How many times do I have to learn, it's not about me?

So Dave and I are headed out last night, to sit shiva with a friend whose dad died a couple of days ago. Things are tense for a couple of reasons already: we're late, we're nervous, Dave worked all night and it's catching up with him--that's more than a couple.

Why are we late? Because we'd planned to leave at 6:30, but I didn't get into the shower til 7:00. Why not? Probably because I was nervous about going to this event. For all the reasons I usually get nervous about wakes and funerals: I won't know what to say; I won't know anyone; I will be intruding. etc. And given that it's a Jewish friend, I can add, I don't know how to sit shiva. I don't know what to bring. This is not helped by leaving at 7:30 at night.

Baked goods, I have been advised. Something really for the other guests. That's easy. There are many great bakeries around. I can pick something up during the day, when they are open. Except I didn't, because I don't know what I was doing yesterday. Not working on the screenplay. Oh yeah, I spent most of the day messing with audio clips to send Lloyd for Obscure News because I wouldn't be at the meeting. Because I was going to sit shiva. Which, as a nonJew, I don't even feel I have the right to say. I was going to pay my respects while they sat shiva. And of course, in retrospect I could have gone to the meeting because I didn't get in the shower til seven anyway. Anyway.

So the thing starts at seven. It's about a half-hour away. We figure, as long as we get there by eight, eight-fifteen, we're okay.

We get in the car, start driving. Dave asks, "Do you have the directions?" "I thought you had them." Heavy sighs. No one's pointing fingers. We drive home. I run up and get directions which are sitting next to the door. Get back in the car. More heavy sighs. We start out again.

I remind him, "Go up to Kedzie, I need to stop for something to bring."
"Right." He turns onto Kedzie. Most bakeries are closed at 7:30 at night. All the cute little places like Bulldog Bakery, and Kitchen Chicago, and Dinkels. And I don't want to get something from a grocery store. It will look like I didn't plan ahead. But the baclava bakery on Kedzie is always open. And they have fantastic baklava and are very nice. So Dave parks, and I go in. It's 7:30, it will be empty, right?

Almost empty. One guy is leaving with his purchase, a woman is standing at the counter waiting for hers. Perfect. The man behind the counter smiles as I come in. he’s filling a large box with baklava and all kinds of honey-drenched delicacies. Are they all called baklava? The woman says, “You can go ahead, too.”

“Oh no,” I say politely, “That’s all right.” After all, how long can it take to fill her order?

“Thank you very much,” says the man behind the counter. He continues filling the box. The woman is eating a pastry as she waits. The man fills the tray. He hands me a piece of baklava. “For your being so patient,” he says.

“Wow, thank you!” I decide to save it for Dave, who probably doesn’t feel as fat as I do right now.

The man finishes loading the box, and carries it to a work table. There I see a few other filled boxes. Which he then packs into sturdier packing boxes. Which he then secures with strapping tape around every seam. And then adds Nazareth Sweets labels to. And then weighs. And then offers a price to the woman. “How does sixty-seven dollars sound?”

“It sounds great!” she says, and gives him her credit card. Which he processes. Then he takes her unfinished pastry and packs it in a to-go-container, which he then wraps in shrink wrap. And then packs in a small shopping bag. The woman is effusive in her thanks. About twenty minutes have gone by now. In terms of lateness anxiety, I have gone from nervous to resigned. The woman prepares to leave, and I hold the door open for her. I can see Dave sitting in the car. I don’t want to think about what he must be thinking. “Now, what can I do for you?” says the man behind the counter.

“I would just like a box of cookies,” I say.

“From down there?” The man points to the cookie area, a little surprised. Of course he is. He has the best baclava in the entire world, and all different kinds of it, or whatever it’s called. But while waiting, I suddenly wondered, is it disrespectful to bring sweets from a middle eastern establishment, perhaps an Arab establishment, to a Jewish house in mourning? I mean, I don’t know this guy’s politics. What if he hates the Jewish people? But he couldn’t. He’s so nice, and such a good baker. Maybe he is Jewish, for all I know. God, I’m ignorant. And I know my friend David has Arab friends. But still. Does a box of baklava say somehow, screw you? So yeah, I have to go with the possibly less-delicious cookies, because they will be invisible. “Yep,” I answer cheerfully, “just cookies."

But what if he thinks I hate his baklava? I haven’t touched the one he gave me. Is he eyeing the untouched piece in my hand? I take a nibble, to demonstrate my support of his baklava.

Another ten minutes go by as he carefully packs the box. As many times as I say, just an assortment, he consults me on each selection. He also advises on which ones he doesn’t recommend. I want to scream, “Just pack anything,” but I hold it back. At this point, what difference does it make? We’re going to get to Dave’s mom’s house, and everyone including David will be gone, and David’s mom is going to open the door in her nightgown and ask confusedly, Who are you and what do you want? So there’s really no rush.

At last, my cookies are ready. “It’s twelve sixty-seven,” says the man. “Twelve is good.” I get out my money, and we introduce ourselves to each other. He teaches me to pronounce his name.

Khalid loves the Italian people. “I have some Italian friends,” he tells me, “And they are so crazy!” He seals up my box, then slaps a large, pretty “Nazareth Sweets” sticker on the box. I see there’s Arabic writing also on the label. So much for ethnic anonymity. I might as well have done the baklava. And as a matter of fact, I think the first time I had baklava, it was in the house of some Jewish friends. Oh God, get me out of here.

Not yet. “I have something special for you to try,” Khalid says, and begins packing me a to-go container of special treats from the baklava section. “That’s not necessary,” I protest. “It’s to thank you,” he says. He wraps the container in shrink. Then puts it in a small shopping bag.

We say our good byes, and I make it out to the car, where Dave’s been waiting about a half-hour. We sigh heavily. “It’s gonna be one of the nights,” I say carefully. “I’m sorry I was so late. It’s just gonna be like that all night.” Dave nods. We head for the highway, but just before we get there, we run into the scene of a recent accident, where cop cars and an ambulance have gathered. So Dave takes a detour.

Finally, we get to the house. Which is filled with people. And David sees us right away and comes to greet us. And thanks us for the sweets. And hands them to someone and asks her to write down what they are and who brought them. Dave and I exchange a worried glance.

David spends the next half-hour talking with us and making sure we have something to eat and drink, even though as he explains, the family is not supposed to serve others but be served. Which, as so many things in the Jewish faith do, makes so much sense. I love the directness of this religion. The complete acceptance of emotional intensity.

Before we leave, we greet David’s mom. She is beautiful in her naked emotion that somehow doesn’t evoke pity. “It’s been a long, hard week,” she says matter-of-factly.

When we leave, we feel elated. I confess how nervous I was to Dave, and he tells me he felt the same way. “But it’s always better to go,” he says as we drive home. “Because it’s not about us.”

And he’s right. It’s not about anything. It’s just the act of connecting with people we love and care about, at all stages in the cycle of life and death. That’s what makes us whole and alive.

But I do need to get the scoop on the whole baklava thing.