Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

a psychiatric hospital. According to him, once she’d finished, she loaned it to a fellow patient, who,
in turn, loaned it to someone else. The book seemed to lift people’s spirits, and as a result, the
hospital has made it recommended reading. I’m not sure whether I believe this, but it’s extremely
flattering to think my book is being passed around a German asylum.
May 5, 2001
La Bagotière
Until last night we slept on a bed that came with the house and felt as though it had been stuffed
with marshmallows. We’d lie down and roll to the middle, where we’d sink to the bottom and wake
up feeling like someone had taken to us with a stick. I’ve been offering to buy a new bed and finally
Hugh accepted. We went to Lepage in Flers, an ugly aluminum-sided building filled with equally ugly
furniture. Our salesman was a small man with blond hair who invited us upstairs and pointed out the
various features of the display models. “Allez-y,” he said.
The beds had plastic pads at the feet so that you could test them out without soiling the mattresses.
Hugh went from one to another and lay down, looking as though he’d been sent to his room. He
eventually chose the hardest, and as we went downstairs to pay, the salesman sussed us out, asking if
the two of us looked forward to our good night’s sleep. This was surprising, as it fell under the
category of a personal question.
“The two of you” implied that we might be sleeping together, and he said it sneakily. I don’t mind a
personal question, but Hugh does, and rather than answer, he walked away to inspect a fake-leather
footrest that resembled a half-deflated medicine ball. “Yes, well,” the salesman said.
The mattress and box spring were on sale and came to $800. A delivery was arranged and as I
handed over my credit card, I noticed the salesman’s startling BO. It always shocks me when
someone smells like that and wears a suit. A deliveryman brought the mattress at five thirty and the
two of us spent the evening looking forward to bedtime. Hugh turned in at midnight and had a great
night’s sleep. I went to bed at one and lay awake for hours, feeling as though I were stretched out on a
length of pavement. The mattress is too hard for my taste and I woke up with a sore jaw, having
dreamed I’d been hit by a car.
May 12, 2001
Atlantic Beach
When at Dad’s house, one drinks coffee from a Rush Limbaugh mug. Walking to the kitchen for a
refill involves passing a thank-you card from George Bush and Dick Cheney, who stand embracing
each other. Dad wanted me to ride to the beach with him, but I just couldn’t. “Why the hell not?” he
asked. I looked at his Honda Civic, the seats matted with dog hair and the bumper sticker reading AL
GORE IS A RISKY PROPOSITION.
I rode with him as far as Paul’s and ducked down low in the seat. He’s started driving like an old
person, and I worried it might take days to reach the motel. On the ride from his house to Paul’s, he
never exceeded twenty-five miles per hour.