Things Are Getting a Little Tense Between Me and My Deli Guy Abdul

Green tracers on CNN with reports of anthrax in Florida, ad nauseam, and my girlfriend's pulling an all-nighter at the office, working on a soap campaign for a bunch of impossible-to-please tight-asses from the Midwest. I can't fall asleep. And when I finally do I'm having nightmares about her cheating on me, with another ex-girlfriend's current husband, of all people. And when I confront them in my dream after catching them screwing in the sleeping car of a train headed for Italy, the guy morphs into a gigantic stud New York City fireman (she's been sleeping in her "I ß FDNY" t-shirt lately), leaving me no physical or moral alternative but to focus my attention on her, but she turns it around on me and manages to make me feel like it's all my fault, which I'm prone to feeling anyway.

So there I am, 6 in the morning, watching more green tracers and OBL talking about 100 percent guaranteed retaliation. Around 11 a.m. she comes home for a shower and a change of clothes, then heads back to the office to present her work. I go with her like always, to keep her company, and then I walk back home because it makes me feel like I've exercised for the day. When I get back to the West Village after my vigorous walk, as always, I go to the deli around the corner for a coffee and the paper before coming home and angsting about all the writing I'm behind on. This deli, it's a block from where we live. And like many delis in New York that aren't owned by Puerto Ricans or Koreans, it's owned and operated by Jordanians or Palestinians, depending on who you're talking to and where you stand politically on the Arab/Israeli brouhaha. They know I'm Jewish and I know they're Jordanians or Palestinians and over the years we've developed an arch-comedy fuck you no fuck you no fuck you Do The Right Thing wop/nigger it's-all-good-in-the-hood kind of relationship.

Not today. I walk in, intent on ignoring the memory of the green tracers and the reports of anthrax in Florida and our taxi ride downtown with a mute Egyptian cab driver named Mohammed. And I try to make small talk with my old pals from Jordan or Palestine, as usual. But there's this weird vibe in the air. In fact, I'm so overcome with nervousness, I turn into a gigantic teddy bear on a friendship mission. But it isn't working, because these Palestinian/Jordanian guys (four of them) whom I know real well are giving me this very strong "we don't give a rat's ass you're a gigantic teddy bear" vibe.

But I'm still intent on rising above the tension, so I say to the owner of the deli, Abdul, I say, "Yo, Abdul, give me a hug. I need a hug from you today, Abdul." And Abdul smiles a vague, slightly plastic smile and says, "Not many like you." Which is kind of cryptic, but I decide to take it as a compliment (even though it doesn't feel very genuine) because I'm a gigantic teddy bear ambassador of love, and I smile back with a broad beaming smile, and I walk toward Abdul with open arms and embrace him for an extended hug, waiting to feel the love come back my way.

But his body isn't sending me any love. It's a no-love hardwood hug like I'd never felt before in my life. I can't imagine a stiffer, I fuckin'-hate-you hug from Adolf Hitler. Which freaks me out so much, I morph out of the gigantic teddy bear and into Gandhi, the philosophically sublime, bald Indian guru of peace and enlightenment. And I start radiating goodness and love and warmth and I start lactating and I'm standing there in the deli wearing a toga and sandals and I'm seeing light all around me and my four Jordanian/Palestinian friends at my local West Village deli.

Much to my joy and satisfaction, Abdul seems to appreciate Gandhi, and his face loosens up and he says, "Come, take a walk with me to the post box down the street." And I nod, sagely, like the bald, wise man that I am. And we walk down to the corner where the mailbox is and I'm filled with light and inner peace and enlightenment and I start talking to Abdul about figuring out how to nurture love through our city's moment of hate and what does he think about all of this and where we should go from here.

Meanwhile, Abdul puts his letter in the mailbox and we walk back toward the deli. I'm walking with him because that's what we're doing?walking together toward peace and infinite bliss, and then Abdul suddenly stops and he turns toward me and says calmly but not without a significant level of edge: "Why do you think I would know what the fuck's going on? Why do you think I would know?"

Well needless to say, this response totally baffles Gandhi. Not because it doesn't make sense. But because it's so antagonistic. Which makes Gandhi mad. And he's not supposed to get mad. So he leaves me there, stranded, which makes me even angrier. So I snap back at Abdul, wounded, "Gee, I don't know, Abdul. I thought maybe you might be able to help me figure it out. Or perhaps that we might be able to figure it out together." Then I try to quickly smooth things over by telling him I'm scared. I figure we're all scared. Which seems to hit a nerve with Abdul because even though he's not saying it, I know he's scared. But he still just stands there, looking all pissed off, obviously waiting for me to beat it. Then Sam comes out of the deli onto the sidewalk holding the portable phone and says to Abdul, "Get rid of that guy!" And I realize "that guy" is me!

Before the "New War of 9/11," and even up until when "America Strikes Back!," I walk into that deli and Sam sees me and says to the guy at the coffee machine, "Large coffee one sugar double de cup!" Just like I like it. Then he turns to me for the up-sale, smiles and says, "You wanna papeh? Times? You want de Post too? Cigarettes? Oh yeah, you quit." And sometimes, even though the Palestinian/Jordanian root of his American name "Sam" isn't Shimon, in honor of Shimon Peres, I call him "Shimon." Today, Shimon is saying, "Get rid of that guy"? He knows my name. Shosh. That's what he calls me. Shosh. A name that means "piss" in just about every Arabic language, according to my Iranian friend. But what's a little "piss" in the name of peace, right? Today, though, there doesn't seem to be any room for peace.

I stand there and stare at him in total disbelief. I can't believe what's happening today. Meanwhile, Shimon looks at Abdul. Abdul looks at me. I look back at Shimon. Shimon chuckles nervously, realizing how rude that was to say to me, his good customer, Shosh, laughs a just-kidding laugh, says, "Have a nice day," turns around and walks back into the deli. I turn back to face Abdul, but he's already walking past me, back into the deli, without saying squat.

And there I am on the sidewalk by myself, totally naked. I'm no longer Gandhi or a gigantic teddy bear and I'm most definitely not lactating. I'm just this totally confused shell-shocked individual wondering what happened to my neighborhood. Mookie threw the trashcan through my window, I realize. Fucking Mookie threw the goddamn trashcan through my window. As much as I'm predisposed not to believe this would ever happen to me in my lifetime, I can't help seeing the trashcan smashing through my window. Shards of glass slo-mo. I can almost see a title sequence rolling over the image.

So I walk home, turn on the tv and watch some CNN pundit fuckwit talking about the pros and cons of owning your own gas mask and I fall asleep there on the couch where I'm awakened several hours later when my girlfriend walks through the door. Still recovering, I start to tell her about the weird stuff that happened to me at the deli, but she's too exhausted to hear it. Those tight-asses from the Mall of America hated her work, she explains. "But not to worry," she says like a trouper, "there's always tomorrow." Then she takes off her work clothes, puts on her "I ß FDNY" t-shirt and crawls into bed.