The Wisdom of the Saw

A saw doesn't cut because it's sharp.

Nobody can tell you if this one's true. It's been passed down the tiers so many times that every man who tells it swears he knew the guy, or knew a guy who knew the guy, and none of them agree on the block or the year.

That's how you know it's old. That's also how you know it doesn't matter whether it happened. It's still true the way a fable is true.

He caught a three-to-five and decided early he was going to do it right. Some men fight the number. He didn't. He went to programs. He kept his nose clean, kept his mouth shut, did every single thing a man is supposed to do to get out on the short end of the number instead of the long one.

Three years instead of five, if he played it smart.

He played it smart.

He had a woman on the outside the whole time. Letters every week. Calls when the phone worked. Visits when she could make the drive. They talked about the house they'd get, the life they'd have, the day he'd walk out that gate and it would just be the two of them again, like the three years had been a bad dream somebody else had.

The last six months, the calls started dropping. A click on the line before it connected. Letters slower.

He told himself it was nothing. He'd done the time right — that had to count for something.

He got out. Went straight to her place. Still had his key.

She was on the couch with another man, the TV on, and when she saw him standing in the doorway of his own front room, she looked at him the way you'd look at a stranger who'd walked into the wrong apartment.

Who are you.