'"Huddled masses,'" said Ira. "'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.'"

"Yeah," says Howie. "If you're gonna misquote something, at least misquote it right."

"Okay, fine. So, like everybody in the old countries says, 'Hey, I'm a huddled mass,' and they all wanna come over. That's how come my great-grandparents came from Italy, and why Ira's came from Russia, and why yours, Howie, came from the moon." Howie punched me in the arm for that one.

"So, anyway, Old Man Schwartz, he's stewing out there on his beet farm, or whatever, saving his pennies to buy a ticket for him­self and his wife and kids so he can take a boat to America. 'I want to die on American soil,' he says. Finally he saves up enough money, and they pack 'em onto a boat with like, fourteen thou­sand other families, and they cross the Atlantic Ocean." "Don't tell me they hit an iceberg," says Howie. "Different boat," I said, "but around the same time, I guess. Anyway, they get into New York Harbor, pass the Statue of Lib­erty, everybody starin' up at the flame going ooh and ahh like tourists without Hawaiian shirts—because, you know, they're poor, they can't afford Hawaiian shirts. Anyway, they let every­one off the boat at Ellis Island and they get in this long line standing in the hot sun, all sweaty in heavy coats, because these people don't yet know to dress for the weather, because it's al­ways subzero in the old country. Finally they get to the front of the line. Old Man Schwartz, he's sweating from the heat, and hyperventilating from the excitement. There's this guy in the front of the line with a fountain pen and a big, fat black book taking down names and letting you into the country. He says, 'Your name, sir?' And—get this—the old man says, 'Schwa—,' then puts his hand over his heart, has a massive heart attack, and drops dead on the spot."