Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

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,