The Portugal Files

Two in the morning. Portugal. I’m doing laundry.

My sleep schedule’s been fucked since I got here. People calling from the States at weird hours. So I fall asleep at seven, wake up at one, do some laundry, walk to the beach, take pictures of the sky. That’s the routine.

This night, I come back from the beach. Beautiful night. Stars out. I’m feeling good.

And there’s black shoes by my glass door.

Indoor soccer shoes. Smaller than my feet. Neatly placed. By the door I left unlocked because I just walked to the beach in the middle of the night like an idiot.

I look at the shoes. I look at the open door. I think: whose shoes are these?

Then I look inside and there’s a man in my apartment.

The Man

Black. Probably Angolan—lot of Angolans in Portugal. Late fifties. Shorter than me, maybe five-eight. Pear-shaped. Bald on top, bigger on the bottom. Look up pear.

So I get big. That’s what you do. I’m like, what the fuck, man?

He turns around. He’s scared.

And here’s the thing I can’t figure out: every light in my apartment is on. I’m doing laundry. The washing machine is running. How did he not know someone was home?

But he didn’t. Or he did and he was desperate enough to try anyway.

He’s not by my stuff. That’s what I notice. My computer, my wallet—that’s all on the other side. He’s over by the kitchen. By the food. Maybe some booze.

I walk toward him to see what he’s got. He gets more scared. Starts rambling.

I was just looking for a place to sleep. I was just checking places and this one was open. I was just looking for a place to sleep.

Every light’s on in here, but okay.

The Shoes

Here’s the thing about the shoes.

He took them off.

This man broke into my apartment and thought: I should be respectful. This is someone’s home.

His mother taught him well.

That detail is what saved him. Because I had a moment to process. I saw the shoes before I saw the man. And by the time I saw him, I’d already started thinking: what kind of person takes their shoes off when they break in?

A person who’s not there to hurt anyone. A person who’s just in a bad spot.

So as I’m walking him toward the door, I start thinking about what kind of man this age takes this kind of risk. Sneaking into an American tourist’s rental in the middle of the night. He must be in a bad place.

So as he’s putting his shoes back on, I say: you need money or something, man? You okay? Can I help you?

He says: I’m not a thief. I’m not here for your money.

I say: No, I understand. I would give you money. Are you okay?

He says: I’m looking for work. It’s slow here. I’m undocumented.

His English is good. Better than my Portuguese.

The Sandwich

I think: this man’s probably hungry.

So I say: hey, you want some food?

He says: I’d love some food.

So he comes back inside. I give him bread. Peanut butter. I cut up a mango—squared off the outer halves so he can eat it easy. I’ve got kids. I know how to make food portable.

I ask if I can take his picture. I’m writing a book. This is a story.

He says: no, I’m not comfortable with that.

Fair. I wouldn’t want my picture taken either. I just broke into someone’s place.

So I took a picture of the sandwich afterward. That I can share.

The Milk

I bought milk when I first got here. I don’t know why. I’m not a milk guy. It’s been in my fridge for a month. Unopened.

So I think: all right, Freddie—his name’s Freddie—smell this. How’s it smell?

It doesn’t smell great to me. But he says: it’s all right. Very good.

So I pour him a glass.

He’s ready to go. I’m trying to give him a plate. He’s not sticking around for a plate. That boy is out the door.

I have to hand him the napkin as he’s leaving.

I say: hey, you want this milk?

He says: no, it hurts my tummy.

Freddie and his tummy.

I pour the rest out. Trust me, Freddie—if milk hurts your tummy, you do not want this milk. Because even I knew it wasn’t quite right and I don’t drink milk.

Good call on your part, Freddie. That would have been rough. If you don’t have a place to sleep, you’re definitely gonna need a place to shit. If you drink this milk.

The Exit

He grabs his stuff. Sandwich. Mango. No milk.

I tried to give him a Reese’s cup but he was already running.

That boy motored.

Anything could have happened in that moment. For both of us. So many bad outcomes.

He left with a sandwich.

The Thesis

Average person would not do what I did.

My behavior was unique. But I’m not special. I just saw him as helpless. That’s all.

He could have gotten a jail sentence. Instead he got a sandwich.

In the States, he gets shot.

Black man in your apartment at 2 AM? He gets shot. By the person or by the police. Either way.

Freddie’s not a bad man. He’s just in a bad spot.

So fuck your social norms. Fuck them all day. And then ask them for money. Because you fucked them and they liked it.

Roderick

I thought of my friend Roderick when Freddie showed up.

Christmas Eve. Jamaica station. New York. Three cops pulling two Black men off a train.

One of them was wearing a UPS uniform. Scanner still hanging from his belt. Black Santa on Christmas Eve. Been delivering packages all month. Just trying to get home.

The other was Roderick. Six-three. Rastas up on his head. Didn’t even know the first guy. Just Black in the same place at the same time.

Both of them got $75 tickets.

Three cops extracted $150 from two Black men and went home to their families as heroes of New York City.

On Christmas Eve.

I stood there and watched. The only white man in the station. Leaning against a column. Didn’t have my phone out yet. Just present.

White man watching. What’s up, guys? Everybody okay over here? Does anyone need a sandwich?

I couldn’t stop it. I could only witness it.

Roderick and I rode trains together after that. Talked for hours.

End of December, he quit his job. Manager was an asshole. Roderick said: people like that will make you trip out and put yourself in trouble.

So he walked. Because he knows the cost of reacting isn’t the same for him.

I sent him $100 to cover the ticket and Christmas beer. He said: maybe for you, my friend, I have a beer tonight. Even though he doesn’t drink that much no more.

Today I sent him $77.77. Prayers, brother. I might use your name and voice in my book.

No reply yet.

$177.77 total.

More than the cops took.

That’s not charity. That’s correction.