Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

Today I did a cleaning job for a forty-two-year-old named Tommy who was short and slight and
answered the door in his robe. He wore socks as well, and the toes of them were pulled forward and
flopped around when he walked. At the start of the day he sent me to the storage place to buy twentyfive
boxes. These were added to the thirty he already had, most of which were half full of things he
had failed to unpack during the three years he’d lived in his apartment. One particular box contained a
$2 bill, a place mat illustrating various sources of vitamin C, a book titled How to Be Funny, several
manila envelopes, and dozens of lists and scraps of paper with messages such as “I am denying
myself food in order to grow as a person” and “Hunger is a state of mind” written on them.
In the afternoon he sent me to his new apartment, where I measured the windows and then went to
the hardware store to buy child guards for them. “Do you have kids?” I asked.
He said no but was worried he might have friends over, and that some of them might fall out the
windows.
“Do you have a lot of blind friends?” I asked.
Tommy has fifty identical stainless-steel plates, and three times a day he broils himself a steak. In
his freezer were two hundred portions of fish, each labeled with the date and what kind it was: 1/18
cod, 2/29 red snapper, etc. I asked and he explained that he had gone through a seafood phase before
turning to steak. In his closet were dozens of pairs of suspenders, many of them neon-colored, along
with bow ties and hats. He is an only child. His father died “from drinking,” and his mother lives in
Massachusetts. He asked me to return tomorrow and help him some more but, either fortunately or
unfortunately, I’m already scheduled to work with Bart.
September 4, 1992
New York
Walking down 8th Avenue, I fell in behind two muscled gym queens. When a car alarm went off,
one of them turned to the other, saying, “That’s the Puerto Rican national anthem.”
“Really?” the other guy said. “That’s actually their anthem?”
September 5, 1992
New York
Yesterday the man Richie hit with a bottle died; this according to Patrick, whom I worked with
today. Richie was out walking one of Herman’s dogs when the cops stopped and asked him what it
was like to be a murderer. In response, Richie punched one of the policemen in the face and knocked
him out. That got him arrested again. The guy can’t stay out of trouble for the life of him. He’s sweet
when he’s sober, as sweet as they come, but he’s already killed two people. The first murder
occurred when he was a teenager. Now he’s, what, thirty?
September 27, 1992
New York