Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

Mom said it was good that he didn’t have a dog and that she wouldn’t put it past him to pee in our
driveway. She told me this in the kitchen as she poured herself a drink. Then she made me promise
not to tell Paul because he would make trouble and as a result Melina could wind up dead.
I can’t keep a secret to save my life, so she said that if I do tell him, she’ll never help me out again.
Help means money.
My lips are sealed, which is a pity. Paul would have gotten inventive revenge. He’s not the type to
pour sugar in someone’s gas tank. Rather, he’d steadily chip away at this boy and his family. He’d be
patient, and just when they thought it was over, he’d start again. It would go on for years until they
begged for mercy. That Mom felt safe telling me about it is a real shame. An embarrassment, really.
November 2, 1987
Chicago
I bought an old newspaper photo of a suicide note left by a man named Wilbur Wright who hanged
himself in the county jail. “I can’t go on,” it reads. “Life isn’t worth anything without you forgive me.
Bobbye I love you more than you’ll ever know. May God watch over you and our baby. Bill.”
November 3, 1987
Chicago
Those boys were on the street again tonight, three of them. They are ten, maybe twelve years old.
One is chubby and wears glasses. Tonight they yelled, “Nerd! You…prick.”
I’d never have talked that way to a grown-up when I was their age.
November 4, 1987
Chicago
I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read I LOVE KILLING COMMUNISTS. The word love was
replaced by a heart shape I’m guessing they’ll put on the typewriter keyboard any day now, right
beside the exclamation point. The bumper sticker was on a Ford Fairlane on Montrose Avenue.
November 7, 1987
Chicago
I saw a family—a mother, father, and ten-year-old boy—walk down Leland Avenue today. It was
raining, and when the mother told her son to put up the hood on his Windbreaker, the boy said, “Aww,
lemme alone. My fuckin’ hair ain’t wet.”
She responded, sweetly, “Maybe not, but it will be.”