Books

This detachment was absolutely vital... He called it touching the ice. Several years ago, sitting in Hanrahan's gin mill on Forty-eighth Street ... a huge Negro pushed through the door, making the daily delivery of ice. Most icemen use tongs and carried the blocks on their back. But this guy carried it in his hands. No gloves even. Paul watched him walk behind the bar and set the block in the trough. ... "Let me ask," Paul said. "How come you can carry that ice? Doesn't it hurt?" "Oh, look here." He held up his large hands. The palms were scar tissue, as smooth and pale as the parchment paper that Paul's father had used when printing fancy invitations. The Negro explained, "Ice can burn you too, juss like fire. Like leavin' a scar. I been touchin' ice fo' so long I ain't got no feelin' left." Touching the ice... That phrase stuck with Paul. It was, he realized, exactly what happened when he was on the job. There's ice within all of us, he believed. We can choose to grip it or not.