Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

a graduate student who’s come to observe my teaching style. Then, when they’re finished, maybe near
the end of the session, I’ll reveal your true identity.”
He gave me the address, so this afternoon I showed up and was introduced as James from
Columbia University. Copies of the SantaLand story were distributed to the students. Then Don said,
“Eddie, would you like to start?”
Eddie, a twenty-two-year-old with razor-nicked eyebrows and letters tattooed on his knuckles,
began. “‘I was at a cuff…a cuff…at a…I was at a cuff…’”
“Sound it out,” Don said. “Come on, Eddie, you can do this.”
I had felt uncomfortable around these students. Loud and powerfully built, they had spent their
break threatening one another and yelling out the windows at passing girls. They were all so volatile
and mean-looking, but faced with the page, they were powerless, like children. Once someone had
finished his paragraph, he’d put his head down on the tabletop or walk away to see what was
happening outside. Then someone else would be called on. “‘Snowball just…leads elves on, elves
and Santas.’”
How odd it was to have my experiences recounted in these voices. What were you doing while I
was wandering the maze or having nickels thrown at me? I’d wonder, looking at someone in a
hooded Gang Starr sweatshirt. And what was I doing when you got that teardrop tattooed on your
cheek?
It took well over an hour to complete the reading. Don congratulated the group on a job well done,
then folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “So, if you could meet the
person who wrote this, what would you ask?”
The guy next to Eddie put up his hand. “I’d ax, Yo, is you a faggot or what?”
December 15, 1992
New York
Ira Glass called to say that Morning Edition would like to broadcast my “SantaLand Diary.”
They’ll pay me $500 and give him $200 to produce it. So tomorrow I go to a recording studio.
December 24, 1992
Raleigh
Yesterday morning my story aired on NPR’s Morning Edition. Ira and I had been on the phone the
night before, trying to decide which cuts to make. I have an allergic reaction to my voice, but the
singing was all right. Hugh’s friend Marian phoned after the 7:40 broadcast and said how much she
liked it. A minute later I got a call from a switchboard operator who was late for work on account of
sitting in her parked car and listening to me. She said she’d already phoned NPR to say good things
but thought she’d reach out to me as well. They played the story again at 9:40, and then I was called
by William, Allyn, and several strangers. The moment I’d start talking to someone, call-waiting
would act up. At ten I left for the first of today’s four cleaning jobs, and when I returned at six, my
machine was full of messages, most of them from people I don’t know who’d looked me up in the