top, as if he’d never seen a pancake before.

  The family man, meanwhile, called out for more butter.

  “I’ve got some here I’m not using,” the old brother said. “Needless to say, you probably wouldn’t want to eat off someone else’s plate. It’s clean, though. I haven’t touched it.”

  “That’s OK,” the family man said. It was interesting how he changed over the course of the meal. As they left he scolded his wife for leaving a big tip. Then he turned to his young son and said, “She just loves to throw my fucking money away.”

  July 29, 1985

  Chicago

  Tiffany has moved in with a piano player named Mike. They’re living in Queens and selling cocaine to make money. Before this she worked at Macy’s for a Belgian chocolate company. I think hers is what you call a checkered career.

  August 17, 1985

  Chicago

  I saw an interview with one of the few surviving passengers of the Delta Flight 191 crash—a woman. She had been visiting with a friend in the smoking section when they went down. Being in the back of the plane saved her life. On the news, she said, “I’m going to start smoking and stop flying.” She had a cigarette in her hand and was holding it awkwardly, like the beginner she is.

  August 26, 1985

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Ted’s mother is in love with Lorne Greene and has watched all of his television programs, even Battlestar Galactica. Now she lives from one Alpo commercial to the next.

  Here are a few of the Yellow Pages listings under Cactus:

  Cactus Camera

  Cactus Carpet

  Cactus Car Wash

  Cactus Catering

  Cactus Candy Company

  Cactus Chemical Company

  Cactus Animal Hospital

  Cactus Beverage

  Cactus Vending

  Cactus Preschool

  Cactus Air-Conditioning

  Cactus Wren Party Goods

  Cactus Wren Mobile Park

  Cactus Wren Drain & Sewage

  September 8, 1985

  Chicago

  The woman we’ve started refinishing woodwork for keeps a load of reading materials in a basket beside the toilet. These include Crochet Fantasy, Charisma (“For Dynamic Spirit-Filled Living”), Medical Abstracts Newsletter, Farm Computer News, and Jackpotunities.

  On the street, a prostitute in a jean jacket asked if I wanted a good date. I’m always amazed when they mistake me for a straight man.

  Tonight at the IHOP I overheard Mary talking to a policeman. She started by saying that she hates Africans. They’re demanding, she claimed, and they don’t know how to drive. She said that she stands behind South Africa and hopes they do not change their policies. She’s maybe thirty, Mary, short and pretty with an athletic walk.

  September 9, 1985

  Chicago

  Ted H. is my painting teacher. He says “Yeah” to mean “Isn’t that so?” and has gray curly hair. At the start of class he said that no question was a stupid question. So I raised my hand and asked if we could use part of the room as a smoking section.

  He said “No” twice, and several of my fellow students whispered, “Good.” One of these, a woman, was wearing a smock with the signatures of famous artists printed on it: Matisse, van Gogh, Rousseau. She had brought four of her paintings to class, large landscapes, and leaned them beside one another against the wall.

  Later in the afternoon, Ted took us to the museum and talked about de Kooning. I like how worked up he got. Signature Smock glared at me the entire time we were in the museum, though I don’t know why.

  October 1, 1985

  Chicago

  I read a National Examiner article about Christina Onassis, who has apparently gone to a weight-reduction farm. She’s trying her best, but still they referred to her as a “lardy lass” and, worse still, “that Greek tanker.”

  October 17, 1985

  Chicago

  I stayed up all night and worked on my new story. Unfortunately, I write like I paint, one corner at a time. I can never step back and see the whole picture. Instead I concentrate on a little square and realize later that it looks nothing like the real live object. Maybe it’s my strength, and I’m the only one who can’t see it.

  October 20, 1985

  Chicago

  On Thursday the Cherokee Nation elected their first woman leader. Her name is Wilma Mankiller.

  Kim’s husband gets his hair cut at a place called Blood, Sweat, and Shears.

  October 24, 1985

  Chicago

  Before leaving school tonight I reexamined the painting of a briefcase I’ve been working on and got depressed. It looks like it was
done by a seventh-grader. At the end of class I signed it Vic Stevenson. That’s the name of the motel manager in the story I’m writing. Between now and my critique, I have to come up with some sort of justification for this painting. Ted, the teacher, is one tough customer and will chew me up and spit me back out again if I’m not on top of things.

  October 26, 1985

  Chicago

  In the park I bought dope. There was a bench nearby, so I sat down for a while and took in the perfect fall day. Then I came home and carved the word failure into a pumpkin.

  October 28, 1985

  Chicago

  Critiques get depressing when you realize that everyone’s just waiting for his or her own turn. It’s a monologue as opposed to a dialogue. “All of a sudden I realized that you don’t ‘arrive’ at Milton Avery, you pass through him,” a landscape painter said today. This was after she’d pulled herself together. Before this, she’d cried. “I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to do it.”

  One guy, Will, shook his painting up and down, insisting that it was not a painting of a beer can but an actual beer can. The longer I’m in school, the more exhausting these critiques become. I went overboard, I think, but it wasn’t until later, getting high at home, that I realized how embarrassed I should be. After presenting what I called “my line of products,” I read out loud something I’d written about the IHOP. Ted said that my paintings are basically signs. “We do not enter their space, they enter ours.” That seems about right.