The Schwa was Here (22 page)

Lexie smiled, and I finally understood. The descriptions weren’t for Lexie—they were for her grandfather. “Keep going, Anthony.” Crawley’s hands were still over his face, but they weren’t pressed as tightly as before. I continued, but now I was talking to Crawley instead of to Lexie.

“The Chrysler Building. Sharp. Icy. The highest point of a Christmas tree star. Okay, the heart of midtown coming up. Rockefeller Center, smooth old granite, in the middle of all these steel-and-glass skyscrapers. Trump Tower. It’s like a jagged crystal that got shoved out of the ground.”

That did it. Crawley took his hands from his eyes, slipped off the blindfold, and took in the view.

“Oh . . .!” was all he could say. He gripped his seat, like it
might accidentally eject him, and he just stared at everything we passed. We flew over Central Park, then over the West Side, and headed downtown again, over the Hudson River.

Through all of this, Crawley said nothing. His face was pale, his lips were pursed. I thought for sure that he was completely lost in a state of shock, never to shout a foul word again, just staring forever, his mind an absolute blank.

We took a trip around the Statue of Liberty, and then we came back to where we started. The helicopter dropped us off on the pier, where Lexie’s driver was waiting, playing his harmonica. When we were safe in the Lincoln and on our way home, Crawley finally spoke.

“You will never be forgiven for this,” he said. “Neither of you. And you will pay.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

I had made up my mind to tell the Schwa about the Night Butcher the very next day, but he was nowhere to be found. His father was no help—he suggested that he might be at school, and was once more baffled when I told him it was Sunday.

It was late that afternoon that my dad came to get me in my room. “Hey, Antsy, that kid is here,” he says. “The one who makes your mother nervous.” I knew exactly who he was talking about. We had him over for dinner once, and the Schwa rubbed my mom the wrong way. First because he ate his pasta plain—no sauce, no butter, nothing. That alone made him a suspicious character. Then my mom kept whacking him in the face. Not because she meant to, but he always seemed to be standing right there, where she wasn’t expecting, and she talks with her hands.

“What are you doing right now?” the Schwa asked the second he saw me.

“The usual,” I said.

“Good. I’ve got something to show you.”

Right away I knew this was it. The visibility play.

“How long will it take?” I asked, “because I gotta go walk the sins and virtues . . . and besides, I’ve got something important to talk to you about, too.”

“Not long,” he said. “Go get your bus pass.” And then he added. “You’re going to love this!”

But I wasn’t so sure.

That chilly afternoon, we took a bus past Bensonhurst, past Bay Ridge, past all the civilized sections of Brooklyn, to a place they would have called the Edge of the Earth in the days before Columbus. This was an old part of Brooklyn, where the shore curved back toward Manhattan. It was full of docks that hadn’t been used since before my parents were born, and old warehouses ten stories high, with windows that were all broken, boarded up, or covered with fifty years of New York grime. People pass by this place all the time but never stop, because they’re on the Gowanus Expressway—the elevated highway that cuts right through this dead place. There’s a street that runs right underneath the elevated road. I figured it would be just as abandoned as the rest of the area, but today there was traffic like you couldn’t believe.

“Could you tell me what we’re doing here?” I asked him on the bus ride.

“Nope.” The Schwa was as serious as I’d ever seen him. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

The bus made only three intersections in twenty minutes,
riding beneath the girders that held up the expressway. Frustrated drivers leaned on their horns, like the gridlock was the fault of the person in front of them.

The Schwa stood up and looked out of the window. “C’mon, we’ll walk.”

“Are you kidding me? The people around here look like extras from
Night of the Living Dead
—and those are just the people on the bus!” Across the aisle, a living-dead guy gave me a dirty look.

“If you’re worried,” the Schwa said, “hide behind me. They won’t notice you if you’re behind me.”

It was half past four in the afternoon when we got off the bus. It was already getting dark, and I was quaking at the thought of having to wait for a bus back from this rank corner of the world. I hoped the street ahead stayed crowded with cars so at least our bodies would be recovered quickly.

We walked for four blocks underneath the Gowanus Expressway, passing identical warehouses, all of which had been condemned by the city, with big signs, like it was something the city was proud of. Then the Schwa went to one of the warehouse entrances and pushed open a door that almost snapped off its rusted hinges.

“In there?” I asked. “What’s in there?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Not for much longer.”

I stepped in, against my survival instinct. 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 heard the scurry of rats, which I hoped were cats, and the flutter of bats, which I hoped were pigeons. I was just glad it was too dark to tell. The Schwa pressed a tiny flashlight on his key chain and led me up a staircase littered with wood chips and broken glass.

“The elevator doesn’t work,” the Schwa said. “And even if it did, I wouldn’t trust it.”

I tried to imagine what he could possibly be up to here, and none of it was good. I just let him lead me, hoping that I would eventually understand.

He pushed open the seventh-floor door to reveal a huge concrete expanse with nothing breaking up the space except peeling pillars holding up the ceiling above. The rot-and-solvent smell was gone, but the mustiness of the place caught in the back of my throat, making my mouth taste bitter, like juice after toothpaste.

The Schwa walked around the huge place, his arms spread wide like it was something to show off. “So what do you think?”

“I think a room just opened up for you at Bellevue’s mental ward,” I told him. “Do you want me to call or fax in your reservation?”

“Okay, so maybe it’s not such a great place, but you can’t beat the view.”

He led me over to one of the broken windows. I looked out. To the left I could see the spires of Manhattan, and below was a stretch of the expressway, which ran right past the building. There were a couple of crumbling industrial streets, and past that, Greenwood Cemetery, the size of a small city itself.

“What am I supposed to see?”

The Schwa looked out of the window. The sun was already
beneath the horizon, and the twilight was quickly becoming night.

“Shh,” said the Schwa. “Any second now.”

Those few minutes of waiting made me worry even more. I started to babble. “Schwa, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but whatever it is, things aren’t so bad, right?”

“Here it comes,” he said. “Watch this.”

I pulled him back from the window, afraid he might be preparing to jump, but he shook me off.

My heart was pounding a hip-hop beat in my chest as I stared out of the window. That’s when the streetlights began to flicker on.

“They never come on exactly at sunset,” the Schwa said. “You’d think they’d figure out that the time of sunset is different every day, but they never seem to change the streetlights until daylight savings.”

More and more lights came on, then spotlights came on, lighting up the billboards overlooking the expressway. One giant billboard advertised a Spanish TV station. A second one advertised an expensive car, and a third one had a big smiling Schwa face staring out at us.

“Oh, wow!”

There was no question about it. The huge billboard was covered in Schwa. His face was the size of a hot-air balloon looming over the expressway, and next to his picture were words in red block letters:

CALVIN

SCHWA

WAS

HERE

“Oh, wow,” I said again. He was right; the view from the seventh floor was wild.

“I
will
be seen,” he proclaimed. “Nobody can make
that
disappear. I’ve rented it for a whole month!”

“It must have cost a fortune!”

“Half a fortune,” he told me. “The company rented me the billboard at half the usual rate. They were really nice about it.”

“It still must have been a lot.”

The Schwa shrugged like it didn’t matter. “My dad had money put aside for me. A college fund.”

“You blew your college fund?!” I didn’t like the sound of this at all, but he still acted like it didn’t matter. “Weren’t they suspicious about a kid renting a billboard?”

“They never knew! I did the whole thing online!” The Schwa told me how he had done it. First he set up a fake website that made it look like he ran a publicity company, then he hired an advertising agency—again online—telling them his company was promoting a new child star, Calvin Schwa. “They never questioned anything, because they got the money up front,” he said. “And money talks.”

I looked again at the billboard. With the streetlights on, and all the billboards lit up, the sky suddenly seemed dark. So did the expressway. In fact, the expressway seemed very dark. Then a nasty realization began to dawn on me with the slow but inescapable pain of a swift kick to Middle Earth, if you know what I mean. Something was very wrong with this picture. Not the Schwa’s massive billboard picture, but the bigger picture. I swallowed hard, and my heart started hip-hopping again. I wondered how long it would take the Schwa to notice. He seemed so thrilled as he stared at his own unavoidable face, I
wondered if he ever would. I thought about how you’re not supposed to wake sleepwalkers, and wondered if bursting a friend’s bubble was the same thing. Then I realized that I didn’t want to. Let him have his dream. Let him be like his father just this once, and happily sleepwalk through this.

“It’s getting late—we’d better go,” I told him, trying to lure him away from that window.

“In a few minutes,” he said, still marveling at the billboard. “Do you know how many thousands of people pass this spot every day?”

I tried to tug him away from the window. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go!”

“Do you have any idea how many cars are going to drive by and—” That’s where he stopped, and I knew it was all over. His bubble didn’t just burst, it detonated.

“Where . . . are . . . the cars?” He said it slowly. Just like someone who really was waking up out of a 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.