I Pita the Fool

I'D FOUND MYSELF in the strange position of actually being out with some people. Some I'd never met before, while others were old friends I hadn't seen in a year or more. We all had a few drinks in a dark corner of a fancy place I'd never before visited. I was led to a seat, plopped down, and there I sat. I could see absolutely nothing. All in all, though, it turned out to be a very pleasant time.

I also found myself staying out much later than I'm used to these days, especially for a Tuesday, but that was unavoidable. After we left the bar, a few of us walked toward the subway together-Ken and Laura, who were the first people I knew in town; John Strausbaugh; and Joe Coleman and his wife, Whitney.

We stood on the sidewalk near the subway entrance and chatted for some time longer before splitting up. It had been very good to see them all again.

John and I were headed in roughly the same direction, so he led me downstairs to the platform and stood there with me.

As we waited, we chatted some more. I hadn't seen John in about a year and a half. And, just like in the old days, we found ourselves talking about funk records, Louisiana, people we knew in common, copyright law and blackface performers.

After waiting half an hour, a garbled voice came over the p.a. I couldn't make out the announcement, but John and the rest of the people on the platform seemed to agree that it was informing us that the train wasn't running. The announcement then offered up an absurdly complex web of alternative routes, but it didn't seem worth it. That sort of thing had been happening a lot of late. When the temperature goes up, subway service gets real spotty.

"Jimmy," John said, "I think we're screwed."

We trudged back upstairs, out to the street, and tried to hail a cab instead. I don't care much for cabs, but there wasn't much of an alternative. I never know whether the cane is a help or a hindrance when it comes to hailing cabs, so I put it away and let John do the looking and waving.

Again, it took a while. Shortly before 11, a cab finally slowed to a stop.

John and I kept talking as we headed toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The cab driver was silent, and traffic wasn't bad.

Ten minutes later, the cabbie pulled to the side of the road and let John out. I had no idea where we were, or how to get to my place from there, but the driver seemed to be on top of things. At least I wanted to believe he was.

As we pulled away from the curb, he turned around and, in a heavy, lilting Indian accent, quietly asked me a question.

"Pardon?" I replied, not having understood him and hoping he didn't want directions.

"You like pita?" he asked.

Again, something in my brain wasn't working properly, and I asked him to repeat it still again.

"Pita," he said, more loudly. "You like pita?"

"Pita?"

"Yes, pita."

"Oh. Well, sure? I guess I enjoy pita."

"You want a pita?"

"I? Pardon?"

"You want a pita?"

"No, thank you," I told him, a little confused. "I'm just fine."

"You don't like pita?"

"No, I mean, I do like pita-but I'm okay right now, really. Thank you anyway."

This went on longer than it should have, the cabbie grilling me concerning my true feelings toward pita. It was all very strange. Then he said, "There's a place I know-just ^^^ a block away. Very close. Makes very good pita. Best in the city."

"I see."

"If we stop, I'll get one for you. No charge."

"No thank you."

"You've eaten?"

"Yes. I'm fine, thank you."

"I'm very hungry," he said, almost whimpering, as if to let me know that I was about to ruin his evening.

"Well if you want to stop and get a pita, that's fine by me," I offered. "You go right ahead. But I don't need one myself."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Weird thing was, he never mentioned what would be inside the pita-whether he was talking about a falafel or what-have-you. Maybe he preferred to eat them plain. I remember there was a period in the 80s when everybody was putting everything into pitas. The misguided "salad in a pita" craze was actually quite popular for a while. You couldn't go to a fast food joint anywhere without running into that one. Fortunately, it didn't last very long.

The driver took a right onto a dark side street, and I suddenly began to suspect that I was doomed. I'd found myself in situations like this before-in strange cars with drivers who suddenly started offering me things before driving me someplace I didn't want to go. That's happened far too many times, to be honest. And each time I was convinced the trip would end with my getting a bullet in the back of the head.

The fear passed quickly this time, as the car turned again, off the dark side street onto a busy commercial strip.

"There's a Spanish guy," the driver said.

"Pardon?" I was too busy contemplating my imminent doom to pay attention.

"A Spanish guy. He works there. Makes excellent pita."

"I see."

"It's just a block away."

"Okay." I began to worry again-this time that he was going to ask me to run in and buy him a sandwich. If that were to happen, I knew I'd end up getting him the wrong thing (I was still having a heck of a time understanding him). And then there'd be hell to pay.

We drove on, the driver still muttering about pita, through downtown Brooklyn and onto Atlantic Ave. We passed a collection of brightly lit storefronts-check-cashing places, banks, chicken huts, a bail bondsman, a discount furniture store.

The taxi slowed and paused in front of a small restaurant. I saw a window, and through the window, a counter. But something about it didn't seem to make sense. The sign out front didn't say anything about pita. Lots of other things, but not pita. Maybe you had to ask special inside.

"He's not there," the driver said, mildly crestfallen.

"Who?"

"The Spanish guy. He's not there tonight."

The cab picked up speed again, heading, finally, toward my apartment.

"So sorry about that," he said.

"It's perfectly all right," I offered. "I'm sorry he wasn't there." After all that fussing, I was kind of let down.

As we eased back into traffic it occurred to me. I'm such an idiot. The sign in front of the shop he was looking for didn't mention anything about pita because, for all this time, the driver hadn't been saying pita. He'd been saying pizza. Which is too bad, because I really could've gone for a slice about then-especially if he was buying. o