We called him Mick-

I still don't know why.

It was about noontime the day I met him-

Same day I lost two tips of my fingers, nails and all.

I remember it was December, musta been 10 below with the wind-

Everybody's heard about him, heard his reputation already.

News of him had been spreading through the shop like a fire-

I didn't know what to make of it yet.

 

He was like a ghost-

Nobody had seen him, that was the thing.

You heard all these good things about him-

Only good things.

But I was eight, working in the shop-

Ma and Pa counted on me-

And I couldn't find a single other kid in that shop who had met Mick yet.

 

Maybe he was real, maybe he wasn't-

Everybody had a different picture of how he looked.

They said, He's real real tall, got long long arms like this, longer than that pipe over there-

No he ain't, he justa five-foot-nothin' and that's a-how he gets around so fast-

He's black - nah he's white - nah he changes colors!

That's what they all would say, kids talking-

But who cared what he looked like?  

What did he do?

 

Mick saved an old man on 34th street from getting hit by a car-

Mick captured a gang of bank robbers without any help from the cops-

Mick rescued people from burning buildings, muggings, kidnappers, frozen ponds, black bears, brown bears, starvation, hypothermia, the mob-

He could do anything.

He didn't have a penny to his name-

I even heard one time he stole food so that a family down the street from me could eat.

He wasn't rich-

But he helped people in the times they needed someone.

 

So that day in December I was working at the shop-

It was cold.

My only job was to push the pedal back each time a piece came down the chute-

Had to stick my hand inside that machine-

Fingers too frozen to move-

My boss shouted something at me-

I was distracted-

That piece came down the chute like lightning-

Took two tips of my fingers clean off with it-

I cried out, there was a lot of blood-

Blood on the machine-

I knelt down, kept crying, everybody gathered around me-

None of us kids knew yet what to do with blood.

 

Then my body left the ground-

And I'm being carried through the air, out the shop, down the street.

Some man carrying me, just a plain-looking man-

Had on a newspaper hat-

Made me hold a rag against my fingers.

Blood still trickling down my hand-

Small drops falling in a trail on the snow.

He just kept rushing me down the street-

I remember his footsteps, remember the cars running by-

Like everybody in a hurry, everybody too busy.

 

Then I was in the hospital-

He dropped me in to the nurse, didn't stick around.

I watched him pull out his wallet, give the nurse all the money he had-

He begged her to let it be enough.

Inside the wallet I saw a picture-

And the nurse said yes of course, and hurried me off-

I watched him as he turned to leave.

I said one word-

Mick.

He stopped and turned back, just a second-

A gem in his eye-

Then he was gone.

 

But as the doctor stitched me up-

As I went home to Ma and Pa-

As I went to work the next day-

I thought about the picture I saw in his wallet.

It was a young woman, blonde as could be-

I can see her now.

Was she alive or dead?

How did she die?

Perhaps a tragedy-

Like the tragedies of others-

Like my little tragedy-

That he saved so many from.

Maybe he couldn't save her-

Maybe he felt like it was his fault-

So this is how he spent his life-

-Trying to make up for it.