Perhaps I did not mention that, because of being in a terrorist attack, I was on pretty heavy painkillers, Demerol in fact, though at some point I believe I was taking OxyContin. I can’t remember, which is the one happy outcome of opiates. But by now, my doctors were strict with me. They pulled me off the medication long before I wanted them to, and I ended up, basically, with a handful of aspirin. Probably that explains what happened.
I had bussed into Tel Aviv to have my dressings changed at the clinic. I hadn’t been out on my own in some time, and the idea of sharing some fresh air with the rest of humanity seemed especially pleasing, so I went for a walk. It was a busy time of day, and the streets were crowded. I noticed immediately people were staring at me – it was the bandages, of course, and, I guess, the dragging lower lip and the purple neck. One could see in their faces the usual mixture of horror and pity. This was entirely normal, I told myself. I would have stared, too – anyone would.
At the crosswalk, the light changed. I took a step off the curb, and there right in front of me, stepping off the curb opposite, was a young Arab. Modern. Secular. Jeans. Striped polo. Running shoes. Shiny watch. He looked straight at me. He neither grimaced nor raised his eyebrows in sympathy, no acknowledgement at all; he just moved toward me,...
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