Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

egister. I had to go to the bathroom, so while Hugh headed home in the car, I rode to a McDonald’s
located at the far end of the industrial park. I’d occasionally eat at one in Paris, but the second time I
was laughed at by the counter help, I stopped going. I guess I’d been saying something wrong, but to
my mind, Big Mac is an American term and should be pronounced as such. At the Flers McDonald’s,
I ordered a filter coffee, which is hard to find in France. It was five o’clock, the place was
practically empty, and the girl behind the counter was exceedingly pleasant. They were offering the
McDonald’s Maxi Best Special: a Royal Cheese, large fries, and the soda of your choice for 37
francs—a little over $5—which would be expensive for the States. Inside the Flers McDonald’s,
there were local newspapers mounted on bamboo canes.
There were display cases offering a clear view of the latest toys, but there were no ashtrays. In
order to smoke, one had to step out onto the playground. A family sat on the far end of the slide, both
the parents and the teenagers puffing away. I’d been there for a few minutes when the counter girl ran
out with their orders. In America you’d have to stand by the register and wait, but I guess in Flers
they’re willing to come to you. The family received their Maxi Best Specials and regarded them
while they finished their cigarettes. The industrial park emptied and, beyond the fence, cars passed on
the way home from work.
This being France, I know I’m supposed to sit in cafés with thimble-size cups of espresso. I’m
supposed to return day after day until the owner finally consents to shake my hand and ask how it’s
going. But I couldn’t have been happier than I was at my ugly little McDonald’s. It was the coffee I
wanted, with no fear that the waiter would ignore me. I paid immediately and didn’t have to beg for
my check. Plus I got to watch a toddler whiz down a slide onto a carpet of cigarette butts. I’m thinking
that I might make that McDonald’s my place.
October 8, 2000
Paris
Steven Barclay told me that the building our new apartment is in was the original site of Sylvia
Beach’s Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Hugh looked it up on his computer and found pictures
of her and various literary celebrities standing before what is now the ground-floor hair salon. I’ve
never been terribly interested in that crowd, but still it’s impressive that James Joyce stood drunk and
probably peed in our stairway. Hugh is thinking we can exploit our location and make money renting
out our apartment under the name Finnegans Sleep.
October 12, 2000
New York
The general agreement is that I’ve lost too much weight. For me, the process has been gradual, but
for those I haven’t seen in a while, the change is drastic. People who hadn’t been told about my diet
probably imagine that I have either AIDS or cancer—which is a pretty good definition of bad weight
loss. Andy couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eye. It’s as if I’ve had a disfiguring accident and
everyone’s trying to pretend they don’t notice it. It’s not the reaction I’d expected at all.