Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

He said, “Oh,” and looked at me as if I were the one who’d taken it from his pocket.
Tonight at the coffee shop a telephone number fell out of my library book and a man pointed it out
to me. It was not an important number, but still I pretended that this guy had saved my life. He did not
seem to care.
October 19, 1986
Chicago
A man approached me on the street, saying, “Sir?”
I told him I’d already given away all my change, and he said, “No, I don’t want money. I want a
job. I need one.”
I told him there was a labor pickup on Broadway and Wilson and that he might try there early in
the morning. The fellow was black and had nice clothes on. He was a few years older than me and
said, “I have experience in accounting.” This last word was whispered, which was strange.
I told him that I didn’t know anything about accounting.
“Well, can you give me some money, then?” he asked. “I’m hungry. Can you buy me something to
eat?”
I said no, and he continued, “What if I come to your place and you fix me something?”
October 22, 1986
Chicago
Today we had a critique in painting class. One guy who spoke a lot has bangs down to his chin. He
wears medallions and paints his fingernails black. I’d written him off as being too affected, but he
was one of the few people to comment on his classmates’ work. Now I feel bad for having judged
him.
Another person I noticed was Don, who is also in my writing class. He’s a little older than me, and
I’m sort of fascinated by him. Ask Don where he’s from, and he’ll say he’s been all over the world.
Don introduced himself on the first day as a poet, a filmmaker, a painter, and a photographer.
I might say, “I paint. I take pictures, I try to write, et cetera,” but would never in a thousand years
use those titles for myself the way he does.
Don is interesting to me because he treats everyone like a child. He scolds and gives pats on the
head. His poetry is about “sittin’” in a hotel room with “nothin’” but his memories and an “ol’
trombone.” His paintings are equally clichéd—night scenes, mainly. Norman Rockwell with a five
o’clock shadow. Don is complex in an odd way. “I guess you could say that I’ve always been a
loner,” he says, and, “Really, my concerns are very intellectual.” He spends a lot of time telling you
how smart he is, which is odd because, if you’re truly all that bright, people can usually figure it out
on their own.
October 23, 1986