Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

socialized. So much time spent waiting.
There were signs everywhere. TAKE THE NAME OF YOUR CASEWORKER, REMEMBER TO KEEP YOUR
APPOINTMENTS. The signs were all marked with graffiti. Men would approach waiting women, and the
women would ignore them, sometimes surrendering their seats to get away.
A woman with braids left the line every so often to spit in the trash can. A grown man suckled a
pacifier and dribbled saliva all over his hands. He would lift his shirt, walk in a circle, then stare at
the wall as if it were a mirror and laugh. It felt wrong to be there. Amy and I could leave anytime we
wanted to. The others either could or couldn’t, depending on how you think about it. Which brings us
back to the play.
December 14, 1994
New York
I went to a deli on 2nd Avenue and 73rd Street for lunch and waited behind a seventy-five-yearold
woman with wild gray hair and sad, poorly fitting slacks. She ordered a bit of chicken salad and
when the clerk asked for her definition of “a bit,” the woman turned to me and rolled her eyes. “See,
they don’t know because they can’t talk English. I want to make myself a sandwich at home. I got
bread at home, but they don’t understand.”
December 27, 1994
New York
Christmas afternoon, Dad pulled out his film projector and a half dozen Super 8 movies from the
late ’60s and early ’70s. I recall him standing in front of us with the camera back then, but, like the
photos he takes of us on the stairs every year, I never knew what became of them. Two friends of
Lisa’s had dropped by, and though nothing could be duller than watching someone else’s home
movies, none of us cared. The moment we saw Mom, we forgot about our guests. They mumbled
something on their way out—“Merry Christmas,” or maybe “Your kitchen is on fire,” whatever.
I never knew my mother had been captured on film, moving. The first reel was from St. John in
1972. Mom, Dad, Aunt Joyce, and Uncle Dick. We see the island. Boats. More island. More boats,
and then there’s Mom, who waves good-bye before ducking into a thatched hut. Then the camera is
handed to someone else, and we see Dad pull her out. He is young and handsome—he is always
handsome. When he points at the camera, Mom buries her head in his chest. Then he lifts her chin and
they kiss.
Watching this, Dad stomped his foot on the floor, the way you might if you just missed the bus and
knew that another wasn’t coming for a long while. He rewound the film and replayed it a second time,
then a third.
“Again,” we called. “Play it again.” To see them both on an island, so young and happy. I couldn’t
believe our luck: to have this on film!