On the bus from Pennsylvania to New York I thought about all the people I’ve ever known who were on the case when it came to dipping what was considered up to snuff. But most of them were smothered by the aroma of what they sniffed. Somehow I’ve survived, passed over perhaps for the sake of the census. So here I am, ready or not: a token black survivor who has never been able to say, like so many of my fellow bronze buckaroos, “I’m a man and a half,” and keep a straight face. But maybe that’s because for me manhood ain’t got nothing to do with fractions.

No sooner did I get off the bus at the Port of Authority than New York began pushing me around. Body traffic from all the arrivals and departures swirled about me. I stood to the side of a newsstand trying to get reoriented to the flow of rapid transit.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, if I can’t help you just make sure you don’t try to help yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. And if you can’t figure it out that’s too bad cause I don’t intend to chew my cabbage twice.”

I walked away without a word, determined not to let him mess with the good feeling I had about being back in the city so nice they named it twice. “What’s happening, home?” I said, waiting for New York to give me five. But the Big Apple rounded on me and didn’t give up any skin. “Well, later for you, too, then, chump-ass city,” I said to myself and made my way to the E train to Queens. The morning rush hour was over and I got a seat. My eyes settled on tightly drawn faces reminding me of expressions I’d left only a few hours before. Everybody in the car was doing hard time. They seemed to sense that I had just raised from a fall, but their blank faces did not welcome me back. And why should they have? On the streets you do every day of your time. There is no parole, time off for good behavior, or clemency.