Now that boy was amazing.  He was a bike messenger but he fancied himself a Picasso, and he played the cello.  Twenty hours on the bus from Boston and the cello on the seat beside him.  He paid for the extra ticket so the instrument wouldn’t get lonely.

He was a smoker too, but not like you or I smoke.  He exhaled, and then inhaled.  He used to buy two packs at once, some Lucky’s and some Kamels with a K and take them all out and mix them up and put them back then.  So you never knew what you would get.  When he moved to the Spanish section of Chicago he learned German.  He hated origami, but could do a thousand paper cranes in the time it took the grass to grow.  He was the one who pointed out that magic today is really just public survival, like freezing yourself in a block of ice in Times Square and emerging many days later, frostbitten and barely breathing, but alive none the less.  Once, he showed up to work as a bike messenger wearing a tuxedo.  But he always wore his helmet.  He knew chess and checkers, could say mate like he meant it.

He used to watch the grass grow.

I guess if you were once a genius you are always a genius.  And if you were once in Chicago you probably still are.  And wouldn’t that be just like him to disappear for years then show up in the phone book instead of my subway car.