Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard

by Glenn Michaels

  “No, I don’t mind,” Paul patiently admitted, but with a disinterested voice. “I’m sixty-one, and my retirement plan is simple. One day, a few years from now, they’ll find me at work, slumped over my computer keyboard, probably from a heart attack or maybe just a stroke.”

  Michaels blinked and then frowned. “That’s too bad.”

  The conversation then shifted to Michaels, and during the rest of the drive into Mojave, Paul learned that the other man had lived a hard life. Michaels’s job had jerked him all over the country, leaving him for a few years in each place before forcing him to move again.

  “I was on my way to meet up with my wife. She’s staying with some friends in Bakersfield. Guess I won’t get there tonight.” Michaels frowned for a moment before continuing. “Struck it rich a couple of years ago, too,” he bragged. “Got real lucky. My life hasn’t been what I’d call great and I’ve done a lot of things that I’m not too proud of, but I wouldn’t change anything.”

  Paul nodded absently and let the man talk. The first Mojave off-ramp was coming up, and he carefully steered the car down the snow-encrusted exit, angling inward to the “downtown” section of the small town.

  “Shall I take you to the Texaco station?” he volunteered helpfully. “As far as I know, they’re the only place in town with a tow truck.”

  “No, I’ve had enough for today,” Michaels freely admitted, again glancing out the window. “And from the looks of things here, they probably aren’t open anyhow. Just take me to the Best Western. I’ll tackle the car tomorrow.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the display. “Yes, I’ve got four bars now, the ruddy thing.”

  As the car neared the first traffic light, it cycled from green to yellow to red—which was Paul’s typical luck when it came to traffic lights. He grudgingly grunted and slowly braked to a stop, watching as the light swung wildly back and forth in the wind. Except for the street lights and some lighted Christmas decorations on the telephone poles, the small town seemed vacant, almost deserted. At least here, it wasn’t snowing so hard.

  Michaels looked at Paul thoughtfully and reached for his hip pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  Paul had half-expected the offer, and although he was always in need of extra money, there was no way he was going to accept any for his having given Michaels a ride. By nature, Paul was very much a generous person. Indeed, he deeply regretted his earlier hesitation, but he was inwardly mollified that, when it came down to brass tacks, he had rendered the appropriate assistance. Taking money for it now would only demean the deed, turning it into a business transaction instead of an act of kindness.

  “Nothing. Not a thing. As I said, it wasn’t even out of my way,” Paul replied charitably and with a small shake of his head.

  Michaels’s eyes seemed to twinkle in amusement at an inside joke. “Okay. But you really have done me a good turn and been pretty nice about it, too. So I plan to return the favor at my first opportunity.”

  In response, Paul’s eyes narrowed, partly in irritation and partly in confusion. Michaels’s statement made no particular sense to him, so he didn’t bother to reply. It was extremely unlikely that he would ever meet Michaels again. To be honest, Paul was already having trouble remembering the guy’s full name.

  The light turned green, and Paul resolutely drove on. A mile farther, after being stopped by the second traffic light in town, they finally approached the motel.

  Paul nodded weakly in the direction of a long two-story building with a large vacancy sign out in front. “Here’s the Best Western Inn. About the finest they have in town.”

  Relieved to have reached their destination, he pulled into the parking lot near the motel’s entrance. “Let me open the trunk for you,” he offered, grateful for the opportunity to have helped someone, but also grateful to have the task completed and therefore shortly to be on his way home, toward a warm meal and a comfortable bed.

  “Thanks,” Michaels replied, another happy smile plastered on his face. “I still say you look familiar to me. It’ll come to me eventually.”

  It took only a few moments to recover the stranger’s bags, though both men staggered in the gale force winds like drunken sailors. Then Michaels shook Paul’s hand again before he turned and disappeared through the motel lobby’s front doors. Paul never saw the man again after that. Fatigued to the point of exhaustion, he climbed back into the warm car and headed for home.

  • • • •

  Upon arrival, he eased his car into the garage, allowing the big folding door to close behind him before climbing slowly out of his vehicle.

  In the kitchen, Paul snapped on the lights and wearily dug through the freezer compartment of his refrigerator. Pulling forth a frost-covered meatloaf dinner, he slit open the box and shoved it in the microwave, setting the timer for several minutes. As bone-tired as he was, he was even hungrier, not having had time to eat anything since breakfast.

  Retrieving a canned soft drink from the refrigerator (root beer, his favorite), he took the hot meal and utensils to the den, where, with a sigh, he contentedly dropped into his worn, but serviceable easy chair, feeling very comfortable.

  However, there wasn’t room on the coffee table for his meal, the clutter there consisting of half a dozen science-fiction books, several open DVD cases, various papers, the remains of a previous frozen dinner, and a small stack of Blu-ray discs. On top of the nearest pile was the last DVD movie he had had time to watch: 4D Man with Robert Lansing and Lee Meriwether. Shoving some of the books to one side, he made room for his current meal.

  “I really should clean this place up,” he muttered unhappily to himself. “Tomorrow. Maybe.”

  As he dove into the meatloaf, he silently contemplated his plans for the next day, Sunday. In the morning, of course, he would attend church, as he did every week. But this Sunday would be somewhat special. His church was holding a Christmas pageant, and what’s more, for the first time, Minister Parsons had actually drafted him to play a part in it! A small part, to be sure. A small, non-speaking part, to be more specific. But it was a part nonetheless.

  And since he had missed the dress rehearsal that afternoon, it was a very good thing indeed that it was a small, non-speaking part.

  Then, after church, he would come home, relax, and watch one or two movies from his science-fiction collection as a special treat, as he did every Sunday afternoon. It was one of the few breaks that he allowed himself. And this week, he sorely needed the indulgence and the rest.

  In one of the spare bedrooms was stored a large collection of DVDs and Blu-ray discs, even a few VCR tapes, ranging from the 1927 Metropolis to the latest movie releases with thousands of other movies and TV episodes in-between. He had seen all of them multiple times (and had whole sections of the dialog memorized). Each and every one of them was like a treasured old friend.

  Consuming the last bite of his meal, he glanced up at the mantel clock above the fireplace. The time was 1:08 a.m. For a couple more minutes, Paul simply sat quietly in the easy chair in deepening melancholy, not moving but listening to the ticking of the clock in an otherwise silent and empty house.

  My life is approaching the endgame, he thought. I could theoretically pass away in the not-too-distant future from one of several medical causes. And what do I have to show for a lifetime of work? Although there have been moments of satisfaction and complacency, there really never has been any happiness or joy. On the balance sheet, there has been little to compensate for all the years of struggle, of disappointment, of anxiety, of hopelessness, and of abuse and misuse. I went for the brass ring, grabbed ahold of it with both hands, and discovered that it was just a lead weight with a little gold paint. Is it just me that feels this way about life? So many others seem better off.

  I feel so terribly useless and alone.

  With a grunt of irritation, Paul forced himself to his feet and moved toward the bedroom. He deplored self-pity.

  “It’s a good thing that tomorrow
is Sunday,” he muttered sleepily. “I need a spiritual shot-in-the-arm, some Christmas cheer, and some rest! That prescription should help me feel a whole lot better!”

  TWO

  Mojave, CA

  Home

  December

  Sunday, 7:30 a.m. PST

  With the clamor of the clock radio on his nightstand the next morning, Paul reluctantly and wearily rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. A quick, hot shower helped revive him somewhat, flushing some of the fatigue from both his muscles and his mind.

  After getting himself dressed and eating a hearty breakfast, Paul grabbed his pageant costume and exited the house, driving the Toyota to his local church. With less than two weeks left until Christmas, this was the Sunday selected for the special church Christmas pageant. The pageant was a yearly tradition, an event that he never failed to enjoy. And it was the only one where many in the small church’s congregation practiced for weeks to give their best performances. Each year, Minister Parsons and the Christmas Committee managed to make the pageant creatively different from previous pageants and entertaining as well.

  The storm of the previous evening was long since gone, the bright morning sun already melting the snow on the streets, creating rivers of dirty slush in the gutters on both sides of the roadways. Traffic was light, and Paul made good time, pulling into the parking lot of the Church of the Christian Savior and taking a slot next to that of his neighbor’s car, that of Sidney Dumont. Sidney was a good soul, the evening manager of the local grocery store and the resident Scout Master. With a grin on his face, feeling considerably better about himself on this cold, but beautiful Sunday morning, Paul tucked his car keys into his pants pocket and sauntered up the concrete sidewalk. As he approached the church, he sidestepped around Mrs. Frieda Weiler, an elderly widow, and pulled open one side of the church’s double-oak-paneled-doors for her. Then he bowed in her direction. She smiled back at him, using her cane to push herself up the small concrete step as she proudly entered through the church’s doorway.

  Inside, Paul made his way into the nave and took a moment to glance around. Apparently, Minister Parsons had gone all out this year. There was a new Christmas tree in front of the organ, much larger than last year’s, at least ten feet tall. And it was well decorated with strands of silver “icicles,” lights, and large ornaments. The youth choir was already in their seats. Each young person wore a smartly pressed green gown and held a lit electric candle in front of them (real candles were deemed much too dangerous by the church’s insurance provider). There were also a number of wreaths and other decorations strategically placed around the chapel. Paul nodded in approval at all the hard work that had obviously been donated to the cause. There was no doubt in his mind that this year’s Christmas pageant would be more memorable than even that of the previous year.

  “Brother Armstead!” squawked a familiar voice.

  Paul turned to see Sidney, who was already dressed in his costume (a ragged-looking robe), rushing in his direction. He smiled at his neighbor.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” exclaimed Sidney. “And you have your costume, too! When you didn’t show up for rehearsal yesterday, I thought I might have to set up the sound system myself! Come on, you’d better hurry. After you set up the PA system, you still have to get dressed in your costume. Minister Parsons wants us in position early!”

  Following the Scoutmaster into the chancel, Paul stepped around him and ducked into a small maintenance closet. On a shelf near the door sat the small PA system, a positively antique device with small dials and knobs. However, Paul had long ago mastered both its intricacies as well as its idiosyncrasies, and he soon had it powered up and the microphone volume adjusted the way Minister Parsons preferred.

  Reemerging into the chancel, Paul stood next to his assigned seat (across from the choir section) and unwrapped his costume. Like Sidney, he was playing the part of one of the shepherds in the nativity scene. It only took a few moments to slip the robe over his suit and don the traditional headpiece. There! Now he looked the part.

  He gazed out over the nave at the knots of people standing about in huddled conversations. Many of them, such as the ponderous, almost blimp-sized Sister Georgette, were like him, regular weekly attendees of the church services. However, Paul also noted with amusement the presence of several additional people who weren’t regulars.

  The “newcomers” reminded him of the old joke about the church that was infested with mice. The pastor had tried traps, poisons, repellents, and even cats. Nothing seemed to work. Finally, one of the deacons recommended baptizing the mice. According to him, that way, as members of the church, most of the mice would only show up twice a year—at Christmas and at Easter.

  Chreasters. That’s who many of the “newcomers” were. One of them, Gordon Atherton, the manager of a small bank in the neighboring city of Rosamond, was guiding his wife and three small children through the archway into the nave of the large chapel. Another such person, a young woman whose name he couldn’t remember at the moment, was one of the more successful lawyers in town. She was nervously glancing around, obviously debating her decision to attend services.

  Oh, and neither last nor least, there was Oren Burchfield himself, shaking hands with Minister Parsons. Brother Oren was, if not the worst town drunk, certainly in the bottom ten of such august “celebrities” and definitely the oldest. By all accounts, he was in his mid-eighties. Paul noted that the man was already having difficulty staying on his feet. It would seem that even this early in the morning, Brother Oren had taken the opportunity to hit the egg nog—laced with a healthy dosage of gin, of course.

  Paul waved at several friends and acquaintances, before taking his seat and making himself comfortable. He noted with satisfaction that Sister Olivia was already seated at the church’s organ, located in the front of the nave and over against the right wall, and that she was just starting to play the prelude music. Within moments, he relaxed, enjoying her expert rendition of one of his favorite Christmas hymns, “Joy to the World.”

  He leaned back in his seat, patting Sidney’s arm. “This is going to be good!” he whispered with a cheerful smile.

  • • • •

  Paul was sadly regretting his earlier assumption. The Christmas pageant was not going according to plan at all, despite all the obvious efforts that had gone into its preparation.

  For one thing, Minister Parsons, standing behind the pulpit at the front left corner of the chapel, was apparently suffering from some sort of throat problem. His voice was harsh, strained, and nowhere near its usual volume and timbre. And every ten or twenty seconds, he coughed or sneezed as well. It would seem that he was coming down with a cold and a rather ill-timed one, at that.

  In addition, the youth choir was absolutely murdering the Christmas hymns. As best as Paul could tell, the cause was one of the young men on the back row. It would seem that the individual in question had reached the age in puberty where his voice was changing, the vocal cords of his larynx thickening. And the notes he was singing were cracking pretty badly. It was throwing off all the other children’s harmonies. Naturally, some of the younger ones were trying hard not to laugh each time it happened.

  No, the pageant wasn’t going well at all. And to tell the truth, it was pretty embarrassing. Paul winced as the choir made mincemeat of yet another hymn, this time “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.” He could see by the expressions on the congregation’s faces that they weren’t enjoying it either.

  It was almost time for Paul’s part in the pageant, where the shepherds were visited by the angels, which would be followed by the shepherds’ visit to the manger. He didn’t know why, but he was a little nervous about this, his acting debut. He shouldn’t be. After all, he only had to look the part of a shepherd for a minute or so. But on the other hand, he could possibly trip over the robe and fall down, step on Sidney’s foot, or maybe just....

  There! The cue!

  Paul took a deep bre
ath. “‘As Dame Honor would say, people, let’s be about it,’” he muttered under his breath, quoting Captain McKeon from David Weber’s book, In Enemy Hands.

  In unison, he and Sidney stood and took their places.

  • • • •

  At the Best Western Hotel, Glenn Michaels finished packing his duffel bags and zipped them shut. Only a half hour before, the local Texaco station tow truck had finished bringing his SUV to the motel. In a few minutes, Michaels would check out, toss the bags in his vehicle, and continue his trip to Bakersfield to meet his wife.

  There was only one more task to be completed first, before he could leave the motel room.

  Seated at the small desk in the room, pen in hand, Michaels carefully crafted a letter to Paul Armstead, the man who had rescued him from perhaps death itself the previous evening. With quick strokes, he penned the letter, and then he folded it and stuffed the paper into an envelope. Then he taped the envelope to the top of a small wooden box sitting on the bed. Reaching out, he patted the side of the box.

  “Well, old friend, it’s goodbye and good luck to you,” he stated with a sad, but meaningful smile. “I sure hope you can do as much for Mr. Armstead as you did for me. I can tell he’s a good man, he is, and he sure needs the kind of help you can give him. Take care, my friend.”

  Wiping a tear from one eye, Michaels got up and left the room, a duffel bag in each hand. Behind him, the wooden box on the bed--with the envelope still taped to the top of it--slowly faded out of existence, leaving behind only four small dimples in the bedcovers.

  • • • •

  Gratefully, Paul turned and retreated out of the spotlights, back toward his more dimly lit seat, his and Sidney’s part in the floundering pageant now over and done with. And without a screw-up on his part, either. What a relief. The choir had struck up with “O Holy Night,” and Paul winced at every off-tune note of it.