“At this time, we’d like to welcome our illustrious brother back among us and present him with a token of our appreciation for what he has done.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We know you are modest, Melvin, but we heard the splendid reports of your work while you were away. And these have led us to the conclusion that in the future the sawdust from your good works will become a lasting residue in the nation’s eyes, ears, nose, and throat. So, in recognition of the work you’ve done thus far, and as a testament to our confidence that you will continue the work you have begun, I would like, on behalf of everyone here, to present you with this hammer!”

The applause was deafening.

“Say something appropriate,” the preacher whispered.

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t make a long speech, but at this very moment I have an appointment to see a man about some lumber that will help to realize the work for which you are honoring me today. Thank you!”

Nodding to the congregation and the minister, I slipped out a side door that led to a courtyard bordered by tenements sagging from the weight of clothes hanging from clotheslines. In an alley leading away from the courtyard a man was sitting on a milk crate playing a guitar.

“I’m a MAN!/ M, man, / A, a child, / N, non-spoiled! / I’m a MAANNN!” When he saw me, he stopped playing.

“Excuse me, I want to ask you about that song you were singing.”

“I can’t tell you nuthin bout it.”

“But maybe if you could—”

“I can’t do nuthin with your maybes, ifs, and supposes. You got to pay your own fare when you in the tragic magic.” He got up and walked toward the back entrance of one of the buildings.

“Wait a minute!” I said, running after him. But he disappeared into the building. I tried to find an alley that led to the street. Then, from a space between one of the buildings, a boy came through carrying an open switchblade. There was a sharp pain in my left side. I touched it and my shirt was saturated with blood. I took my hand away and it began to throb with pain. I looked at it and there was a deep gash in my palm caked with blood. The boy moved on me. I turned to run but tripped. And he was on top of me with the switchblade poised over my face.

“You couldn’t even take a bottle away from a kid.” My focus on the blade shifted to where the voice came from. It was Chilly. “You know what I’m going to do for you, punk? I’m gonna let you see what your face looks like. Okay, peel off his face!”