Wish List

by Derek Powell

percent real. I'm a Leprechaun.”

  “Wait... You're... Huh?”

  “That was a joke. Don't tell me I've got a master with no sense of humor.”

  Tom sat down on his couch. He realized he was still holding the 9-volt battery from his smoke alarm, and he added it to the clutter on the coffee table.

  “I'm sorry,” Tom said. “This is all just so unbelievable.”

  “I understand,” the old man said. He pushed down the foot rest of the recliner and stood up. “Let me help you wrap your head around it, shall I?”

  Tom nodded. The naked man stepped closer, but Tom shied back.

  “That looks like a nasty cut. I can heal it for you.” He reached for Tom's bandaged hand, but Tom snatched it back.

  “Hold on. I'm not wasting a wish on this.”

  The man rolled his eyes and put on an exasperated expression. “The fabled three wishes,” the man said. “I'm not sure how that bit of nonsense became engrained in your society. Didn't you research this before you started ripping the lids off strange lamps? Didn't you even take the time to type the word 'Genie' into Google?”

  Tom had, in fact. He'd also read “The Monkey's Paw” and watched Disney's Aladdin, but he wasn't about to admit it to a naked old man in his living room.

  “All right,” the man said. “You're still unconvinced. You want ground rules, so here's the rules: I live in another realm, but I am bound to that lamp. Whoever owns the lamp, owns my services.

  “I don't want to go back to the other realm. Things there are... unpleasant. If I were to only grant you three wishes, you'd burn them up and be done with me. I would prefer to be free of my miserable confinement, so I'll gladly grant wishes all day, every day just to stay in this world of yours.

  “Oh, I could tell you I'll only grant three wishes, but I don't really have a choice, do I? Since you're my master, all you'd have to do is make a fourth wish, I'd still have to grant it, and then you'd know the whole three wish thing was a lie.

  “The wishes, however come at a price. I can not grant a wish for free. It's physically impossible. I pull power from the other realm, and that power has to be replaced by some physical object from this world. Just like a car can't go without gas, a wish can't be granted without some token payment. The price exacted depends upon the scope of the wish.”

  Tom felt dizzy trying to absorb all of that..

  “So, do you want me to heal your hand? If it makes you feel better, you don't even have to say, 'I wish'.”

  Still uncertain, Tom stretched his hand out toward the naked man.

  It didn't look like the man did anything at all. He just peeled the bloody paper towel from Tom's palm and handed it back to him. The cut simply wasn't under it any more.

  Tom flexed his hand. There wasn't even a scar.

  “That's amazing,” he said.

  The naked man nodded. “Just so. You could even go so far as to call it magic.”

  “You said there was a price for each wish. What will this first one cost me?”

  The naked old man looked up at the ceiling, as if mentally calculating a tally. “Roughly twenty-five thousand dollars,” he said.

  Tom staggered backward. “Oh no. No way. You clearly said, 'token payment.' Twenty-five thousand dollars?!”

  “Dude. Chill out. Relax. You really do need to wish for a sense of humor. That was a joke.”

  The naked man picked up the shipping box and balanced it on his palm as if weighing the foam peanuts. “This will do. May I have it?”

  Tom nodded. The man waved his hand like a magician, and the box vanished.

  “There. One used box, gone from your life. You see, for something so minor as miracle healing, I can even accept trash as a form of payment.”

  Still too stunned to speak, Tom only nodded.

  “You still have questions,” the man said.

  “Where are your clothes?” Tom blurted.

  If the naked man found it rude, he didn't blink an eye. “It's part of my punishment. Linked forever to the lamp, given the unlimited power of a magical realm, but unable to use it for myself, barred from owning any possessions, save those given to me by my master. That includes clothes.”

  “Must have been one hell of a crime.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Come upstairs,” Tom told him. “I'll give you pair of sweatpants or something to wear until we can get something better for you. Can you fit into a large?”

  “I can fit into anything.” The naked old man seemed to grow, gaining both height and weight even as Tom led him up the stairs. By the time they arrived at Tom's bedroom, the man was about the same size as Tom. He even looked younger, with hair that was now darker and fuller.

  Tom found him a pair of Levi's and an old Cal Tech sweatshirt. As the man straightened, Tom realized that they could probably pass for brothers. It was a little creepier than the old man look, but Tom let it go for now.

  Tom handed the man some socks and a paint-splattered pair of Reeboks that he'd been meaning to throw away.

  “Do you have a name?” Tom asked.

  The man, who was busy making his feet smaller to fit into Tom's size 10's, shook his head. “Even my name was taken, never to be spoken again.”

  “Is there something I can call you?”

  “My last master called me Gene. Not very original, but mildly entertaining.”

  “Gene? I'm Tom Swanson.”

  They shook hands, the Genie and the mortal.

  “In exchange for the clothes, I have a little something for you,” Gene said.

  Downstairs, Tom found his table was set for 5-star dining, all decked in white linen with fine china and crystal. A steak filet steamed by his chair, accompanied by vegetables, potatoes, and gravy. There was soup, and salad, and a steaming loaf of fresh bread. There was a bottle of French wine to accompany every course.

  “I think I'm going to like having you around,” Tom said. He waved toward the second dining chair. “Would you like to join me?”

  “No. Thanks. I don't eat.”

  But Tom did. He polished off a delicious French onion soup that tasted like it just came out of a bistro in Paris, and sliced into a perfectly cooked prime rib. Tom couldn't even pronounce the labels on the wine bottles, but everything paired deliciously.

  Gene busied himself in the living room. He tidied up the coffee table by cleaning up all the spilled peanuts and torn newspaper, making them vanish with a flick of his wrist. He straightened the books and magazines.

  “Watch this,” he told Tom, as he hefted the 9-volt battery in his palm. Like a baseball pitcher, he wound up and threw the battery at the smoke alarm.

  Tom ducked, expecting a shower of broken plastic, but there was only a click. When Tom looked up, the smoke alarm was intact, its indicator blinking a happy green.

  “Show off,” Tom said.

  Gene smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and sat down on the couch. He perused a copy of Popular Science while Tom gorged himself.

  Gene somehow knew when Tom had eaten his fill. Without so much as a backward glance, the Genie wiggled his fingers over his shoulders. The dirty dishes vanished. Plates, bowls and silverware evaporated, leaving only the unblemished white table cloth, a centerpiece of fresh flowers, and a snifter of Cognac in front of Tom.

  “All good?” Gene asked.

  “Dear God, yes. Can I really eat like that every night?”

  Gene nodded. “As often as you like. You could eat like a little Hobbit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tolkien? Lord of the Rings?”

  “Oh. I haven't seen those movies,” Tom admitted.

  “And I see your literary selections are limited to dime-store paperbacks and technical magazines. Pity. I do enjoy the classics, myself.”

  Tom took a sip of his fine Cognac and sank into his sofa. “I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I still don't trust you, you know,” h
e told Gene. Despite everything he'd seen this evening, he still couldn't get that “Have a care” note out of his head.

  If Gene was offended, he didn't show it. “It's understandable. You've got that whole, 'If it's too good to be true, then it probably is' mentality going on. I can't blame you. Society as a whole is becoming more distrustful.”

  “Exactly,” Tom said. “So you understand if I'm still not convinced.”

  “You've got a healed gash on your hand and a belly full of expensive food. You still doubt I'm a Genie?”

  “Not so much, but I can count up to three, and I figure I've used two wishes. This next one could be the deal-breaker.”

  “I thought I explained this to you. Do you think I'm trying to make you waste your wishes so I can be done with you?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Very well.” Gene spread his hands wide. “Start making wishes. Your heart's desire fulfilled. What do you want most? Money? Power? The love of a beautiful woman? You can have it all, just ask.”

  That last hit a bit close to home. Tom sat back and closed his eyes. “Not a trick?” he asked.

  “You are my master,” Gene said, but Tom still couldn't believe it.

  “Look,” Gene said. “I'll go ahead and cover the basics for you. Everybody wants money...”

  He snapped his fingers, and piles of hundred-dollar bills appeared on Tom's dining table. They were bundled together in neat stacks, so many that the wood creaked under the sudden weight.

  “That's ten million dollars,” Gene said. “Unmarked, U.S. currency, non-sequential, the whole nine yards.”

  Tom rushed to the table, picked up a bundle and fanned it. Standing that close to that many bills, the stench of cash was strong. Tom