Half out of the hole, he blinked, regaining enough sight to make out meaningful forms. A strange thing was happening: Traffic stopped, but no one rushed forward to challenge him. He had imagined his emergence as a desperate tussle with men who wanted to cart him off to be killed; instead, the flow of life froze about him. He pushed the cover aside, crawled out, stood up, swaying a little in a world so fragile that he expected it to collapse and drop him into some deep void. But nobody seemed to pay any attention to him. Cars were swerving slowly out of their paths to avoid the gaping black manhole. A raucous voice yelled:

“Why in hell don’t you put up a red light, dummy?”

He understood; these people thought he was a workman. He walked toward the sidewalk.

“Look where you’re going, nigger!”

“That’s right! Stay there and get killed!”

“You blind, nigger?”

“Go home and sleep your drunk off!”

He saw a policeman standing on the corner, looking in the opposite direction. Where was he? Was this real? He did not know. He wanted to look around to get his bearings, but he felt that something awful would happen if he did. He walked idly into the spacious doorway of a store that sold men’s suits and saw his reflection in a long mirror: His high cheekbones protruded from a hairy black face; his greasy cap perched askew upon his head and his red eyes were sunken and glared oddly. His clothing was caked with damp mud and hung loosely; his hands were gummed with a black stickiness and the nails had grown long and claw-like. He threw back his head and laughed so loud that passersby stopped and stared.

He walked on, not in any given direction. He looked up and saw a street sign that read: COURT STREET—HARTSDALE AVENUE. He knew where he was. In his mind he saw an image of the police station and at once he turned and walked north. Yeah, that’s where I’m going, he said aloud as though reminding himself of something temporarily forgotten. He would go to the station, clear up everything, make a statement. What statement? He did not know. He was the statement, and since it was all so clear to him, surely he would, in one way or another, make it clear to others.

He passed a newsstand and tarried, expecting to see his picture and his name, but strangely, there was nothing about him on the front page; maybe it was on another page? He opened a paper and turned the pages and saw nothing. He was bewildered; then he dismissed the whole thing. What did it matter after all? Even if he had been mentioned, it would not alter things for him.

He came to the corner of Hartsdale Avenue and turned westward. Yeah, there’s the police station. . . . A policeman came down the steps and walked toward him and passed without a glance. Another policeman came out and walked westward, away from him. He mounted the stone steps and there was a smile about the grimy corners of his mouth. He went through the door and paused in a hallway where several policemen were standing, talking, smoking. One turned to him.