October 9, 2002
New York
While walking from the subway to the Letterman studio, Hugh and I passed a man asking for money. Because of the tourist trade you get hit up a lot in that neighborhood, at least twice on every block. I shook my head no and the man went off on me, saying that I looked terrible. “You don’t wear no striped shirt with a tie like that, asshole. Idiot. Fuck you with your scuffed-up raggedy-assed shoes.” He was basically a black version of my father, who, aside from the asshole and fuck you, will undoubtedly say the same thing.
October 10, 2002
Rochester, New York
A sniper or pair of snipers, a “marksman,” a “rifleman,” has shot eight people in DC, Virginia, and Maryland over the course of the past week, leading area restaurants to close their outdoor patios. The victims are random: a woman filling her car with gas, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school. A fortune-telling card was found at one of the murder sites, so I imagine that soon they’ll give him a name—the Tarot Killer or some such thing. We’re supposed to be outraged, but it’s basically a media wet dream. Number one at the box office this week is Red Dragon, the umpteenth movie this year about a “brilliant” serial killer. Our novels, our TV shows, featuring FBI profilers: we love mass murderers and the people who surround them. I’m sure the screenplays for this story are already in progress and that, in nine out of ten versions, the killer is not only superintelligent but handsome.
While ironing, I listened to a local jazz program hosted by the female equivalent of Don Congdon. “That was ‘I’ll Cry Alone’ by…oh, what was his name again? He reminds me of that other gypsy guitarist, the one with…oh, you know who I’m talking about. This is going to drive me crazy. Help me out here, folks. I know you know who I’m talking about. He’s dead and I think his name started with a J.”
October 18, 2002
Denver, Colorado
I knew that my seatmate yesterday was going to be trouble. He was a big, shaggy man with a wild gray beard wearing an Australian bush hat. “I’m from Vancouver,” he told the woman in front of me, talking, already, to anyone who would listen. “I’m Canadian, see, but I just spent a week in Bolivia.”
“Oh,” the woman responded, “Bolivia.” She said it in a way that meant “I’m so glad I’m not sitting next to you.”
“I go for work,” the man continued. “I’m an engineer so I’m there once every three months or so.”
The woman settled down in her seat and the man leaned forward so as to continue their conversation. “You probably think it’s dangerous, but it’s not. I mean, you don’t want to be a gringo in Colombia—that’s taking your life in your hands—but they like us in Bolivia.”
“Well, that’s good,” the woman said.
“I suppose it helps that I speak a little español, but even if I didn’t, I think I’d probably get along fine, at least in my field.”
“Um-hmm.”
“Up in Canada we learn French, but that’s not going to get you anywhere in South America, I can tell you that.”
“Is it just me,” the woman said, “or is it really early?”
The man said that his journey had begun ten hours before. His flight from La Paz had been delayed and he’d missed his scheduled connection, which was supposed to leave at seven a.m. Now it was eight thirty and he’d just gotten his second wind.
The plane was only half full. There was an empty seat between us and the moment I sat down, the man lifted his armrest, the airplane equivalent of opening your front gate. “So where do you come from?” he asked.
No, no, no, no, no, I thought. It’s one thing to ask a question as you’re landing at your destination, but under no circumstances do you begin a flight with a conversation. I wanted to say, You have to move. Now. But I’m too much of a coward. The best I could do was pretend to fall asleep, and even that didn’t shut him up. “I can’t sleep on planes,” he said. “Don’t know what it is, but I just can’t.”
The movie was K-19: The Widowmaker, starring Harrison Ford as a Soviet submarine captain. It wasn’t the type of thing I would normally go for, but the headphones were my only way out. My neighbor chose not to watch, or, rather, not to listen.
His version was silent and every few minutes he’d tap me on the shoulder. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been in a Russian submarine. They had one docked in Vancouver and there’s no way on earth Harrison Ford could have stood upright, not at his size. And cramped? The thing was tiny. It’s just not possible.”
Back at the terminal I’d begun a crossword puzzle, working it, as I normally do, section by section, beginning in the upper-left-hand corner. On boarding I’d placed it on the empty seat beside me, and toward the end of the flight I looked over to find the man holding it. “I see it got the best of you,” he said.
No Thursday puzzle will ever get the best of me, but I said, “Actually, I’m not finished with it yet.”
I turned back to the movie and again he tapped me on the shoulder. “I think seventeen down is supposed to be gigolo,” he said.
Yes, and ten across is shut the fuck up, I wanted to say. Had I woken to find him fondling me I could have lived with it, but you don’t touch another man’s puzzle. I was tempted to call for the flight attendant, but instead, of course, I thanked him. “If you’ll just give me back my pencil, I’ll write it in,” I said.
A moment later he tapped me to tell me that the movie had ended. “You’re watching an empty screen,” he said. “Boy, you really must be exhausted.”
“Oh, I am,” I said. “You have no idea.”
October 19, 2002
San Francisco
At a drugstore in Denver I bought a pack of typing paper. The woman in front of me tried to pay with a credit card and, when that didn’t work, a check. Had she paid with cash I never would have noticed she was missing an ear. It wasn’t gone entirely, there was still something there, but it wasn’t much, a little lump of flesh.
October 21, 2002
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
At the Denver airport there’s a display labeled MEXICAN SOUVENIR ALERT. In the case was a python belt, a coffee mug made from elephant hide, a leopard pelt, and two taxidermied frogs hoisting steins at a miniature bar. The mug, belt, and rug were made from endangered species, but I never understood the alcoholic frogs. What was wrong with them?
October 24, 2002
New York
We had dinner at Le Pescadou, a French restaurant on 6th Avenue. The menu was ridiculous and included such items as:
Seared Tuna Embraced by Sesame
Baby Pasta Ears Listening to Artichoke
Grilled Prawns Frolicking on Polenta
October 28, 2002
New York
Driving to Greencastle we passed cars with bumper stickers reading CHARLTON HESTON IS MY PRESIDENT and JESUS LOVES YOU. EVERYONE ELSE THINKS YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE. We passed a gun shop advertising a “Blowout Sale.”
While listening to a country music station, we heard a talk/song narrated by our flag. “I flew proudly at Iwo Jima and on the blistering deserts of Kuwait, anywhere freedom is threatened, you will find me.” The flag recounted being torn into strips to bandage wounded soldiers and then it explained how it hurts to be burned and trampled by the very people it works so hard to protect. When given a voice, our flag is not someone you’d choose to spend a lot of time with.
October 30, 2002
New York
After returning from New York, Dad called Lisa to tell her he was sick. “I have a flu,” he said. “What should I take?” Lisa suggested he wait it out, but that wasn’t good enough. “How about NyQuil?” he asked. “Doesn’t Vicks make something?” Lisa said that when Bob gets sick he sometimes takes an antibiotic. “But I don’t know that it really does any good,” she said.
A few hours later Dad called again. The vet had put his Great Dane, Sophie, on antibiotics, and, figuring that it was all basically the same thing, he had started taking them. “I’m just no
t sure of the dose,” he said.
Lisa then called me. “Can you believe this?” I thought she was upset that her father was taking pills meant for a dog, and then I remembered who I was talking to. “I mean, how is Sophie supposed to get any better when Dad is taking all her medicine? I just don’t think that’s right.”
November 5, 2002
Paris
Steven sent the New York Observer article along with a short mention in Publishers Weekly. In the first I’m described as looking “not unlike a leprechaun,” my head “barely poking up over the podium.” In the second I’m referred to as both “sprightly” and “diminutive,” making it sound as if I could sleep in an empty matchbox.
November 16, 2002
London
Yesterday morning we awoke in our new apartment and stood, like livestock, but now we have three chairs, two of them bought very early this morning at the Bermondsey Market. It was mainly outdoors and most of the merchandise was small—the sort of stuff you pass but don’t really remember. I think I saw some chandeliers, possibly a saddle.
The security office for our apartment complex is located in the basement and we went in the afternoon to introduce ourselves to Mr. Berry, the man in charge. According to our complex’s newsletter, he has nine fingers and worked as a police detective, a DCI, until his retirement a few years back. “We’re here twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “The door is always open so feel free to drop in and have a moan at us.”
I should pick a newspaper and start following it, but I can’t seem to decide which one to go with. Steve suggests the Guardian, but I’m partial to the Sun, which yesterday carried a twenty-picture photo spread on Michael Jackson’s evolving face. The Sun is like the National Enquirer, but every day. Hard news amounts to stories of people who almost died. Cars almost ran them down. Things almost fell on them. I listen to the BBC, but that’s not enough. I need a paper.
November 23, 2002
Paris
On Six Feet Under, Claire and her friend took mushrooms. Most movies and TV shows get drugs wrong. Someone takes a bong hit and spends the next few hours laughing uncontrollably. Someone takes acid and steps into the Sergeant Pepper cover. Six Feet Under gets drugs right, so after taking the mushrooms, Claire and her friend hole up in the bedroom, using the sewing machine and wishing they lived in the nineteenth century. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you had to make everything, and everything you did was art?” She wound up concocting a hideous pair of pants, quilted and hemmed with bells. She gave them to her mother and was mortified the next morning when she saw her actually wearing them.
December 6, 2002
London
Before The Quiet American we saw a funny Smirnoff commercial. It opens on a couple standing at the window, the woman softly crying and the man looking helpless and slightly guilty. We see him run down the stairs and pick something up off the street. I imagined it was a ring, but as he hands it over she smiles broadly, and we see that it’s her missing front tooth. He’d knocked it out during an argument and the fact that he retrieved it causes her to fall in love all over again.
December 14, 2002
Paris
This morning two men rang the buzzer. “Yes,” one said. “We’re looking for English-speaking people who can answer a few questions. Is Mr. Hamrick at home?” I said he wasn’t and they asked if they might speak to me.
“About what?”
“About the future. About the way you feel.”
I let them in because I have no backbone. One of the men was in his thirties and the other a granddad. Both were well dressed and carried strapless briefcases. “My colleague has a problem on the stairs,” the younger man said. “Sometimes his leg is not so good.” It seemed I should offer them a seat, but that would have made it all the harder to get rid of them, so we stood.
“So how do you feel about the future?” the younger man asked.
It was a goofy question. A setup. I said I felt fine about it and we all stood around and looked at our feet. “I mean, yeah,” I said. “It’ll be different from the past, but, you know.”
The younger man asked if I had a Bible in the house. I said no and he asked if he could share some scripture with me.
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
“Well, can I leave you with something?” he asked.
It turned out they were a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. This is better than being a pair of thieves, but still.
December 21, 2002
London
The BBC reports that terrorists are planning to halt the Christmas shopping season, most likely with some sort of bomb. They don’t know where or when, but the public is warned to be vigilant. My reaction isn’t fear so much as confusion. Don’t they know the Christmas shopping season is essentially over? The time to strike was last weekend, not this one. Should they plant a bomb today, the only person they’d get is Maw Hamrick, who has bought nothing. “I’m thinking of getting Hugh a book or a CD,” she said. “Or maybe some stationery or maybe something for the apartment. Do you think he’d like that?” I almost had her talked into a pair of slippers, but Fortnum and Mason was out of his size. “This picture frame is nice,” she said, “but he probably doesn’t want that.”
I was going to stop at Harrods on the way home from Piccadilly Circus and she asked if she could come with me. “Maybe I could find something for Hugh but, of course, I want to get him something he’ll like. Otherwise there’s no point.”
We took the number 9 bus, and on disembarking in Knightsbridge we passed a beggar sitting on the ground with a newborn baby. “Now, that’s just too depressing for words,” Maw Hamrick said. “Did you see her? Did you see that baby?” I tried to explain that the woman was a gypsy. “That’s what those people do,” I said, but it was too late, as the image was already burned into her mind. On entering Harrods, she was exhausted and depressed. “This is just ridiculous,” she said. “I’ll just get Hugh’s slippers in France. Or maybe I’ll get him a shirt.”
We return to Paris Monday, and I’m sure she’ll spend the afternoon looking at churches. She’ll do the same on Tuesday and wind up giving Hugh a check for $50.
About the Author
David Sedaris is the author of the books Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, Me Talk Pretty One Day, Holidays on Ice, Naked, and Barrel Fever. He is a regular contributor to The New Yorker and BBC Radio 4. He lives in England.
davidsedarisbooks.com
@davidsedaris
davidsedaris
Books by David Sedaris
Theft by Finding
Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls
Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk
When You Are Engulfed in Flames
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim
Me Talk Pretty One Day
Holidays on Ice
Naked
Barrel Fever
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Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002 Page 43