Beaming at me with teeth as yellow as his whiskers, he cries "Look what I found!" His shopping cart is stuffed to the brim with trash and on top sit four handsaws completely covered in rust. Two have intricately cast metal handles. The handles of the other two are made of wood, the layers of which are peeling away like pages of a book. "Nice," I say from where I sit on the porch. He picks up one of the saws and raps on it with his knuckles; it makes a wobbly ping. "Maybe I'll be a musician," he says. "Can you believe somebody just throwed them out. I can get cash for these from that place on Burnside. They're always lookin' for stuff like this." I remember walking a few blocks away from my apartment and seeing four saws sitting in the grass beside the curb. I took them back and hung them in my living room, wiping the rust from my hands. "I'm gonna cut me down some telephone poles!" the old man cackles, banging on the saw one more time before placing it carefully back on the pile and pushing his cart down the middle of the street. I can still hear that blade ring, singing with its teeth against the board, ready to make a cut that cannot be undone.