Vignette: The Shack and the Stare

Under the Bridge, Stories Brew That Tourists Never See

It's hot, that humid heat that only appears near the sea. It's been a lousy summer, but today, finally, I can wear a T-shirt.

I’m meeting Thor near “Y”. He wants to show me his community for vulnerable people. He appears, with his old glasses, tangled hair, and lively eyes.

He's wearing a T-shirt of a hardcore band I don’t know, a military jacket covered in all kinds of patches, and wide cargo pants with pockets full of who knows what.

"Juan!" he shouts when he sees me. He hugs me and starts talking about everything that happened to him last week. He mentions a conference where he’ll be a speaker, representing his association. I follow along, lighting a cigarette and not saying much, as we walk alongside the train tracks toward the bridge that crosses the city.

"We're almost there, two more minutes," Thor says.

I see some containers in the distance as he points them out. When we arrive, I take in the shack, made from all kinds of materials—a big space with a courtyard, a fire pit, tables, and chairs that were probably picked up from the street, all in different colors. The interior is built from what looks like recycled wood. I glance at the congregation and feel their eyes on me. I’m new.

Thor introduces me loudly. "Everyone, this is Juan, Juan this is everyone. I'll introduce you individually as we talk to everyone. Want a beer?"

"Always," I reply.

We head over to the "bar," a fragile structure with a counter. A big, muscular guy, covered in tattoos and piercings, stands on the other side of the counter. Thor explains the rules.

"We don’t have a license to sell alcohol, so before you can buy a beer, you have to be a member of the association. It's 50 kroner. Is that alright?"

"Sure."

Thor speaks in Danish and tells the big guy that I’m going to sign up as a member. The guy takes a card from a wooden box, looks at me inquisitively, and asks, "Navn?"

"Juan," I answer.

"Guan?"

"No, Juan, with a J. But don’t worry about it; it’s hard to pronounce."

He hands me the card so I can write my name. I do, and he notes down the membership number on the card and then opens a ledger, writing down the same number, before turning it around for me to sign.

"Fifty kroner, MobilePay or card?" he asks in English.

"Card."

For a second, as I swipe my card through the device, I think it could be dangerous, that they could copy the chip. I regret the doubt instantly.

Thor pats me on the back and says, "Welcome. As a member, the first beer is free. After that, you have to pay, but it’s cheap—20 kroner per beer."

"Ah, great."

I crack open the beer can. It’s warm. I take a sip. "Skål!"

I light a cigarette. I feel anxiety rising in my throat, like before an exam, as I sneak glances at each person.

Thor introduces me to a few people while continuing to tell me his plans.

"Fuck the police."

"Huh?" I respond. I’ve lost the thread of his conversation.

"I was at Dokk1 the other day, handing out flyers for one of Amok’s concerts, and the pigs come up and ask me to move. I guess Thor isn’t a good look for the damn tourists arriving on their cruise ships. Then they tell me to empty my pockets, just like that… and then…” I lose the thread of the conversation again, and when I turn, I see two black eyes, dark and dilated, staring at me from behind a pillar.

It’s a tall guy, looks young, with Somali features. His dark skin makes the black of his irises stand out even more as he watches me, penetrating, as if he’s reading not just my thoughts, but the very connections my synapses are making.

"And I said, you’ve got no right… go fuck yourself!” Thor keeps up his story, and I pretend to pay attention while I feel the African gaze on my face.

I take a sip of beer, and the Somali guy keeps staring at me, mumbling something I don’t understand.

For some reason, I see myself walking toward him, even though some half-asleep part of my conscience is screaming at me not to.

I sit down next to him and introduce myself.

“Juan, nice to meet you.”

“Mohamed,” he says, shaking my hand.

He’s holding a joint, and a broken smile appears on his face.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m fine, all good, hehe, all good, my friend.”

We get into a rhythm of questions and answers. He struggles a bit with English, but the conversation flows easily enough.

At one point, I ask, “Have you ever felt racism in Denmark?”

I don’t know how or why the question comes out of my mouth, and immediately I think it’s a terrible idea to ask something like that.

Mohamed's eyes darken, the black in his irises grows uncontainable and deep, piercing me as if with blades.

“Yes.”

His answer, and his body language, signal a threat.

“Juan, come here!” Thor shouts from somewhere at the back of the place.

But I can’t break eye contact with Mohamed.

“How?” I persist, seeking more details.

There’s no answer.

Mohamed’s stare stays locked on my pupils, and I feel the threat of irrational behavior expanding with each second I hold his gaze.

I’ve never looked into someone’s eyes for so long without losing composure or eventually looking away.

Mohamed still doesn’t respond. The ember of his cigarette is getting closer to his fingers. His body leans slightly forward, almost imperceptibly, and that’s when Thor grabs my arm and shouts, “Juan! I was calling you, come here, I want to introduce you to somebody.”

Mohamed then places his hand on the ground and draws something. There are a couple of symbols I don’t understand.

Then he looks at me one last time and says, "You… you fucking understand nothing."

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