By Alejandro Rodriguez Muñoz
03-15-2020, Sunday
I first meet Mike when I arrived at my host family’s home in mid-March, after my university closed because of the coronavirus. Mike, who lives nearby, was hired to paint the front door of the townhouse. He has a brush in his right hand, a beer in his left. He introduces himself to me as White Mike.
He’s been White Mike since he was a kid, he explained, because he used to hang around with black dudes. His mother owned a restaurant in Annapolis that catered to everyone, including African Americans. As far back as the Civil Rights era, Mike’s mom would hang a sign, “Colored Welcome,” on the front door of her restaurant.
White Mike is now in his sixties. “In my mind I’m in my 20s,” he likes to say, “but my body feels more like 90.” He wears an earring and two big rings, and comes off as one of those tough guys who ride Harleys. I’m surprised by his lack of tattoos.
We shake hands. Laura, my host mom, immediately scolds us for not being more careful about coronavirus. “Just drink a beer!” Mike shoots back, and laughs. Laura laughs too, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable. A question crosses my mind: “Why did you hire a drunk to paint your front door?”
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03-15-2020, Sunday night
I ask David, my host father, about White Mike. “He’s doing it, painting the door, for a six-pack of beer,” he says. “But I’m gonna give him two.” I wondered whether David might be taking advantage of White Mike. David sees that in my eyes and explains that he and Mike do a lot of things for each other. They usually work together in the garage. The twelve-pack is a symbolic payment, he says, the only “thank you” that White Mike cares about.
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03-16-2020, Monday
We need more white paint for White Mike to finish painting the front door, so we all go to Home Depot. Once we’re at the store, Laura goes to look for the green paint she needs for the bathroom, David looks for glue to repair his zodiac, and I get lost with White Mike looking for the white paint he needs. I realize he’s wearing the same clothes as the day before: jean overalls, a lumberjack shirt and a black winter hat with the word “Bärenjäger” stamped on it. “Bärenjäger” is a German honey-flavored liqueur made from distilled vodka.
“So are you a painter? What’s your job?” I ask White Mike.
“Technically I’m a cook,” he answers. He stopped working in restaurants because, he assures me, he would not serve anything if it’s not perfect. He says it again: If he does something, “it’s gonna be perfect.” Today, though, he does a few different things, but mostly painting.
“I did the liquor store!” he says, laughing.
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03-17-2020, Tuesday
David and I are repairing his zodiac in the front yard. Laura comes out of the house to walk Caylee, their dog. White Mike comes out on his porch, where he’s usually drinking with friends. He walks over, seeking conversation; we do like having him around. Laura tells White Mike that I’m writing about Annapolis and its people, so he starts telling stories from his childhood.
“She would fuck you up,” he says, referring to his mom. His mom got arrested once for pulling a gun on a cop and beating him in the face in the middle of the street. “She was always coming home late because she’d get in a fight, get taken to the police station, pay a fine and go to work the next day. Every day. No matter where we lived.”
That was a tough way to grow up.
“The first time I got locked up they asked me if I wanted to go home or wanted to go to jail.” He chose jail. He enjoys describing his mother’s toughness, as if to prove his own.
When he finishes talking about his mother, he volunteers himself as a tour guide if we want to drive around Annapolis. “I’ll take you to places where you don’t wanna go,” he says, laughing. Laura looks at me. “I don’t know what that means,” she says, “but we’re both in!”
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04-24-2020, Friday
My tour of Annapolis with White Mike will have to wait. The governor of Maryland issued a stay-at-home directive.
A few days ago, White Mike knocked at the door. Unable to give me that city tour, he was dropping off the next best thing: a book about Annapolis, featuring photographs of the city and testimonies from its citizens from 1900 to 1965. I’d heard people in the neighborhood describe White Mike as a sweet guy, but I’d never quite believed it. His gift took me by surprise.
I’m flying back home to Madrid next Wednesday, leaving the U.S. as it battles the worst outbreak of coronavirus in the world. I’ll be carrying with me the most precious souvenir of all: the book that White Mike, my tough-talking, beer-drinking neighbor, gave me in place of the tour we didn’t get to take.
I will treasure that book forever.