G. Because it gives me something. You don’t know how neat it is ... It’s better than sex ... to go some place and get in and steal. It’s better than getting a woman. When I first started to steal, when I was a little kid, I stole food, yeah. I can remember going into ... they had victory gardens when I was a kid and I remember stealing food ... I don’t remember it being terribly exciting; I remember it being satisfying because my belly was empty. When I was about thirteen: screw them up; see how bad you can screw ’em up and the more you can steal ... I don’t even know what I did with what I ... I probably gave it away; that’s what I do with most things I steal; I give them away. I don’t want them. When I was in junior high school, we used to go in groups. One would act as a lookout, one would be a cover, and I was always the one who would steal. I chose it. I not only chose it for myself, they chose it for me because I was so capable. I’m scared every time I steal. I'm not scared of getting caught. I don’t know what I’m scared of.
After it’s over, I’m so excited ... I am so excited. I don't shake or anything while I’m doing it. I don’t ... no big stuff. When I’m done, I shake until my hands shake; I shake all over. I walk around the block, I fuck somebody, usually I eat. I always eat a hot fudge sundae. I don’t know why. Because that’s what appeals to me. ... Do you know there’s a restaurant, when they see me come in they make a huge hot fudge sundae in a soup bowl? I only go in there for a hot fudge sundae. They don’t know me; I’m a stranger to them. I go there every time, afterwards.
Another unvarying part of her M.O. was to seek out a strange man, a machine chosen because he looked capable of forceful, unfeeling, frozen, unloving intercourse with a rigid penis, a sexual act that she could not have borne, much less would have sought, at any other time.
G. I just lay there and get fucked. [To her this word never means only intercourse; it is used here for its precise evocation of forced attack on a female.] They [men] can do anything to me they want to. I don’t even know if I come. [At no other time does she not know.] I’m not talking about sex; I’m talking about getting fucked. It’s just important to get fucked . . . like being ripped open. If the first man can’t do that, I go out and get another one. It depends on how lucky I am. If I do get the right one the first time, then that’s all. If not, I go for one after the other till I feel like I’ve been fucked. I tell him to fuck me. That’s what I want. If I have an orgasm, it’s not in my genitals; it's in my head. An explosion. And then I’m relieved; I’m not shaking any more.
I’d do this at least once a month; at least. At most once a week. I’ve never stolen without doing all this. It was starting by the time I was in my teens, when the boys—my friends—and I stole some cars and went to Arizona [age fourteen]. I stole them. Then I got fucked. On the way to Arizona. That night. We were in Arizona the next morning.
The night after she described this to me, the feeling— a craving—to steal, to eat ice cream, and to be raped returned.
During her next treatment hour, she filled in more of the ritual.
S. What did you used to do with the stuff you’d steal? G. It depends on what it was. Most of it I gave away. Just about anything of value except . . . not appliances, nothing big, the big stuff that would be difficult to carry out. It depends too . . . well, if I was doing it for myself, I’d steal small things. If I’m stealing because I wanted to satisfy something in myself, I’d steal only one object. If I’m stealing for my partner, I’d steal something else. I almost never kept anything. One time I kept a music box for a long, long time.
There follows a discussion of techniques and knowledge that reveals the patient’s professionalism. As she talks, she becomes ashamed.
G. I didn’t go out last night [despite the return of the impulse].
I dreamt about when I was a kid and we didn’t have a refrigerator; we had an icebox, and the iceman came and I could remember him saying that too. I don’t know why I dreamt it, but I can remember saying it... When we were kids, when the man would deliver the ice, we would crawl in the back of the truck while he was in the house, and I dreamt about that last night, about him being in the house and I climbed in the back of the truck to get some ice and he came out and told me that if I stole his ice, he was going to stab me with his ice pick. And I thought that would really be neat, to be stabbed with an ice pick.* I wasn’t scared.
I’m not evil when I steal. I don’t steal because I’m evil. I steal because I need to and it’s not because I’m bad. If I were to sit and think: I’m going to steal from this little old lady in Pasadena and this is her life’s savings and her family heirlooms and all that then I suppose I would feel evil, but I couldn’t do that. I don’t steal from anybody. I don’t think about anybody. They just don’t exist . . . I’m not evil, because I’m not doing it to hurt anybody ... I want to cry but I won’t. I don’t know ... because I feel like I’m a little kid that's being punished for something I didn’t do. Maybe if I were punished, I wouldn’t do it any more.
I’ll tell you what just came in my mind. Starting with the doctor and him saying, ‘‘Why do you have to have a baby?” [She had repeatedly had illegitimate babies] and me saying, “Well, you know, when something’s gone, you have to have something to replace it.” When it’s taken away from you, you’ve got to have it back or you feel empty inside. The stealing takes a couple of days to build up. I first notice it
•As a child, she had once, in a rage, stabbed her mother in the thigh;
that was as high as she could reach.
when I wake up. Hungry. In my stomach. I don’t eat; it’s not that kind of hungry. I used to eat, and I would throw up. I would have the feeling ... I was thinking about this old man ... When I was a kid, maybe eight, there was this old man that I used to go and visit. He lived in a cellar. His son and daughter-in-law and her kids lived upstairs and he had an apartment downstairs, and he would tell me, “You can only have that [a gift he had for her] if you steal it. I’m not going to give it to you, but if you steal it, you can have it.’’ And one day my sister and I went to see him and he was dead ... It really wasn’t stealing, then.
That morning when it starts, I’d wake up; I always wake up early, you know, when it’s still dark, and something wakes me up and I’m hungry. Maybe it’s a bad thought in my sleep or something. But I don’t remember. But I’m excited. I don’t want to get out of bed. I’m . . . something. I don't want to get out of bed . . .
I always dress the same. I always do the same things. I’ve worn the same clothes. But I always wore the same style clothes. A pair of Levis and tennis shoes and a shirt.
S. What kind of shirt?
G. Just a shirt. It’s not a woman’s shirt... A man's shirt. My own. It’s mine.
S. What kind?
G. It’s a solid color. Long sleeves.
S. Always?
G. Yes, but I roll them up to here. Blue. I like blue shirts. I don’t know why. Always a blue shirt. I know it couldn’t be red or green.
S. Who, if anyone, rolled up their sleeves and wore blue shirts?
G. I don’t know . . . My grandfather did.
S. And why are the sleeves rolled up?
G. Because it’s more comfortable that way.
S. Then why not wear a short-sleeve shirt?
G. Because it's too short.
S. Look, you do think it’s evil. The fucking seems to be a punishment: you can’t have any of this [goodness] until you’ve had that [punishment]. Once you’ve been properly punished then your conscience lets you have the whole thing. Which is: peace. And it’s something about the iceman.
G. The iceman wore a leather thing over his shoulder so when he . . .
S. Who was he?
G. It’s time to go ... [I do not let her.] We had an iceman and a bakery man and a milkman, and they all disliked my mother. The bakery man used to pad her bill and then give me the money. We didn’t always have an iceman. It was just when I was very young ... I don’t know ... I don’t know.