The Schwa Was Here: Chapters 16–22

It's like my mind was a sieve, and not its usual sieve, because there were some things I was very good at remembering, like faces, or names, or sports stats.

He was like trying to remember Lewis and Clark, and Manifest Destiny—both of which I had to do oral reports on, and if you've ever had to do an oral report, you probably know how they make you dress up like whoever you're doing the report on, but how was I supposed to dress up like Manifest Destiny?

He got himself comfortable on the sofa, and I sat in the plush chair across from him.

A pack of Afghans frolicked past, knocking down the cane.

"If your friend continues on his path of self-destructive anonymity, you should minimize your own losses. Cut him loose. Forget about him."

"Spare me your sentimentality," said Crawley. "Friends can be replaced."

Instead of answering me right away, he looked down at the dog, which was so utterly content to have a fraction of his attention.

He said it so bluntly, the news actually made me gasp.

The little counter where the butcher took custom orders was unlit—but that didn't necessarily mean no one was there.

The place had an unfriendly fermented smell, like an old refrigerator crossed with my brother Frankie's feet.

His hair was thin and unkempt.

The machine let off a grating whine whenever it hit the bone.

He looked off for a moment, nostalgic for the good old days, then said, "Gunther!"

"Well, if you don't want to help, you don't have to come. It's not like you're under any obligation."

"What else?" prompted Lexie.

The bus made only three intersections in twenty minutes, riding beneath the girders that held up the expressway.

The building was no warmer than the street outside, and it smelled like something died in there from smelling something else that died in there. That mixed with some weird solvent fumes made me gag.

"I think a room just opened up for you at Bellevue's mental ward," I told him.

To the left I could see the spires of Manhattan, and below was a stretch of the expressway, which ran right past the building.

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.

A screeching hiss filled the air, which was stifling and humid.

He was unpredictable. How do you say... impulsive. He would say such things! He said he would someday slam a cleaver in the manager's desk, and walk out. Or he would threaten to cut the meat into strange, unnatural shapes, just to confuse the customers.

I go back to fill a special order for lamb shanks.

A cop stood with them between the foyer and the living room.

If he was able to get himself a paper clip from the Titanic, and get his face slapped up on a billboard, maybe he could find his mother. The Schwa was tenacious—a word that I, for once, got right on my vocabulary test.

"You got my dad fired, didn't you, you twisted old—"
"Careful, Mr. Bonano. I don't take kindly to crude insults."

And when the dogs quieted down, Crawley said, "Perhaps I can offer him some menial position." He gave me the nastiest of smirks. "Floor scrubber...janitor...dog walker."

I was about to tell him exactly what he could do with his menial position, but then he said, "Of course there is that new restaurant I recently acquired..."

Crawley was so good at pulling strings, and at underhanded manipulation.

"I don't want to be paid to date Lexie, so keep your money in your grubby little hands where it belongs."

"For the monthly stipend of one hundred dollars, plus expenses, I would like you and my granddaughter to kidnap me once each month."

He knew Crawley—he'd be able to commiserate.

What was the point anyway—she would just tell me what she always told me: "There's got to be a rational explanation."

So there I am in the stall at Fuggettaburger, trying not to look at the Pisher toilet-paper dispenser, and I catch sight of the things people have scrawled into the wall.

Then, suddenly, as I'm looking at all this drivel, I get an uncontrollable urge to put something up there myself.

This wasn't tagging. That's all about making your mark and labeling territory. I was making someone else's mark. The Schwa Was Here. I didn't care if people saw me, I didn't care if I got caught, because what I was doing was noble, and God help anyone who tried to stop me.

The way I saw it, though, it was a kind of a penance. My personal punishment for taking advantage of the Schwa the way I did when we first discovered the Schwa Effect, and for pushing him away because I wanted to be the one dating Lexie.

I couldn't explain it any more than I could explain why I felt compelled to make those calls every day.

I nearly had a coronary on the spot.

Lexie's parents returned from their European spree, and just as Crawley said, they hated my guts, which really wasn't a problem, since I'm fairly used to people hating my guts.