"If you want to make money... start a church"

When someone dies - someone who's name is public knowledge anyway - everyone suddenly cares. Suddenly understands them, knows them, sympathizes. What a tragedy. How did he die? Was it painful? Can we take a picture of the building, for old times sake, you know. Better call the news. They say he "ultimately became a walking historian of Salt Lake City". Not sitting. Walking. But don't all historians walk? I mean, except the few who must use wheelchairs, must be bedridden. Must be dead. Except when they are driving; riding a bicycle; on a flight to London; sleeping. Surely some of them walk in their sleep. The great somnambulist historians of the twentieth century are largely underrated. Something is missing though. A presence, a raucous, tempered humor. The man used to call everyday. I was lucky enough to be on the other end of the line five days a week. At least for a while. Sometimes he would pretend to be someone else. Ask if we sold smut, had dancing girls. Ask if he could pay in Russian war bonds. Once we sold a book for $20,000. Amazing. He already knew about it, I was sure. He had people in the walls. He called and we had conspired to prank him back for once. I gave him the numbers minus the twenty grand. Wait a minute now! That can't be right! Well, I said, we did sell a rare book for a few thousand dollars, but the customer paid in Russian war bonds. He was brimming with anger for about 30 seconds before he started braying and guffawing. He absolutely ate it up. Such honest, incredulous laughter. And I was lucky enough to have brought it up. To have put one over on the master.