December 2. I’m at what I call “The Pie House,” actually the Bakers Square at Harlem and Foster, with my mother, who’s been reading the pie menu throughout dinner and still can’t decide.
“No, Ma. Probably just in certain states.”
“Two bananas?” asks the waitress.
“If your parents weren’t here I’d kick the shit outta you!”
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The restaurant’s host, male, Asian, almost a head shorter than the madman, grabs his arm, begins leading him to a table, as if nothing were going on. Halfway there, in the dead center of the restaurant, the madman spins around and shouts, “I’ll get you later, motherfucker.” He is followed by another guy, a longhair, who smiles sheepishly at the audience of pie eaters. The host seats them in the smoking section. The longhair lights a cigarette. The madman’s been brandishing one all along.
“Why?”
“Shhhh!” says my mother.
