So anyway, it's seven on Saturday morning as we prepare Manny Builpucky for detonation. I'm busy taping an M-80 firecracker to his forehead, but my mind's obviously not on my work because I bury the whole fuse beneath the duct tape.

"You're a real pyrotechnic wizard, Antsy," says Ira as he pulls off the tape and redoes it.

Behind me, Howie's upturning lawn furniture, building a barricade for us to hide behind when Manny blows.

"I've been thinking about the Schwa," I said, loud enough for both Howie and Ira to hear.

"Yeah, so?" said Ira.

"I've been thinking there's something wrong with him."

"Like he's retarded, you mean?"

Howie's disgusted by this. "The proper term is 'mentally handicapped,'" he says. "Otherwise retards get offended."

"No," I tell them. "The Schwa's not mentally handicapped— it's something else—and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Hey, didn't I say there was something weird about him?" Ira said. "I mean, like the way he always just appears, like he's spy­ing on you. He's sneaky. Weaselly ..."

"I don't think he means to be," I told them. "It's just . . . It's just like he always happens to be standing in your blind spot."

"Yeah, and when he's around, every spot is a blind spot," said Ira. "It's friggin' weird. It's like he's a ghost, or something."

"You gotta be dead to be a ghost," I reminded him. "No . . . It's more like he's ..." I search for the right word. "It's like he's functionally invisible"

"The proper term is 'observationally challenged,'" Howie says.

"Whadaya mean 'proper term'? How can there be a proper term for it when I just made it up?"

"Well, if you're gonna make something up, make up the proper term."

I keep trying to think this through. "It's like when he's in a room and doesn't say anything, you could walk in, walk out, and never know he was there."