Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

something about a movie. I chose Robert Altman’s Nashville and spent six hours on my one-page
paper. It’s the articles that kill me, that and words like drifter, which translates to “one who travels
without a goal.”
Meanwhile, today we took a test that involved multiple choice and an audio exam. It was hard and
made all the harder by the teacher, who wandered around the room with a lit cigarette that smelled so
good, I found it nearly impossible to concentrate. The audio test was discouraging in that a French
twelve-year-old could have passed it with no problem. Then, too, I hadn’t taken one since Kent State
twenty years ago. After we finished, the teacher invited us all to the cafeteria for coffees. Everyone
smoked, and it was nice to sit together outside of class.
November 23, 1998
San Luis Obispo, California
At five thirty this morning, the SuperShuttle came to take me from Ronnie’s apartment to the San
Francisco airport. There were three other passengers on board, but the only ones awake were me and
the driver, who was listening to talk radio. The theme was alien abduction, and the guest, a man
named Dr. Reed, claimed to have been taken at a picnic ground. He was not at liberty to discuss its
location; this, he said, on the advice of his lawyer, who told him it might hurt his case.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Is he suing the aliens or the campground?”
“Most likely the campground,” the driver said. “Chances are this isn’t the first time a thing like this
has happened. They should have posted signs.”
This is not what you want to hear from a man responsible for four lives.
“The reason this show comes on at five a.m. is that they don’t want regular people listening to it,”
he said. “They don’t want us to know.”
Alcohol and telephones do not mix. On Saturday night I called Paris from the Heathman Hotel in
Portland. I’d figured it might cost $30, but I hadn’t spoken to Hugh in weeks. It was late, and I was
drunk and feeling lonely. I had only vague memories of the call the following morning when I was
presented with a bill for $156. I’m still trying to remember what we talked about, but I can’t recollect
much aside from the news that Dennis (the cat) is eating a lot.
November 27, 1998
Phoenix
Ted’s boyfriend James loaned me a cookbook called Imperial Dishes of China, and I found myself
reading it as though it were a collection of beautifully titled short stories. “A Hundred Birds Paying
Homage to the Phoenix” stood out, but nothing compared to “Monkey Heads on a Pine Tree.” In
France I often leaf through recipes in search of words I think might come in handy. It’s how I learned
the verbs for “to simmer” and “to chop.” Imperial Dishes was in English, but still I feel I came away
with something. Here were instructions such as “Rinse the lips twice in cold water” and “Remove the