Theft by Finding

by David Sedaris

  While I was gone, the play continued. William said that the shows went well but that the audiences were on the small side, six to eight people per night.

  October 16, 1991

  New York

  Amy and I walked up 8th Avenue to Intermezzo, where Hugh and his friend Sue were having lunch. “Here you are!” Amy shouted. “Just what do you think you’re doing? You can’t afford to be eating here, not when I’ve got a five-month-old baby waiting in the car. And wine too! You’re drinking wine! I hate being your sponsor, I really do.”

  Everyone stared and Hugh turned bright red.

  Afterward I went to Macy’s, where I filled out umpteen forms, peed into a jar, and had my eyes tested. This year, as a returning elf, I’ll make $9 an hour. Regular Christmas help gets only $6.

  October 28, 1991

  New York

  Last night was the final performance of the play (Jamboree). The house was packed so we brought in extra chairs. Unfortunately we brought too many, meaning that, once again, we had empty seats. In the end the audience numbered sixty-four, which was great, the biggest so far.

  Afterward we struck the set and then came home to cook chicken, which we ate at three thirty in the morning.

  The night before that, I performed at P.S. 122 as part of their Avant-Garde-Arama. The house was sold out, and though we were told to limit ourselves to twenty minutes, most people went on much longer—a trio of girls, for instance, who slowly rolled a hundred oranges across the floor.

  I’m having a bad run as far as readings are concerned. I was bad at the Nuyorican and bad at P.S. 122. Next Monday I’m at La MaMa, and then Ward-Nasse, followed by a benefit, followed by two weeks of Orchid Shows, and then another gallery. I stretch myself too thin and wind up with tiny houses.

  November 1, 1991

  New York

  Hugh and I moved into our new apartment last night, but I screwed up and we won’t have phone service until the twelfth, and that’s if we’re lucky. I thought they could turn it on from some office somewhere, but instead they have to make a special trip that should have been scheduled weeks ago. I was supposed to do this last month but I didn’t. I fucked up.

  After paying this month’s rent and giving Rusty the money I owed him, I’m left with $40. I might make some at La MaMa this week, but without a way for people to call me, I’m screwed.

  November 3, 1991

  New York

  Amy and I met Jeff and Tina for a drink last night at El Teddy’s, the fancy Mexican place in Tribeca that sometimes feels exciting and sometimes feels awful. Last night it was the latter. I was standing in front of a woman who was seated at the bar, waiting on friends, and said to her, “Excuse me,” as I reached over and dunked a tortilla chip in salsa. I then put it in my mouth and was chewing away when she said, “Hey, you got tomato stains on my pants.”

  I looked down and watched as she stabbed at the red spots with a wet napkin. She was super-angry, like this was the last straw. Her friends weren’t showing up, the place was too crowded, and now some idiot had spilled salsa on her new tan slacks.

  “Oh, gosh,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry about your pants.” With the letter p, a shard of tortilla chip flew from my mouth right into the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. “Now you spit on me!”

  She wanted me dead, and it only got worse when her friends showed up. I caught her pointing at me, the creep who ruined her outfit and then spat on her.

  November 5, 1991

  New York

  I talked to Mom this afternoon, called her from Alba’s phone. She’s lost six pounds this week. The chemo and radiation make her nauseated and she recently finished a meal after going five days without one. She checks her comb for hairs that have fallen out but so far hasn’t found any. I’d expected her to be down and depressed, but she was full of good hospital stories.

  November 9, 1991

  New York

  It costs 10 cents to enter the children’s zoo in Central Park so I bought a ticket and saw a litter of albino mice gathered around their mother. There were twenty-two of them, newborn and hairless, pink like pencil erasers. Later I walked to the library and came away with the new Ronnie Milsap biography. “Your mother’s twin,” I said to Hugh when I got home, though of course she looks nothing like him. Ronnie Milsap is blind. His grandfather’s name was Homer Frisbee.

  Our neighbor Helen came to the door this morning holding a takeout carton filled with chicken. Hugh was written on top of it in big letters. The other day she brought him a pound of sausage. The day before that it was a turkey meat loaf and a gallon of milk. Hugh gave her a dozen roses, but she returned them, saying she’s allergic. It seems important that no one ever repays her, that the other person is always in her debt. Last week she accepted a few flashlight batteries but that was a first.

  “What do you say?” she growled after handing me the chicken this morning. “You say, ‘Thank you, Helen.’”

  She’s something else, this woman.

  I worked for Alba, who was sick, throwing up all day. At a party last night she had eleven Bellinis, those peach-and-Prosecco cocktails. These were followed by three tallboys. Yikes. You’d think an adult would know better: Beer on wine, you’re fine. Wine on beer, stand clear. But eleven Prosecco cocktails should not precede anything, not even a twelfth.

  November 14, 1991

  Raleigh

  Mom died last night, suddenly, of pneumonia brought on by her chemotherapy. Amy called to tell me, and now we’re all in Raleigh. Dad gave us the option of seeing her laid out at the funeral home, but I was afraid to go. We all were. How strange to be in her house and see her things—the half-worked crossword puzzle, her mail and stockings. She didn’t expect to die yesterday, did she?

  When it happened, Hugh and I were in our kitchen in New York. He was making manicotti and talking about a wooden chicken he’d bought when I got socked by the weirdest feeling. I thought that Hugh was going to die, and I must have said something because he accused me of being dramatic. I can’t believe this has happened.

  November 21, 1991

  New York

  The other night we were visited by Father Regis, the new priest at the Greek Orthodox church. He came to get an idea of what our mother was like and took a cue from the unfinished thousand-piece puzzle spread out across the dining-room table. For the past few days we’ve been working on it—just something to do with our hands as we sat around talking. “Oh,” the priest said when he saw us. “I see you’re finishing this in memory of your dear departed mother, God rest her soul.”

  He made it sound so hokey.

  November 22, 1991

  New York

  I had elf training today, from one to four. The filmstrips about safety and theft I remember from last year, but there was a new one about shoplifting narrated by a guy in prison. The walls of his cell were scarred and ugly, and after he spoke we heard from the cashier who had seen him steal and alerted security, thereby earning a $500 bonus.

  For most of the day I sat beside Richard, whom I met last year. He’s older than me but lives with his parents. All his talk is about cute guys.

  November 23, 1991

  New York

  I really outdid myself last night. After three martinis, five beers, and two joints, I fell asleep on the kitchen floor. There was a sofa three feet away, but I couldn’t manage the walk, I guess. I’ve been getting high since Thursday, and the drinking is out of control. Since waking up I’ve felt like shit—headache, hot flashes, chills—and to make it worse, I spent the day on a scaffold, helping Mark and Lily paint a restaurant. I was hoping that maybe I’d fall, get amnesia, and forget that I drink.

  December 2, 1991

  New York

  Someone threw up outside of SantaLand and covered it over with a paper bag. I saw the bag lying there on the floor, and when I picked it up I got vomit on my hands.

  December 22, 1991

 
New York

  SantaLand is filthy now. I loaded a large bag with trash this morning: disposable diapers filled with crap, cans, bottles, mittens, destroyed bits of the various displays. Yesterday a woman had her son pee into a cup, which of course tipped over. “That’s fine,” I said, “but Santa’s also going to need a stool sample.”

  December 31, 1991

  New York

  Before catching the plane to Raleigh on Christmas Eve, I worked. We were packed, and I photo-elfed for five and a half hours before getting my break. At the beginning I was paired with Santa Howard. He always asks the children what they plan on leaving him, and I laughed when a kid hesitated a moment before saying, “Matches?”

  Actually, for a pipe smoker, it’s not a bad little gift.

  Christmas was hard. Luckily Hugh was there to help with the cooking. When Mom was around, we’d remain at the dinner table for hours, but this year we all scattered the moment we finished eating. Included in this year’s gifts were many things our mother had bought us, mainly from catalogs, which was rattling.

  Dad wants to talk about her death—he needs to—but unlike the rest of us, who yak incessantly about our feelings, he has no vocabulary for it and is reduced to the clichés you’d find on a sympathy card. It’s like not knowing a language.

  He also doesn’t know how to shop.

  1992

  January 13, 1992

  New York

  Looking into the future lately, I see nothing but a mess. I think I peaked in 1988, and it’s all downhill now. How awful, to decline this way. What makes young people young is that they see themselves going up, up, up. Not me, though. I’m old now.

  January 15, 1992

  New York

  From nine to three I moved furniture and from four to eight I sanded floors, so I’m beat but glad to have worked and made $90. In the morning I was with Richie and learned that he lives with a man named Herman who is gay and has AIDS and owns a satanic-supply shop. Herman has a thing for convicts and is currently courting one of the defendants in the Howard Beach case. Richie, who has been in prison himself, lives rent-free and takes care of the dogs. He has a voice like Jackie Gleason’s, so it surprised me to learn that he was gay. It seems he has appeared in several pornographic movies. “I’m a top,” he said. “I know everybody says that, but I really am.”

  January 20, 1992

  Bridgehampton, New York

  I woke up to snow this morning. While Hugh and Lily painted, I continued the Elvis Presley biography. Toward the end of his life, they practically needed a crane to lift him out of bed. He was so doped up and obese and out of it. His windows were covered to keep things dark. Drugs had paralyzed his colon, so he had to take lots of laxatives. Often he shit in his sleep. His bedroom smelled awful and he hated taking baths and showers. He was just this lump, apparently, not mean or cruel. Reading the book, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. If I were that wealthy I’d probably be the same and take drugs until I died.

  Lying in bed last night, I imagined that Elvis said to me, “David, I need your help.”

  So I said, “All right,” and together we turned his life around. Elvis used to eat a pound of bacon every morning along with a six-egg Spanish omelet and biscuits. At night he’d have many cheeseburgers and loads of mashed potatoes with gravy. He’d talk and watch TV while he ate, and when his food got cold he’d call out for more.

  February 9, 1992

  New York

  Hugh sat me down today and said, gently, that while I whine and sulk, I don’t do much of anything when it comes to finding steady work. “Do you think that someone’s going to knock on the door and offer you a job?”

  And I said that of course that’s what I thought. Doesn’t he know anything? I don’t make things happen—that’s not my way. Rather, I wait around and settle for whatever comes along.

  February 10, 1992

  New York

  Admin Asst Dream Job

  WORK FOR A STAR Gal/Guy Friday

  all around exec asst.

  Answer fan mail

  Admin duties. Lite typing

  MADEMOISELLE 16 E 40th St

  I saw this in the New York Times and thought, Honestly, that is my dream job—answering fan mail at Mademoiselle magazine. I shaved, threw on clean clothes, and went to apply, not feeling intimidated the way I normally do but thinking, Out of my way. This is mine. I suppose I wondered who at the magazine got fan mail, but it didn’t really matter. Whatever the letter, I’d answer it. Mainly I pictured Hugh’s face when I greeted him with the news: “I got a job, and it’s perfect.”

  When I arrived at the office and saw fifteen other people applying, I still wasn’t worried. The application asked what experience I had and listed various computer programs. Did I know Lotus? Quark? Would I be interested in paying $70 to take a class in either one of these? The room was big and we sat on a built-in sofa as the movie The Fabulous Baker Boys played on two TV sets. I heard the receptionist call someone’s name, then say, “You can step in now for your typing test.”

  Furious clattering noises came from the place where the test was being administered, and I thought, Fuck. After thirteen years, I can still only type with one finger. I’m fast with it, but I can’t lift my eyes from the keyboard. Taking a test was out of the question, so I approached the receptionist. She asked what job I was applying for, and when I said answering fan mail, she said I needn’t worry. “Just sit back down.”

  When I was called for my interview, the woman, whose last name was Pizza, told me that the job was already taken. “But have you temped before?” That’s when I realized this was Mademoiselle Temporary Services, not Mademoiselle magazine. I told her I hadn’t taken the typing test and she said sometimes companies just wanted someone to answer the phone. That said, they’d probably want someone with a nice voice and the face to go with it.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said.

  When I got back to the apartment, the phone rang. It was Dad, who told me I should try to get work as a model. I told him he was being ridiculous and he said no, he’d just been at the barbershop and saw a GQ magazine with a guy on the cover who looked just like me. So I went to the newsstand and found a copy and the person on the cover was not a model but Gary Oldman.

  February 11, 1992

  New York

  On Friday at two thirty I have an appointment at the World Trade Center, a part-time job moving furniture around in an office. I get these little fantasies going. Passing some place or other, I’ll think of working there, and then suddenly it’s as if I have the job. And it’s a great place. Everyone’s friendly and terrific.

  I passed the Duplex on 7th and Christopher and saw a sign announcing that Wednesday was comedy night. So I came home and called to ask how it worked. Did they audition people? The guy told me to phone back the next day and talk to Colette, who runs something called Stars of Tomorrow.

  Hugh says if I do it, he’ll leave me. Meanwhile, Mike Tyson has been convicted of rape. I’ve always thought of him as the sexiest guy in the world, so it’s hard to imagine him forcing himself on anyone.

  February 12, 1992

  New York

  I applied for a job at an Upper East Side sandwich shop. The woman I spoke to was named Charlotte, and I was the fifth person she’d interviewed. I don’t know who the first one was, but the three who went before me were all from Pakistan.

  “Why do you want to work with sandwiches?” Charlotte asked.

  And I thought, Well, I don’t, really. It’s just that I need a job.

  Next I went to 5 & 10 No Exaggeration. It’s a combination antiques store/restaurant. Waiters are required to wear wing-tip shoes, suspenders, and bow ties, and it’s a smoke-free business. I don’t know why I bothered, really. New York restaurants want waiters who look like models. If you’re not pretty, you don’t stand a chance. Then there’s the no-experience problem.

  This is Lincoln’s Birthday, so the library was closed.

  March 1, 1992
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  New York

  Patrick and I moved furniture from Jericho, Long Island, to Park Slope in Brooklyn. We were near the drop-off point when I noticed what smelled like a candle burning inside a pumpkin. Then I saw smoke coming from the back of the van and we pulled over. One of us had apparently thrown a lit cigarette out the window that blew back in and settled on a moving quilt. It burned through two layers but luckily didn’t reach the tabletop. The people we picked up the furniture from in Jericho, an older couple, had a spotless house. What’s odd is that they had brass knockers on all of their inside doors—to the bathrooms and bedrooms, the closets, everything. “Be careful,” they kept saying. “Watch the corner! Watch the stairs!”

  The couple in Park Slope were in their late thirties and had a baby. They smiled a lot, were nice. Brooklyn is covered in graffiti. Absolutely covered.

  March 19, 1992

  New York

  Hugh and I went to Westport, Connecticut, and picked up two tuxedo cats that used to belong to the actress Sandy Dennis, who recently died of ovarian cancer. On the train back to New York, two black teenagers were discovered hiding in the bathroom. They’d snuck on without paying and were shocked when the conductor asked them to hand over their Walkmans, saying, “Those should about cover the price of the tickets.”

  “You don’t understand,” one of the kids said. “These aren’t our Walkmans.” He said that they belonged to friends and that they went to a really tough school where every day someone got shot and killed.