It was so cold Saturday night. I was about to back out on my decision to take a taxi and headed for the car. "No," I said out loud as I inserted the key in the door, and just stopped myself from getting in. I had resolved long ago not to drink and drive, and the time had come to make good on my pledge. And, after all, it was just a two-minute walk from my house to the main road, where taxis would be passing by with great frequency at this hour, since we're so close to Talpiot, where the clubs are.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and began walking briskly. Anyway, I knew for sure that tonight I was going to get good and drunk. Earlier in the day a powerful desire to celebrate the establishment of the Palestinian unity government had come over me. There was no time to waste - the cautious euphoria inspired by the new swearing-in ceremony could be shattered by tomorrow morning. I had a duty to rejoice, I told myself, recalling that it was the month of Adar, too.

Before I even took my hand out of my pocket, a taxi stopped. I sat up front, as always. I don't like to sit in the back. For some reason, I find it a condescending thing to do, something that could offend the driver - you know, make him feeling like a taxi driver. "Zion Square," I said to the driver, who appeared to be an Arab. "You're from Beit Safafa?," he asked right away, in Arabic, and I nodded.

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"Where exactly do you want to go?," he asked, and I gave him the name of the place. Actually, I gave him the name of the restaurant across the street, because the place I was really going to was known mainly as a bar. I don't know where it comes from, but I've always tried to make myself look like a good boy in front of Arabs, even if they happen to be taxi drivers I've never met before. When I was little, it was totally clear to me who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. And until about age 15, I could count myself among the good guys. Alcohol has always been a bad-guy trademark, to the point that in Egyptian and Syrian movies, if a guy so much as places an empty whiskey bottle on the table, it's a clear sign that he's a cheater, thief, rapist or heretic, and if it's a movie with a happy ending then he is certain to get his comeuppance.

"From your outfit, you must be a waiter," the driver asserted, and I looked down in shame at my buttoned-down white shirt and black jacket from Zara. "Yes," I found myself replying. Better a waiter than a partyer, I thought.

"You happy with your job?"

"Alhamdulillah" [Praise be to God], I answered in a religious tone.

"I hope for your sake," said the driver, who looked to be about 50, "that you don't serve alcohol there. Because you know, as it is written - Not only he who drinks it, but also he who serves it or just touches it is impure and must be called to account."

"Alhamdulillah," I answered. "I have a boss who understands my constraints and respects them."

"Really?" The driver was surprised. "There are good people among them, too?"

"Very few, really, maybe 20 in the whole country."

"May God curse the good in them. Not one of them is any good, if you ask me, but their end is coming, with God's help. You ever surf the Internet?" The driver startled me with the question. What was the appropriate religious response to such a question? In most cases, "Internet" carries some implication of pornography. Luckily, he went on talking. "There's this amazing site - Go to Google, type in 'end of Israel and the United States,' and click on the first site that comes up. It's an incredible research study that scientifically proves that in the year 2017 America and Israel will disappear. It's really something - physics and mathematics and history that leave no doubt: 2017 will be the end for them. What do you say?"

"Inshallah" [God willing].

"You mind if I pick up someone else on the way?," the driver asked as we were going down Hapalmach Street, cutting to the other side of the street without waiting for my consent. Not that I would have objected. "Maybe she's going to Zion Square, too," said the driver. "Look how they dress, like prostitutes, may God have mercy on us." I turned to look at the "prostitute" who was approaching the taxi and immediately turned my head away. No, please, no, just don't let it be my friend Neta right now. But it has to be her. She's the only one who wears long, colorful scarves like that. Nothing like a prostitute, more like a flower child from the Sixties, with a wool hat from Jamaica. She opened the back door. "To the center of town?," she asked, and the driver nodded, "Get in."

I tried to hide my face, not to turn around, to keep busy with my cell phone, as if I was checking messages, but it was no use. "Hi, baby," I heard her say from the back seat. "Wow, I can't believe it's you," she said, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. I wiped my cheek with my sleeve and murmured a plea for God's forgiveness. "Hey, how cool is this? You're on your way to Uri's party, too, aren't you?," she blurted out and the driver gave me a sideways glance.

"You know?," I said, desperately trying to change the subject. "Your end is near. In 2017 there won't be any more America or Israel. It's been scientifically proven. In 2017, it's all over."

"Great," she said. "In that case the first drink's on me."