The Schwa Was Here

dream.

“Forget it, Schwa. Let’s just go.”

I grabbed him and he shook me off. He stuck his whole head so far out of the broken window, I was afraid his throat would get slit on the broken glass.

He looked to the left, looked to the right, then pulled his head back in and looked at me.

“Where are all the cars, Antsy?”

I sighed. “There aren’t any.”

“What do you mean ’there aren’t any’?”

“The Gowanus Expressway is closed for construction.”

The Schwa gave me an expression so blank, I swear I really could see right through him. “Construction.. .” he echoed.

We both looked out of the window again. There were no bright pinpoints of headlights rolling toward us, no dim red glow of taillights moving away. There were no cars on the Gowanus Expressway. Not one. It was the reason the street below the expressway was so gridlocked. It was also probably the reason those bastards had rented Schwa the billboard for half price.

“But . . . but people will see!” the Schwa insisted. “They’ll see. All the buildings around here. People will look out of the buildings!”

I nodded. I didn’t say what I was thinking. That this whole area was abandoned. Looking out of the window, I saw no lights in any of the other windows around us, and certainly no one looking from Greenwood Cemetery. The Schwa could see that for himself.

“Schwa, I’m sorry.”

He took a deep breath, then another, then another. Then he said, “It’s okay, Antsy. It’s okay. Not a problem.”

We went down the stairs in silence, no sounds but the shards of glass crunching beneath our feet and the impatient honks of horns coming from the traffic-packed street below the expressway. It was still bumper-to- bumper when we got out into the street.

“Bus?” I asked him.

“Later,” he answered.

I followed him five blocks to a ramp that led up to the ele­vated roadway. It was blocked by a barricade and lined with yellow caution flashers. He squeezed through, and I went up with him.

It’s weird being on a major roadway built for six lanes of traffic but carrying none. It made me feel like I was in one of those end-of-the-world movies where there’s no one left but you and a bunch of evil motorcycle maniacs. I would have wel­comed some motorcycle maniacs right now, to take my mind off of this billboard mess.

The Schwa doubled back in the direction we had come, walking right down the middle of the expressway. We passed in and out of little pools of light made by the billboards up above, advertising their wares to no one. Finally we reached the Schwa’s billboard. This close, it loomed so much larger than life that the perspective was all off. His smile was big and fat.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the road, looking up at himself. “It’s a good picture,” he said. “I smiled right. People don’t always smile right when you take their picture. Usually it’s fake.”

“I suck at smiling,” I told him. “At least when it matters.” He looked at me, and I forced a lame smile, proving it.

“It cost more than just my college fund,” he admitted.

“Maybe you can get your money back ... I mean, renting you a billboard over a closed road—that’s fraud.”

“My fraud came first,” he said. “And what goes around comes around, right?” He turned his eyes back to the billboard. “You were right, Antsy,” he said. “I’m the tree.”

“What?”

“The tree. The one that falls in the forest. The one that no one’s there to hear.”

“I hear you!” I told him. “I’m in the forest!”

“You won’t be tomorrow.”

I clenched my fists and growled. He was making me so angry, so frustrated. “What do you think—you’re gonna wake up one morning and not exist? Are you really so crazy that you actually think that?”

He remained calm, like a monk in meditation, as he sat there cross-legged on the road. “I don’t know how it will happen,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go to sleep and just won’t be there anymore when the sun comes up. Or maybe I’ll turn a corner in school and vanish into the crowd, the way my mother vanished into the crowds at the supermarket.”

“Your mother!” I had almost forgotten about Gunther the butcher. I clenched my fists and kicked a clump of asphalt out of a pothole. This wasn’t the time or place to talk to him about it. In his current state of mind, he wouldn’t hear it anyway.

“You know, this kind of makes sense,” he said. “I see that now. It didn’t work because I’m not supposed to be visible. If I bought a full-page ad in the New York Times, there would have been a newspaper strike. If I made one of those dumb infomercials, the communications satellite would get hit by a meteor.”

“What, do you think God has nothing better to do than mess with you?”

“He’s all-powerful; it’s not a problem for Him.”

I was about to open my mouth and tell him how stupid that was, but I thought back to what Crawley had said. Although I didn’t agree with the old man’s jaded point of view of how the world worked, there was one thing Crawley said that had made sense. We don’t get rewarded for going about things the wrong way.

“Are you just gonna sit there all night?”

“You go,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

“You’ll get mugged.”

“How could I get mugged? There’s no one here.”

And so he stayed there, sitting in the middle of that lonely road, staring up at his own giant face, which no one else was going to see.

***

He would not have moved for me alone. I was his friend, sure, but I was also the yardstick by which he measured his invisibil­ity. I was “the control”—that’s what Mr. Werthog would call me. That’s the part of an experiment that’s not supposed to change. It’s like when you plant seeds for a science project, giv­ing one batch plant food and a second batch Pepsi—or some­thing bogus like that—to see if one grows better than the other. There’s always a third batch you just give water so you have something to measure the other two against. The control.

No wonder the Schwa was going off the deep end—he was looking to me as the stable one.

Anyway, like I said, it would take more than me to move the Schwa from the road ... So as soon as I left, I hunted down the closest working pay phone, dropped in some change and dialed.

“Hello, Mr. Crawley. Could you please put Lexie on?”

“If you want to talk to her, you get your irresponsible self down here and walk my dogs.”

“Please. It’s important.”

Maybe he heard in my voice how important it was, or maybe he was just too disgusted with me to argue, but he gave Lexie the phone.

“Lexie, I need you to get your driver and meet me at the Gowanus Expressway, near the Twenty-ninth Street entrance.”

“But the Gowanus Expressway is closed.”

Great, I thought. She’s blind, and even she knows it’s closed.

How could the Schwa have missed it? “I know. I’ll be waiting by the ramp. And dress warm, it’s a long walk.”

“To where?”

“To Calvin,” I said. I guess that was the magic word.

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”