Нил Шустерман: The Schwa Was Here

Results:We caught fifteen people willing to dis­cuss their lavatory experience. When asked if there was anything strange going on, aside from the one kid who kept talking about a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing fourteen out of fifteen said there was someone acting weird in the bathroom. We thought the experiment was a failure until we asked them to describe the weirdo.

“He was wearing something strange, I think,” one person said.

“He wore like a pointed blue party hat, I think,” said another.

Not a single person identified the orange som­brero, or the cat costume, although one person was reasonably certain that he had a tail.

All agreed that he was singing something patri­otic, but no one could remember what it was. Five people were sure it was “The Star-Spangled Ban­ner.” Six people said it was “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” Only four properly identified it as “God Bless America.”

Conclusion:Even when acting weird and dressed like a total freak, the Schwa is only barely noticed.

The basketball courts in our neighborhood parks have steel chain-link nets. I like that better than regular string net because when you make a basket, you don’t swish —you clank. That heavy, hearty rattle is more satisfying. More macho than a swish. It’s powerful, like the roar of a crowd—something invisi­ble kids like the Schwa and semi-invisible kids like me never get to hear except in our own heads.

It was on the basketball court that I came up with the Big Idea.

By now the Schwa was hanging around with us more—I mean when we actually noticed him there. Ira was not too thrilled about it. See, Ira was not invisible. He had made great advances into the visible world. Take his video camera for in­stance. You’d think it would make him a behind-the-scenes type of guy. Not so—because when Ira has his eye to the viewfinder, he becomes the center of attention. He directs the world, and the world allows it. So I guess I could see why he kept his distance from the Schwa. Invisibility threatened him.

Ira did join us on the basketball court, though. Couldn’t resist that, I guess, and in playing “friendly” choose-up games, we had quickly learned how to turn the Schwa Effect to our ad­vantage.

Move number one: Fake to the left, pass right to the Schwa, shoot, score!

“Hey—where did he come from?” someone from the other team would always yell.

Move number two: Dribble up the middle, flip it back to the Schwa, who’d drive down the sidelines for a layup—shoot—score!

“What?! Who’s guarding that guy?” It was great watching the other teams get all frustrated, never noticing the Schwa until the ball was already in his hands.

Move number three: Pass to Howie, back to me, and then to the Schwa, who’s right under the basket. A quick hook shot—score!

As for the other team, there would be much weeping and gnashing of teeth, as the Bible says.

On this particular day, after the other kids went off to console themselves in their humiliating loss, Howie, the Schwa, and I hung around on the court just shooting around. Ira also left right after the game, not wanting to hang around the Schwa any longer than he had to.

“We oughta go out for the team,” Howie suggested as we shot baskets. “We’ve got a system.”

“The Schwa oughta go out for the team, you mean,” I said.

The Schwa dribbled the ball a bit, took a hook shot, and sunk it. “I played peewee basketball a few years back, but it didn’t work out.”

“Don’t tell me—the coach always forgot to put even when you were in, and even when you were in, nobody passed to you.”

He shrugs like it’s a given. “My father never showed up for the games either. So I figured, what was the point?”

“How about your mother?” says Howie. I might be the prince of foot-in-mouth disease, but Howie’s the king. He gri­maces the moment after he says it, but it’s already out.

The Schwa doesn’t say anything at first. He takes another shot. He misses. “My mother’s not around anymore.”

Howie keeps looking at me, like I’m gonna cough up the guts to ask about it, but I won’t do it. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Is it true that your mom was abducted by aliens in the middle of Waldbaum’s supermarket?” or “Is it true your father got a samurai sword and went Benihana on her?”

No. Instead I change the subject, changing all of our lives from that moment on, because that’s when I come up with what would forever be known as Stealth Economics.

“Hey, if the Schwa Effect works on the basketball court, there’s got to be other ways to put it to good use.”

The Schwa stopped dribbling. “Like how?”

“I don’t know ... Spy on people and stuff.”

Howie’s ears perked up at the mention of spy stuff. “The gov­ernment would pay big bucks for someone who’s invisible.”

“He’s not invisible,” I reminded him. “He’s invisible-ish. Like a stealth fighter.”

“The CIA could still use him.”

“And abuse him.” I grabbed the ball away from the Schwa, went in for a layup, and made it.

“I don’t want to go to the government,” the Schwa says.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’d dissect him and put him in a form­aldehyde fish tank in Area 51.”

Howie shook his head. “Area 51 is for aliens,” he says. “They’d probably put him in Area 52.”

“Maybe we should try something that isn’t so big,” I suggested. “Maybe just stuff around school. I’m sure there are people around here who would pay for the services of a Stealth Schwa.” At first this had just been my lips flapping, like they often do—but every once in a while my lips flap and something brilliant flies out. I realized that maybe I was onto something here.

“How much do you think people would pay?” the Schwa asked.

I took an outside shot. “How much is the stealth fighter worth?” Clank! Nothing but chain. I reveled in the sound.

Hypothesis:The Schwa can pass through airport security with an iron bar in his pocket.

Materials:JFK American Airlines terminal, a six- inch iron bar, and the Schwa.

Procedure:The Schwa was asked to walk through the security checkpoint, go to Gate B-l 7, then walk back.

Results:The Schwa stood in line at the security checkpoint, but the guy who was checking IDs and airplane tickets skipped right past him. The Schwa gave us the A-okay sign. Then he walked through the metal detector, and it buzzed. Security then no­ticed him. They made him raise his arms, passing a wand all over him until finding the iron bar. They called more security over and two national guards­men dressed in camouflage. They asked where his parents were and wanted to see his ticket. That’s when the rest of us came forward to explain that it was just an experiment and not to get all bent out of shape. The national guardsmen and security officers weren’t happy. They called our parents. They were not happy either. This ends our experi­mentation on the Schwa Effect.

Conclusion:

1. The Schwa is unnoticed by your generic secu­rity guard unless he’s tipped off to his presence by advanced technology like a metal detector.

2. Iron bars in the Schwa’s pocket are still iron bars.

Once we decided to turn the Schwa Effect into a money-making proposition, it wasn’t hard to get the ball rolling. When we had presented our series of Schwa experi­ments to the class, most everyone laughed, figuring it was a joke—but enough of our classmates had been part of the ex­periments to suspect there was something more to it. You know, it’s like that TV show where the psychic dude talked to your dead relatives—all of whom seem to be just hanging around, watching everything you do ... which is really disturb­ing when you stop to think about it. You don’t really believe it, but there’s enough borderline credibility to make you wonder.