Theft by Finding

by David Sedaris

  Tonight I paid $5 to watch an Irish performance artist at Margo’s gallery. It’s the money that kills me because this was just the worst—it’s like she followed a formula:

  1. Show slides.

  2. Arrange your various props on the floor.

  3. Use them one by one.

  4. Don’t say a word.

  5. Incorporate blood.

  It was insufferable. The props included a mannequin’s head, feathers, a mound of soil, a shovel, a bell, a few vials. After arranging them just so, she used them, one after another, for an hour. If you’re going to perform wordlessly, you need to wow people with your movement or your music or lighting, but she was not graceful or clever or well prepared. She rolled herself in paper; she fell to the ground. I was so relieved when it ended that I applauded—a mistake, as I don’t think things like this should be encouraged.

  October 28, 1990

  New York

  On Friday night I met Lily on Jane Street and we carried the ladder back to Hugh’s place on Canal. I was excited to be there and decided to have a crush on him. We sat for a while and drank a beer. Scott and Leslie had put up a bird feeder, which was fine until the birds got sloppy with the seeds, and rats showed up. I wanted to stay but had to leave to meet Gretchen, who’d arrived from Providence and needed to be picked up at her friend’s place on 103rd Street.

  October 31, 1990

  New York

  This afternoon I sat in the eighth-floor SantaLand office at Macy’s and was told, “Congratulations, Mr. Sedaris. You are an elf.”

  I return tomorrow at nine thirty for my training schedule, but in the meantime, me and the others who were hired were shown a chart from last year. A third of the names had stars beside them. Those, we learned, were elves Santa had invited back for a second or third year. A woman named Marianne told us she’d had more than her fair share of bad elves. There are various ways of being categorized as bad. “Parents can get cranky,” Marianne said. “Children can get cranky. But an elf cannot get cranky.”

  November 14, 1990

  New York

  Everyone on earth knows I’m an elf. Everyone. Today I went to Feature and met a woman who was talking to Jim and Hudson. I looked around at the show then, and heard her quietly ask, “Is the little elf still here?”

  Hudson gave me flyers for the reading next week. It starts at eight thirty, but I’m supposed to be there by seven forty-five. I have elf training until six that day, so I will need to have my clothes laid out.

  November 20, 1990

  New York

  I read last night at the Kitchen. There were around eighty people there. Hugh came, and Lily. The audience took things pretty seriously, which was disappointing. I was hoping for laughs.

  November 23, 1990

  New York

  This was the official opening day of SantaLand and I worked for eight hours. I started the morning at the Magic Window, then spent time as an exit elf, Santa elf, maze elf, and counter elf. The Santas wear wool suits. They sweat and get heat rashes on their asses and knees. Most of them sit on pillows.

  I get an hour for lunch and a twenty-minute afternoon break. Today I ate in the cafeteria with a she-elf whose husband is a female impersonator. Hmmmm.

  November 25, 1990

  New York

  I was a photo elf yesterday when two men, both in their mid-twenties, came to visit Santa. They didn’t want to sit on his lap or have their pictures taken. Instead, they just wanted to be sensitive. When asked what they wanted for Christmas, one of them said, “I’d like it if some homeless people could have a decent meal.”

  His friend nodded in agreement. “Right on.”

  I stopped listening and fooled around with some stuffed animals on the mantel. When I turned back around, the men were on their way out the door. “And, hey, Santa,” one of them said. “Look after our boys in the Gulf, will you?”

  He said it with such gooey poignancy. Santa and I laughed merrily after they’d left.

  The elf I share a locker with, Keith, invited me to his Bible-study group tomorrow night.

  December 7, 1990

  New York

  Lily and I saw a warning poster outside a small theater that read THIS PLAY WILL LEAVE YOU FEELING SAD AND EMPTY.

  I led a five-year-old boy to Santa’s door and said, “Look at all the toys my master has.”

  The kid was small but sophisticated. “I’ve got more toys than that. To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m very spoiled.”

  I got yelled at twice today, once when I was working as an entrance elf. The job amounts to hustling up visitors, and I thought I did a pretty good job. “Patronize Santa,” I said. “Behold his chubby majesty. Santa was born and raised in a small home. Hail him. Santa’s patience is beyond your comprehension. Come test it.”

  I’d been at it for ten minutes when a manager came by. Then he went and rounded up two other managers and the three of them brought me to the desk for a scolding. I wasn’t saying anything nasty or sexual, though. I just heightened the discourse a little.

  December 10, 1990

  New York

  Walking home I passed two men on 14th Street who were working with long poles, one of which hit me in the nose and drew blood. The man who hit me found it funny and laughed.

  “Hey,” I said. “That really hurt.”

  He laughed all the harder and I asked if now I could hit him in the nose with a long pole so we could be even. I told him he had to apologize, so he did, but it really doesn’t count because I had to ask for it.

  Today a Japanese child came and played his violin for Santa.

  December 29, 1990

  Raleigh

  Tell people you live in New York, and I’ve noticed they’ll offer half a dozen reasons why they don’t live there: the crowds, the high cost of living, the crime. I’m not suggesting they move or anything—far from it. It’s funny how defensive certain people get.

  1991

  January 2, 1991

  New York

  I took the Carey bus from LaGuardia and was crossing 42nd Street when a guy said, “Hey, big man, how about giving me one of those cigarettes?” He was a good six inches taller than me, so I pointed that out and asked why he’d called me big man. “Did you think I’d find it flattering?”

  “Hey,” he said. “That’s just the way I am.”

  I said, “Fine, and this is the way I am.”

  As I walked away he called out after me, “Hey, it’s just a fucking cigarette.”

  “Well, you know me,” I called back.

  In front of Grand Central, a big black guy asked did I want a taxi, and when I said yes, he grabbed my duffel bag and proceeded down the street. I followed and watched as he hailed a cab, threw my bag into the backseat, and demanded a tip.

  I took my bag out of the backseat and hailed another cab. The driver told me that he hates those self-appointed porters. When he hears one of them shake a passenger down for a tip, he rolls down his window and shouts, “You don’t owe him shit! Don’t give him nothing.”

  January 7, 1991

  New York

  I found a PlayGuy magazine in a trash can on West 4th Street and read the letters section, where a college student wrote that six months ago he began drinking his own semen. “The kinkiest thing I ever did was the time I saved up a seven-day output of my cum and put it in a bottle. I went to the cafeteria for dinner, got a salad, pulled my little bottle out of my pocket and put it on the table. When a couple of P.E. majors asked what it was, I told them that it was a high-protein salad dressing my mom had sent me. Several of them asked to share my dressing, which I gladly did. I could barely contain myself as I watched these guys pour my cum on their greens and eat it. Now, some people might think my antics are a bit much. But I enjoy it and it feels good. Isn’t that what sex is all about?”

  “I enjoy it and it feels good” doesn’t really justify his actions, in my opinion. Then again, he can’t honestly have done this, can he?


  February 5, 1991

  New York

  Elaine called last night with a possible job. I’d be working for an Italian woman named Alba who runs a small press and is looking for a personal assistant two days a week, for $10 an hour. I think it involves typing, which might be a problem. On the phone she was enthusiastic, so we’ll see.

  February 7, 1991

  New York

  This afternoon I met with Alba at the Chelsea Hotel, where she rents a room she uses as an office. She’s a trim woman, pretty. Nice clothes, nice accent. When I arrived, she was talking to another trim and beautiful woman, an American, who was planning to attend a twenty-four-hour chanting seminar led by a noted Buddhist. She said she really, really needed to chant and throw out some good energy, that the world would be a better place for it.

  After the American woman left, I looked at a book Alba and her business partner had recently published. I remarked that it was beautifully bound and printed, and Alba sighed, saying, “I am tired now of beauty.”

  My understanding is that the press is more or less a hobby for her. There are parts she enjoys and parts she avoids. I would take care of what she avoids. I admitted that I type with only one finger and have never in my life touched a computer.

  The last person who worked for her was paid $10 an hour. She offered me $7. I said that wasn’t enough and she told me she’d be talking to some other people.

  John Smith is in town and last night we went to the Tunnel Bar. Just before leaving, I stepped in to use the bathroom, which is just one toilet in a room. There is a sink as well, and standing beside it was a fellow I’d seen earlier. He asked my name and then said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Dave. Do you like having your toes sucked?”

  I wanted to say, That’s David. Nobody calls me Dave, but I was so shocked by his question I couldn’t do anything but look down at my feet.

  “I was watching you in the other room, Dave, and stepped in here hoping we could talk. Now here we are, talking.”

  I turned to leave and he put his foot in front of the door, blocking it. “Just hear me out, Dave, because I think you’re really going to like what I have to say. What size shoes are those you’re wearing?”

  I told him they were a 7½ and that my feet are perfectly flat.

  “Good,” he said. “Small, flat feet equals big cock.”

  That’s the most ridiculous equation I’ve ever heard, I thought.

  “I bet you’ve got a very veiny cock, don’t you, Dave?”

  “No more than anyone else,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

  “It’s got a lot of blue veins, doesn’t it, Dave?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let’s just say that it does, OK, Dave?” He told me he was going to take my shoes off and start by sucking my toes, slowly, and that his upper teeth would tap just slightly against my nails—not biting, mind you.

  “We don’t even know each other,” I argued. “Besides, I’m here with a friend visiting from out of town.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll do everything to him that I plan to do to you.”

  He wouldn’t unblock the door until I promised to take it up with John, who was standing out front waiting for me and who said, “What took you so long?” when I finally found him.

  February 11, 1991

  New York

  I took part in three Orchid Shows at P.S. 122. They were all sold out, and the audiences were kind and responsive. On Friday Andy from One Life to Live was in the audience. She plays Max Holden’s sister and gave me her autograph, which read, To David. You were wonderful. Please write for our show.

  I can’t believe it!

  A number of bookers for clubs were there, and the head of P.S. 122 invited me back. Then there were guys, most of whom were dandelions. That’s my name for men with short hair dyed yellow. They almost always have two pierced ears and wear leather jackets. The uniform makes them unappealing to me. That’s what’s good about Hugh. He’s his own person, lookswise.

  After last night’s event I came home and found $350 worth of traveler’s checks I’d never cashed. I was paid $100 per night for the shows, so if I budget, I can pay rent and last at least a short while longer.

  February 24, 1991

  New York

  Today the United States began its ground war in Kuwait. Saddam Hussein said the American troops would drown in their own blood, but they met no opposition and took five thousand prisoners. It’s strange to see the war from New York. I’ve noticed a surprising number of yellow ribbons and posters of American flags with the words THESE COLORS DON’T RUN printed beneath them. Then too you hear “No blood for oil” a lot.

  March 3, 1991

  New York

  I have to get these sculptures off to the Renaissance Society, and I asked Hugh over to take a look and advise me on finishes. He is very handsome, a hard worker, thoughtful. His dad was a diplomat so the family left Kentucky when Hugh was a kid and lived in Ethiopia and Somalia and the Congo. He lived in Paris for five years after graduating from college and is here now, painting.

  Hugh looked at the sculptures and said, “Just oil them.”

  Then we joined Lily, Hugh’s roommates, and another couple at a place in Little Italy. Someone or other knew the bartender, who charged us $20 for $150 worth of drinks. Hugh and I flirted all night. Is that the right word? I drank out of his glass and got him to say that he hated me, which usually means the opposite.

  At the end of the night he said he’d call me later this week. Then he left with Scott and Leslie. I left with Lily in the opposite direction, and when I turned around to look at him, I saw that he’d turned around as well. It was romantic.

  March 15, 1991

  New York

  The Village Voice came out with me in the Choices section. “North Carolina transplant David Sedaris reads his wry, hilarious stories and diaries, withering social comedy leavened by an emphatic eye for the soulful ridiculousness of our behavior.” I’ll never know why they chose me, but still it’s nice. I got the name of the guy who wrote it and have already sent a thank-you letter.

  March 16, 1991

  New York

  I’m down to $190 and am starting to panic. In this situation, I have no business buying pot, but that’s what I did. Scotch too.

  March 19, 1991

  New York

  I worked today for Alba. The person she hired instead of me didn’t pan out, so she called this morning and I was at the Chelsea Hotel by noon. She’d planned for us to spend the day going through the files, but then Cy Twombly invited her to lunch, so I was here on my own. I went through the papers she wanted me to go through and filled out a quarterly tax form. I’ve never in my life done anything remotely close to that. In the end I called an accountant twice. Then I phoned the New York State tax board and asked them what was 8¼ percent of $25. The woman said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t tell you that.”

  Eventually Alba returned from lunch. We were supposed to bring boxes to the house she just bought, a whole house on Bleecker Street, but then Herbert Huncke came to visit. I understand that he’s famous, but I’ve never read any of his writing. The guy is old and in poor health. He spoke slowly and told a dull story. Then a young guy came by and I didn’t much care for him. He dropped a lot of names and seemed annoyed that I didn’t already know who he was.

  March 21, 1991

  New York

  On this, the first day of spring, I am able to shop around and find chicken for 59 cents per pound, coffee for $2.99 a pound, and spaghetti on sale—two boxes for $1. Tonight I’ll have chicken with some squid-ink linguine Hugh brought me. It’s black.

  This spring I am, if I’m not mistaken, in love.

  I’ve started working for a Kentucky man named Jeffrey Lee who is painting a master bedroom at 77th and 5th. I saw splendors today—things I had no idea existed. This apartment is vast, ten rooms, maybe more. Huge rooms with fireplaces and windows lookin
g onto Central Park. The owners are a couple in their mid-forties who have no children. They’ve built a special bathroom for their dogs with a floor that flushes. The two came in this afternoon with their decorator, who lives not far away, in Claus von Bülow’s old apartment. We went over at the end of the day, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. In the living room, or whatever you call the room next to the living room, she had a door-size Sargent painting. Just hanging there.

  Jeffrey Lee wears a big beret and smokes Lucky Strikes and has anxiety attacks. His brother died of AIDS and now he has it too. I asked how he controls his fear of dying and he said, “Drugs”—prescribed drugs, and Jack Daniel’s.

  March 26, 1991

  New York

  I waited for Alba for forty minutes this morning, standing outside her door at the Chelsea. She arrived wearing a tailored suit and worrying that it made her look frumpy. In the end, she changed, then did different things with her hair. Alba can’t wait in line at a restaurant or the post office—she doesn’t have that kind of time. I worked for a few hours, and then she borrowed $50 from the guy at the front desk and we went to an Italian place called Intermezzo that had a $4 lunch special. I paid for my own meal—fine, but I also didn’t charge her for the time I spent waiting, and this when I’m getting $3 an hour less than the last person who did my job.