by Tom Upton

Created on: May 18, 2008   Last Updated: February 28, 2009

MASTERMIND

Reilly was dead now, really. When he exited this world, he took with him- according to his receipts, anyhow- two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three messages.

When did that scheme begin? It really had begun as a scheme, you know, although later it turned into something quite different.

I remembered talking with him one hot August afternoon. He was sitting on the first stoop of the apartment building in which he lived in a woefully tiny flat that seemed always cold in the winter and always sweltering in the summer. He wore a plain white tee shirt, gone gray from many washings, and his belly hung over the top of his belt-less pants. He was guzzling beer after beer in a way that was perfected by the American unemployed.

I was standing on the sidewalk, looking down at him, which was easy to do at the moment.

"Well, you got to do something," I told him.

He squinted up at me, silent and stubborn. He scraped the edge of his beer can across the three-day beard on his chin. He appeared annoyed by my suggestion, which seemed sound to me since he'd had been out of work for nearly two years.

"How do you even pay your rent?" I asked.

He just grinned the grin of a man who knows secrets.

"It's all seems irresponsible to me," I commented. "You haven't so much as lifted a finger to find a job."

He raised his hand and tapped the side of his head with a plump index finger. I mistook the meaning of the gesture, thought he was pointing out some disorder which could explain his behavior.

"All my efforts are done up here," he announced.

"Well, no matter how much you think, you have to do something sooner or later."

"You know what the difference is between an idiot and a genius?" he asked, and before I could hazard a guess, explained: "An idiot will do anything, no matter how stupid, because he is afraid of what everybody will think of him if he does nothing. A genius, on the other hand, is content to do nothing, no matter what people think, if he can't find anything worth doing."

He held up a finger, then- an emphatic gesture to wait before I say a single word- rose from the stoop and disappeared into the building. He returned with a fresh six-pack of beer and a folded newspaper. He didn't offer me a beer, but handed over the newspaper. It was opened to the personal section, and there was an ad circled in red.

CELESTIAL MESSENGER WILL RELAY YOUR WORDS TO DEARLY DEPARTED LOVED ONES.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"Who said I wasn't doing anything?" he said. "It's a great gimmick,

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