“Unh, unh. It’s mine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s his. Now, either you give it to me or I’ll take yours!”

“Shit!”

“Melvin?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Hardknocks. Everything is cool, but whatever you do, don’t open your eyes till I tell you.”

“What happened to my face?”

“It’ll be all right. But Chilly had that kid peel it to the bone. If he could have, he would’ve recast your mug in a mold to suit himself.”

“Where’s Chilly now?”

“He split… Now, dig this. I got your face heating up in a frying pan. But before I pour it back over your skull, I’m gonna hip you to a few ways of looking at yourself. Now, imagine that your mug is an egg, and think about all the different ways of fixing it. For example, soft-boiled is always hip-hugging for any mug, especially if you want to be together in a jiffy. Only thing is, you can’t let folks get too close cause the slightest bump will crack your shell and show you as the raw recruit you are.

“Then there’s hard-boiled. Now, that’s a good shingle for the mug. Folks could peel you back from now on and never get to you. But then your bark would be so tough there might not be nuthin left of you. You could decide to leave your sunny side up and keep out of sight for a while with your once over light. And then, of course, there’s the meanest mug breakout of all—scrambled. When you’re scrambled, you can use a spatula and try to take the best from all the ways of fixing your face and risk being a little bit of everything.

“So what’s it gonna be, Melvin? Sometimes you can’t save the face and spare the ass at the same time. But whatever your face is gonna be, you decide. That way there’s no squawk at bust-a-yolk time. Uh-oh, your mug’s giving me uppity signs. Let me put it back. Don’t move now. Just lie still.”

I moaned as the hot flesh and blood splashed back into the hollow recesses of my skull. I felt my face cook to the bone tissue and stick into place. And as the juices of flesh and bone cooled, they turned to sweat, streaming over my face. I was delirious within the wet heat of my sweat when a lyric from a woman’s voice broke my fever.

Oh, they say some people long ago

were searching for a different tune,

one that they could croon

as only they can.

They only had the rhythm so

they started swaying to and fro.

They didn’t know just what to use

so that is how the bluuuues

really

really

really, began…

I OPENED MY EYES to blurred images. I blinked repeatedly, and as my vision sharpened I could make out a large chalk-covered figure hovering over me. Searching the whiteness, I found a bush of hair the color of ash, a bean-pie-complexioned face punctured by sleepy liquid eyes with thick lids, cheeks, a chin, and a mouth grizzly with black hair flecked with gray.