Theft by Finding

by David Sedaris

  May 14, 1994

  New York

  I met with Dawn Erickson at a café tonight. Though we’ve written back and forth, we hadn’t seen each other since Kent State in 1976, and because she doesn’t smoke and has never had a drink or taken any drugs, she looks just the same. I learned that she still designs fabrics, that she travels a lot, mainly alone, and that her mother has cancer. Her father died fourteen years ago in a skydiving accident. She still doesn’t drink coffee, so she just had water.

  Afterward I went to the Grand Union and was shopping for dinner when a young man touched my arm. “Hey, watch where you’re going. You almost hit my baby in the head with your basket.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The guy had a shoulder-length mane of carefully styled hair and wore a pair of sweatpants with the back torn out. I thought I was seeing fur underwear until I realized it was his hairy ass showing. “You almost hit the baby,” he repeated.

  I said, “Almost. But I didn’t, right?”

  He was just looking for a fight. In fact, I’d been nowhere near the baby. I watched from behind as he got in line and then listened as he accused the cashier of overcharging him. The manager was called and I wondered how anyone could go out in public like that, with his ass hanging out. I should be OK with it, but it’s never the ass I want to see.

  June 21, 1994

  New York

  They were boarding my flight to Indianapolis yesterday when a Russian man in a wheelchair rolled up, accompanied by his family. “Can’t he walk?” the gate attendant asked.

  When she realized that none of them spoke English, she repeated herself, only louder. “Can’t he walk at all?”

  As I passed the man, I noticed that his pant legs were empty, that he either was an amputee or had been born this way. “Well, could he walk if he tried?” the gate attendant, who was not nearly as observant as I am, asked.

  July 1, 1994

  New York

  Today I cleaned for the Rs. They’re nice people but incredible slobs. Every week I find something new the son has decided to use as an ashtray. Today it was a paper cupcake jacket. I mean, really. What’s wrong with a saucer? Another thing they’re big on is dropped change. This afternoon I found pennies in one bathtub and dimes in another.

  July 9, 1994

  New York

  It’s hot and icky here so Hugh and I went to the air-conditioned Museum of Television and Radio and watched TV all day. First came an hour-long tribute to women in comedy. During this we sat behind three elderly women, one of whom kept turning around and scolding me for resting my knees on the back of her chair. I did this once. That was it, I swear, yet she kept nagging me. A fly could have landed on this woman’s seat back and she would have felt it. The third time she turned around I told her to fuck off. I don’t think she heard me, but still I was ashamed for having said it.

  July 11, 1994

  New York

  On the news we saw a story about brown tree snakes in Guam. They’re long, these things, and aggressive, and not too bright. The report showed a human baby one of them had tried to eat. The child weighed fifteen pounds; the snake, two. They come up through people’s toilets sometimes, and one bit a man on the testicles (!).

  According to the report, the snakes are spreading. One was found in Texas. When things get bad in New York, I remind myself that at least there are no snakes here. Rats, but no snakes.

  July 15, 1994

  New York

  Hugh and I went to Dixon Place and now I want to be reimbursed for those two hours of my life. We’d gone to see Lily sing and play guitar and had she been the only one on the bill, it would have been fine. Sadly, there were several other acts. The first and worst was a woman named Estelle. I wouldn’t call her a dancer; rather, she pranced while a second woman read a poem and a third batted pots and pans with a stick. The three of them wore something akin to war paint. If they were trying to scare the enemy, it didn’t work. If they were trying to entertain the audience, it didn’t work either. Estelle twirled in circles. She skipped and flailed her arms and then threw herself onto the floor. Unfortunately, she picked herself back up and began again from the top. It was my worst nightmare of performance art.

  She was followed by a thin, bearded troubadour. “This next song is about illusions and falsifications,” he said at one point. “I think you all know what I’m talking about.” He had either a great voice or a terrible one. I couldn’t quite tell which.

  August 25, 1994

  La Bagotière, France

  Hugh and I left Scotland yesterday afternoon and got back to France almost twenty-four hours later. The first leg of the trip involved a bus from Pitlochry to Edinburgh. I sat behind a pair of young women and a very fat baby girl, who I’m guessing belonged to one of them. The two took turns holding her. I watched as the first put the child on her knee and pushed chocolate candies into her tiny mouth with her fingers. Then she handed her to her friend, who poured some Coca-Cola into a baby bottle and had the kid suck on it until she vomited. After that, she was handed back over for a candy refill. The baby wore several gold bracelets and rings, and I wondered how she’d ever get them off her ever-expanding wrists and fingers.

  October 4, 1994

  New York

  This afternoon David Rakoff and I went to see The River Wild. It was preceded by a very lengthy preview for the new Warren Beatty movie. The thing went on and on, and just as it ended, David turned to me, whispering, “I understand the remaining seven seconds of this film are remarkable.”

  Later, at dinner, Paul D. tried to tell us that cows are nocturnal but that farmers force them to stay awake during the day. That is so funny to me, the idea of keeping a cow awake.

  October 31, 1994

  New York

  As research for the new play (One Woman Shoe), Amy and I went to the welfare office on 14th Street. We’d wondered what we might say if anyone asked why we were there and decided on “They told us to come back on Monday.”

  But nobody asked.

  I got the idea it’s possible to spend all day in the welfare office without being asked any questions. After entering the ground-floor waiting room, we joined a line that never moved. Out of six windows, only two were open, and the woman behind one of them was dressed for Halloween as a cat, with ears and whiskers. There was some confusion as to what the line we were standing in was for. The woman ahead of us had no teeth and had brought a wooden crate she used as a chair. Sometime later a Hispanic woman tried to sneak her friend into the line and the toothless woman called for security. “I know who’s in front of me and I know who’s behind of me,” she said, “and she wasn’t no way in front of me or I would have seed her.”

  Other people chimed in, but the Hispanic woman stood her ground, claiming that her friend needed to cut in line because she has asthma.

  “Oh, yeah, well, my baby’s got asthma too,” a black woman said.

  “Oh, really, where’s the baby?”

  The black woman pointed to her stomach. “In here.”

  The Hispanic woman’s friend was booted to the back of the line. Like a lot of other people, she was dressed in spandex pants. These she wore with a T-shirt that pictured a number of cartoon pigs fucking in various positions.

  Everyone in line seemed to have a story about a misplaced form, a missing check, a stolen wallet. Everyone complained about the staff. “They make it hard, hoping we’ll just give up and go away. The bitches is acting like the money come outta they own pockets.”

  “Someone tolt me they’re hiring at UPS,” a woman said to one of the few men in the office.

  “I ain’t working for them because I’m a certified chef,” the man said.

  People limped and had their arms in slings. One man walked like he was a marionette worked by a novice, his legs bent almost to a kneeling position.

  The office was filthy and everyone ignored the NO SMOKING signs. There were crumbs and cigarette butts on the floor, the noise of fights and crying
children. The seats were all occupied by exhausted-looking people, some sleeping, hardly any of them reading. “I’ve been here since nine this morning!” There were white people, black people, Puerto Ricans, Japanese, an Indian family—the mother talked like she was channeling a spirit, while her daughter stared straight ahead. Loudspeakers would call out a name, but the person was hardly ever there. People seemed to know each other. They socialized. So much time spent waiting.

  There were signs everywhere. TAKE THE NAME OF YOUR CASEWORKER, REMEMBER TO KEEP YOUR APPOINTMENTS. The signs were all marked with graffiti. Men would approach waiting women, and the women would ignore them, sometimes surrendering their seats to get away.

  A woman with braids left the line every so often to spit in the trash can. A grown man suckled a pacifier and dribbled saliva all over his hands. He would lift his shirt, walk in a circle, then stare at the wall as if it were a mirror and laugh. It felt wrong to be there. Amy and I could leave anytime we wanted to. The others either could or couldn’t, depending on how you think about it. Which brings us back to the play.

  December 14, 1994

  New York

  I went to a deli on 2nd Avenue and 73rd Street for lunch and waited behind a seventy-five-year-old woman with wild gray hair and sad, poorly fitting slacks. She ordered a bit of chicken salad and when the clerk asked for her definition of “a bit,” the woman turned to me and rolled her eyes. “See, they don’t know because they can’t talk English. I want to make myself a sandwich at home. I got bread at home, but they don’t understand.”

  December 27, 1994

  New York

  Christmas afternoon, Dad pulled out his film projector and a half dozen Super 8 movies from the late ’60s and early ’70s. I recall him standing in front of us with the camera back then, but, like the photos he takes of us on the stairs every year, I never knew what became of them. Two friends of Lisa’s had dropped by, and though nothing could be duller than watching someone else’s home movies, none of us cared. The moment we saw Mom, we forgot about our guests. They mumbled something on their way out—“Merry Christmas,” or maybe “Your kitchen is on fire,” whatever.

  I never knew my mother had been captured on film, moving. The first reel was from St. John in 1972. Mom, Dad, Aunt Joyce, and Uncle Dick. We see the island. Boats. More island. More boats, and then there’s Mom, who waves good-bye before ducking into a thatched hut. Then the camera is handed to someone else, and we see Dad pull her out. He is young and handsome—he is always handsome. When he points at the camera, Mom buries her head in his chest. Then he lifts her chin and they kiss.

  Watching this, Dad stomped his foot on the floor, the way you might if you just missed the bus and knew that another wasn’t coming for a long while. He rewound the film and replayed it a second time, then a third.

  “Again,” we called. “Play it again.” To see them both on an island, so young and happy. I couldn’t believe our luck: to have this on film!

  1995

  January 9, 1995

  New York

  I cleaned for Judith today. Her full-time housekeeper, Faith, showed up half an hour late so I waited outside and was joined by Mary, the young woman who comes once a month to trim the cat’s toenails. She used to work at an animal hospital and has, she said, “a houseful of critters.” First, there’s a ferret whose goal in life was to escape his cage and murder the guinea pigs, which he did. She loves birds but only if they can fly freely through her apartment. She also loves cats and found a way to make everyone happy by adopting a blind one. That way it can hear the birds but not catch them.

  Mary told me it’s illegal to have a monkey in New York City because they carry human diseases. That said, she’s treated two of them. “These were people who won the lottery,” she said. “They got the money and the first thing they did was buy their son the two capuchins he wanted.” The monkeys went from living in the son’s room to living in the garage, and eventually they wound up in a shed far from the house. They were bloodthirsty, apparently, and before they were banished, the son was regularly treated for injuries.

  January 11, 1995

  New York

  I followed two men on the street. One was telling the other that he hates it when Danielle holds his hand. “’Cause there might be some other piece I want to talk to. You know what I’m saying?”

  January 24, 1995

  New York

  The review (of One Woman Shoe) came out in Newsday and it’s good. The guy said that after a while he didn’t know what the hell was going on but didn’t care, he was laughing so hard. He said it was stronger and more satisfying than the “woefully erratic Stitches,” which is funny. Last year they wrote a love letter to it, and now it’s erratic. The Times review comes out on Thursday.

  January 26, 1995

  New York

  We got a wonderful review in the Times. Rakoff called late last night to read it to me and I thought he was kidding. It changes things, a review. First off, it kills the element of surprise and leaves the audience with a “prove it” stance. It fucks with the cast as well. Everyone was off tonight. One moment bumped into another, and the show felt way too long. We were excited by the great review, but by the end of the night we were depressed.

  July 7, 1995

  New York

  Someone stopped Mitch on the street last night and said, “I need another seventy-five cents so I can buy a cheeseburger. How about helping me?”

  Mitch said, “Get it without the cheese,” and continued walking.

  September 18, 1995

  New York

  A woman phoned at eleven o’clock last night and asked if she could speak to Rich.

  I said there wasn’t a Rich here.

  “OK,” she said. “Is this the game we’re going to play?”

  “Game? Listen—” I said.

  “Rich is having his roommate cover for him, is that it?”

  “There is no roommate. Listen, this is David Sedaris and Hugh Hamrick—”

  “Rich? Is that you, you shithead?”

  “There is no Rich,” I repeated. “You have the wrong number.”

  “You think you can fuck with me, Rich? You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t have any idea. None whatsoever. This is wasted on me.”

  She hung up then, hard.

  1996

  January 1, 1996

  New York

  Amy’s New Year’s resolution is to make more Asian friends. She hopes to find them at community meetings and small restaurants. I think that’s great, to have a goal.

  Hugh’s friend Sue, who’s from Georgia, had a New Year’s Day luncheon and served ham, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, traditional Southern food meant to bring good luck and prosperity. She cooked the collards with a penny. I told Amy about it and now we’re trying to think of other recipes that call for change.

  January 24, 1996

  New York

  It really is torture to sit around the house and write all day. I’m thinking it might motivate me to finish the book faster, the thought that after it’s finished I can return to housecleaning. The problem is that I haven’t even started the book yet. Today I wrote a letter to Karen Dobragosz, a girl I went to high school with. She sent me a Christmas card over a year ago, so I responded to it. Check. Then I read a thirty-five-page story written by a guy in Colorado named Robert. He sent it to me weeks ago and called last night asking why he hadn’t heard from me.

  His story was not easy to read. All the characters said things like “Whattya doin’?” and “Nuthin’.”

  Then I wrote two letters of recommendation. It doesn’t sound like much in terms of progress, but I sat at my desk from noon until six thirty. Practically.

  January 30, 1996

  New York

  Helen called me over to give me a chicken quiche but really to complain about the excessive heat. The landlord suggested she keep her windows open, but she says that if
she does, it’ll let all the air-conditioning out. It makes no sense to have that running in the winter, but she does, along with the heat and three fans.

  February 8, 1996

  New York

  In the paper there’s a story about a fifty-five-year-old cancer patient who paid her twenty-year-old neighbor to kill her. The kid went with strangulation, but she revived and then tracked him down, claiming that because she was still alive, he had to give her the money back. They argued, and he beat her to death with a power drill.

  February 12, 1996

  New York

  According to an article I read this morning, Scouting was invented to rescue boys from the clutches of their mothers and schoolteachers. The fear was that they’d turn out gay, or deviant, as they said back then. Parents were advised to be on the lookout for boys who willingly took baths and kept diaries. Guilty and guilty again.

  February 27, 1996

  Albany, New York

  William Kennedy and his wife are a waiter’s worst nightmare. At dinner last night they ordered their drinks neat. Then, when they arrived, they asked for a bowlful of ice. Mrs. Kennedy wanted her salad without onions, while he asked for his without tomatoes or cucumber. She ordered her entrée without broccoli and potatoes and asked instead if her fillet could be served with just spinach. William asked for his pasta without the mushrooms.

  When her order came she frowned down at the plate, saying, “Oh, no. I don’t think I want this. Just bring me a sirloin steak, rare.”