Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002

by David Sedaris

At the market underneath the Wilson L, I pulled the shopping list out of my pocket. Just as I realized there’d been money in there too and that I’d dropped it, I turned to see a man swoop down and pick it up off the floor. He had sand-colored hair and a red, boozy face crosshatched with wrinkles. I told him politely that that was my dollar he’d just picked up, and he said, “What dollar? I didn’t pick anything up.” “Yes, you did. I saw you.” “You didn’t see nothing,” he told me. I followed him to the back of the store, where he grabbed a quart of beer and a bottle of Four Roses. “Come on,” I said. “I saw you take my money. Give it back.” This guy was in his late forties, at least, way old enough to know better. If I saw a dollar bill fall from someone’s pocket, I’d say, “Excuse me, you dropped something.” If there was no one around, I’d claim it as my own, but this was different. At the register the man untwisted my dollar. Then he took all the change out of his pocket and slowly counted it out. When the cashier told him he was short 10 cents, he turned to me and said, “Give me a dime.” I couldn’t believe it. There were two men behind me in line. One of them rooted in his pocket and handed the man who’d stolen from me two nickels. Then he looked at me with mild disgust, the way you might at a