“Anyway,” I said, “his great-grandfather’s last name is Schwartz, and for his whole life, all Great-Grandpa Schwartz wants to do is to get out of the old country and come to America, because the Statue of Liberty’s got this invitation: ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your reeking homeless—’”

“‘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.”

“He got his wish,” says Howie. “He died on American soil.”

“Yeah. So anyway, those guys at Ellis Island, they were like your cafeteria workers of today—they didn’t care what they stuck you with, as long as they got you through the line. So they marked down the family name as ‘Schwa,’ and it’s been that way ever since.”

Ira, who had been quiet for most of the story, finally spoke up. “That’s not all I heard.”

I turned to him. “What’d you hear?”