Sweet Like Sugar by Wayne Hoffman

just doesn’t like me, ” she said.
    â€œNo,” I said, “you were right about him. He doesn’t trust women drivers.”
    â€œI knew it,” said Mrs. Goldfarb, with a satisfied expression.
    Let her think what she wants.
    Â 
    Pete, I realized on the Fourth of July, was not the guy for me.
    There were little things that tipped me off: He was half an hour late meeting me at the Dupont Circle Metro station, and didn’t think to call my cell, or to apologize when he finally arrived. He was wearing a Clay Aiken concert T-shirt—without apparent irony. He had already eaten, even though we were supposed to have lunch together; I was stuck scarfing down a Subway sub on a park bench.
    Nonetheless, all of that could have been forgiven. Even Clay Aiken.
    The real problem started when we went downtown, walking along the Mall. The main lawn around the monuments was thick with families on picnic blankets and teenagers throwing Frisbees. Lafayette Square, across from the White House, was crowded, too—with protesters. A demonstration against the Iraq War was going strong. People with megaphones led chants like “Two-four-six-eight, end the war, it’s not too late” and “Hey-hey-ho-ho, Bush and Cheney have got to go!” Many people waved small American flags, while others held signs saying “No Penalty For Early Withdrawal” and “Bush’s Mission Accomplished: 3,000 Troops Dead.”
    â€œWant to stick around?” Pete asked. I did, assuming that we were on the same page politically, beyond both hating Bush. But while we were both against the war, I soon found out that we were coming from different perspectives.
    â€œEnd the Zionist Occupations: U.S. Out of Iraq, Israel Out of Palestine” read a sign in the middle of the park. The “o” in Zionist had a small red swastika inside.
    I pointed and said, almost involuntarily, in an exasperated voice, “Can’t we have one antiwar protest without the crazies ruining it?”
    â€œWhat’s so crazy about that?” Pete asked.
    That’s where it started. I was no hardliner—I supported Palestinian statehood and opposed the settlements in the West Bank, both stances that made my parents uneasy—but when I saw people making bogus connections like the one on that sign, I smelled something rotten.
    â€œHow exactly is our occupation of Iraq ‘Zionist’?” I asked.
    â€œWell, look who started the war.”
    I started the list, counting off names on my fingers: “Bush. Cheney. Colin Powell. Donald Rumsfeld. Condoleezza Rice.”
    â€œOh, come on,” Pete countered. “Jewish neocons were pushing for this war from the beginning, and they pulled all the strings to get what they wanted, like they always do. Seems pretty obvious that we’re only there to protect Israel.”
    â€œYou have an interesting idea about how much power Jews have in this country, especially considering how few there are in this administration,” I said. “Do you realize that there’s no group in America that’s more consistently opposed to this war than the Jews?”
    It devolved from there. He repeated some conspiracy-theory baloney about Jews being warned to stay out of the Twin Towers on September 11. (“I’m not saying I believe it, necessarily,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s something to think about.”) He segued into an explanation about how suicide bombers blowing up kids in a Jerusalem pizza parlor could be justified. (“You know, out of sheer desperation.”) It only took about five more minutes before he got around to comparing Israel to the Third Reich: “What they’re doing to the Palestinians really isn’t so different . . .”
    I was done.
    â€œI’m taking the Metro home,” I told him.
    â€œGeez, Benji, don’t be so oversensitive,” he said. “Can’t we even have a