After a hard night on the town, there’s only one thing on my mind. Well two, but before all else, I’m headed to that one special place that is known, simply, as the Gyro Joint, given the neon sign outside the door. No matter where I am partying for the night, when 2 o’clock hits, I have to go to the Gyro Joint. I could be at Kip’s, playing some pool or downtown at Tiki Bob’s, tearin’ the club up. Either way, at the end of the night, I’m headed to Broad Ripple to get my fix. You meet all kinds of crazies, standing in line, waiting for that lamb and beef pita, with dripping cucumber sauce.
“We’re never going to find a place to park,” Shane says, but he knows it’s worth it. As soon as I mentioned the place, he was all over it. “Yeah, yeah, finish your beer. Let’s get going, before it’s too late and there’s a line.”
Of course, I’m not going to pay for parking at 2:30 in the morning. So I park about four blocks away, on Winthrop. We make the frigid hike, with nothing to keep us warm but hoodies and Mexican beer in our bellies.
Walking up Broad Ripple Avenue, I can see there is already a line, about three people out the door, but it’s nothing. I’ve stood in colder weather. Mind over matter, right? Indeed. And my mind is fixed on that gyro.
I observe the dude in front of me, swaying back and forth. He keeps pulling his Motorola Razor out of his shirt pocket, I think, checking to make sure he hasn’t missed a call. I wonder what he would look like hitting the ground, after swaying a little too far to his left. I’d jump out of the way and let him. That’s for sure.
These two chumps come walking up behind us, both wasted to oblivion. The bigger one is talking to the smaller, and anyone who’ll listen.
“I can’t believe you didn’t hit that guy. I had your back,” he says.
“Man, I came here all the way from Champaign, [Illinois], I gotta go home tomorrow.”
“You’re a punk. You should’ve blasted him.”
“Man, the bouncer threw me out, right behind you. There was a cop in my face,” the little one adds.
“Punk,” the bigger yells to the crowded street. “I’m not going to hit some dude, right in front of a cop, and spend the night in jail.”
By this time, Shane is ordering our food, yelling past the swaying idiot in front of us, who is too twisted to realize he needs to walk out the door. “Two gyros: one with no sauce!”
“With no sauce?” I ask. “You don’t like cucumber sauce?” “It’s alright,” Shane replies. “But I just don’t like it all the time.”
We get the goods and make our way to the car. Two girls in front of us are staggering out of the alley. Laughing to myself, I take my first bite.
“Ah, shit!” Cucumber sauce drips from the pita and covers my sleeve.
“That’s why I don’t get the sauce,” Shane says with a smirk.