My sixth-grade teacher called me self-conscious. "Walter," she said, "It is nothing more than conceit. You think everyone is watching you. Are you that special?" I gave her specious account careful consdieration. She was, after all, my mentor. But she was wrong. I was physically unattractive. Figuratively speaking you might say I'd rather be a member of the posse than sheriff. I'd never had much cause to look in a mirror. I looked at the ceiling to prevent spillage while I brushed my teeth. My bowl-shaped haircut needed no comb or brush. I was too young to shave. But, when they hung a pair of glasses on me I had to take a look. The reflection blasted my ego like a double-barreled shotgun. At first glance I felt the spectacles marred my good looks. Then, upon further review, they made clear to me for the first time that I do not have good looks. i could never again swing from the limb of a tree imagining myself to look like Tarzan. Life had been grand until I discovered my vinegar aspect. I'd become a sourpuss. Contrary to my reclusive nature a part of me yearned for recognition. I dreamt of being the grand marshal and leading a celebratory parade down Main Street. I saw myself dotted in confetti and waving at the admiring throngs from the back seat of an open convertible. But, I knew I could never run a four-minute mile, knockout a reigning world champion, or star in a box-office hit. intellect was my strength. Thoughts that were beyond the scope of others, brilliant and profound ideas, occured to me alone. That was my forte. Perhaps I could invent something of great significance. But the year was 1947 and everything had already been invented. My breakthrough came after Ward came to live with us. He didn't care if I looked goofy. Ward had all of the qualities we admire in a person. He was good-looking, intelligent, articulate, brave, and friendly. Never mind that he was not a person. Our blooming friendship was assumed, but never avowed, until one unforgettable night. In the cold and gloomy attic of our dilapidated house was an antiquated short- wave radio. I often used it to wile away the lonely winter nights listening to broadcasts from faraway cities and even ships at sea. By late winter the hobby had become quite boring. I lost interest. I was about to quit when, just as I reached for the "Off" switch, I heard a radio transmission that plumb flabbergasted me. A strange voice in my headset stunned me with the impact of a water balloon dropped from the rooftop. A casual reader might want to shift to low gear to ascend my final chapter. It ends with an appropriate question.