Dubai

         I sit down at the last available table in the square and unwrap my cheesesteak. It’s scalding hot so after taking a few cautious nibbles I let it sit to cool off. A Black man about my age approaches.

        “Are you going to buy me one of those?” he asks. I smile and say no and start to eat. He stands there watching. Finally I tear off a hunk and wrap it in foil and hand it to him. “I have cash, you think I don’t have cash,” he says, pulling a roll of bills from his jeans pocket. “I have plenty of cash. I don’t need cash.” I tell him I don’t want his money. He pulls up a chair and sits across from me with the sandwich in front of him.

        “Do you play tennis, handball?” he asks. I say no. “Do you go to Portland State?” Again, I tell him no, and ask if he does. “I did thirty years ago,” he says. I ask him what he majored in and he asks, “Have you ever been to Dubai?” I tell him no, and ask if he has. “Of course I have,” he says, sounding offended. “Where are you from?” he asks. I tell him Philly, which is what I tell everyone when I don’t want to explain aboutAllentown. I ask him where he’s from.

        “Hartford, Connecticut,” he says proudly. “My parents had the largest furniture outlet in San Francisco, and Seattle. Shit fuck. You look like you’ve never been to San Francisco or Seattle.”

        I laugh. “Why does it look like that?”

        “These are high class places. High class food. You sit there sucking down that Coke. You look like you work for Gates or Intel. Sucking down that Coke. Tell me, do you play tennis, handball?”

        He speaks calmly and deliberately but teeth are clenched and his eyes seem to burn with rage. I tell him I don’t play any sports.

        “Or course you don't. You don't do anything. You look to me like you’re about fifty,” he says. I tell him he’s right. “I’m 47,” he says. “Today is my birthday.”

        “Happy birthday,” I say, hoping this lightens things a bit. 

        “How dare you,” he says. “You don’t tell someone happy birthday until they’re in the ground. Shit fuck.”

        I’m not sure what this means but he sounds deeply offended. He swivels his neck to watch someone walking past.

        “That girl looks like she’s from Dubai,” he says. “Have you been to Dubai?” Once again, I say no. “You haven’t been anywhere, have you. Shit fuck. Where are you from?” Once again I tell him, and ask if he’s ever been there.

        “Of course I have. Shit fuck. Philly. Rutgers. And you’ve never been to Seattle.” He looks over at the a rather svelte man with a beard sitting at the next table. “You look like you’re around 280, 270 pounds,” he yells to him. Both the bearded man and I laugh. 

        “Ouch,” the bearded guy says. 

        My companion turns back to me. “Sucking down that Coke,” he says with gritted teeth. “You go to Portland State? These Oregonians picking up after their dogs and taking their kids for walks at two in the morning. These people are soft. Fuck.”

        I tell him if he doesn’t want his sandwich, that I’ll eat it.

        “I’ll give it to someone,” he says. He calls to a man with a cart heaped with bags and hands it to him.

          “Shit fuck. You and your Coke and your chicken wings. But tell me one thing,” he asks. “Do you play tennis, handball?”

        I wad up my napkins and empty foil and stand up. 

        "Well, I'm heading out. Have a good day," I say.

        “Why wouldn’t I have a good day, motherfucker,” he says. “It’s my birthday,” and wanders off. 

        The man at the next table smiles and says, “Welcome to Portland.”

        “I’ve lived here eighteen years,” I tell him. 

        “Oh, so you know,” he says. 

        The man with the cart is rummaging through a garbage bin. I ask if he wants my empty can. He thanks me and I hand it to him along with five bucks then weave my way through the crowd, trying to get my bearings, trying to make sense of anything.