Fiction River

by Fiction River

  “I think maybe mine did too.”

  Granted

  Robert Jeschonek

  Robert Jeschonek has one of the most original voices in modern fiction. He also has an imagination that goes boldly where no other imagination has gone before.

  He writes things like books about talking pinstriped pinky fingers and bands that don’t exist...stories about lunch cakes and underpants with minds of their own...and wishes that are full of surprises. His unusual tales have appeared in many publications around the world, including five previous volumes of Fiction River. His underwear story, by the way, was the most discussed story from No Humans Allowed. His novels include the mind-bending My Favorite Band Does Not Exist and A Pinstriped Finger’s My Only Friend. Bob has won an International Book Award, a Scribe Award, the grand prize in Pocket Books’ Strange New Worlds contest, and a Forward National Literature Award. Plus, he’s written Doctor Who and Star Trek fiction and Batman and Justice Society comics for DC Comics. You can try to keep up with him at robertjeschonek.com.

  His story for Wishes packs a heck of a punch—both literally and figuratively, proving yet again that no one looks at the world quite the same way as Robert Jeschonek does.

  So the next thing I know, I’m totally going ballistic, throwing over the table and screaming my lungs out in the middle of the Midnight Diner. My best bud Goldie is right there, holding me back, which is good for them, good for the Wishies I’m going off on...same A-holes who just had the capital-B Balls to intervention me for crossing the line.

  And I’m cursing like a nut, and Goldie’s dragging me out the door, getting me away from these people. And they should consider themselves lucky and not push it.

  But Big Daddy Scarlip goes and does it anyhow, which is why I suddenly break Goldie’s grip and charge over and pop him one in his smug-ass face. Teenage fist meets middle-aged kisser, ka-pow.

  Because this. Because “Nil,” he says. “Nil, you’re nobody and nothing. Accept it like the rest of us and move on, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Now who’s sorry? The one with the busted nose, that’s who!

  Feels so good I got another in the chamber before Goldie drags me outta there for good this time and hauls me down the street into the Pittsburgh night.

  We’re two blocks away when I finally snap my arm away from Goldie.

  “You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, scrubbing his fingers through his shoulder-length, tiger-striped hair. “I got you outta there before you did something you’d really regret.”

  I straighten the sleeve of my dark brown beat-to-hell leather jacket from the Salvation Army. “Impossible.” I’m still buzzing with rage like a bag full of bees. “Those clowns had it coming.”

  “Sure they did.” Goldie pulls out an e-cigarette and takes a drag on it. “None of their business what you do.”

  I kick over a trash can on the curb, sending its contents sloshing to the street with a satisfying splat.

  “But hey.” Goldie stops walking and squares off with me, chest to chest. “Just so you’re sure about this. About finding the guy or whoever.”

  I’ve never been more sure in my life. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Just saying.” Goldie shrugs. “What if he’s some kind of dick or something?”

  I see myself in a darkened shop window—short black hair, dark eyes, and a wiry body in leather jacket and jeans. “Then it is what it is.”

  “Sometimes we might be better off not knowing, is all.”

  “That’s how you feel, maybe.”

  Goldie offers me his e-cig. “I’ve made peace with it, bro.”

  “Screw that.” I take the e-cig. “There’s nothing I want more than to know which A-hole wished me to life. And no one—not the shit-eating Wishies or no one—is gonna keep me from finding out.”

  “But then what?” asks Goldie as he takes back the e-cig. “Live happily ever after?”

  I snort-laugh and cuff his upper arm. “Good one, Goldie,” I tell him. “Best one I heard all day.”

  It takes a while to come down from all that anger. Goldie gets it; he knows that’s just how I am, poor son of a bitch...though tonight’s been pretty epic, even for me.

  I don’t say a word as we walk across town to the place we rent in Wilkinsburg. The rage still has ahold of me, though I know, even as I can’t let go of it, just how self-destructive it is.

  So why am I so pissed off all the time? Well, I’ll bet you’d be, too, if you were just someone brought to life because of a wish and tossed aside like a used cigarette butt.

  That’s exactly how it happens, too. Some dope finds a genie or a four-leaf clover or wishing well or whatever and wishes for someone out of a fantasy. Then the novelty wears off, and/or the wished-up person gets to be more trouble than they’re worth. Then what?

  Then me, that’s what. The unwanted wish gets kicked to the curb, and no one comes by to take care of it or even just get rid of it.

  But at least some of us, like me and Goldie, have each other. Though I guess maybe he cares more about me than I do about him...a lot more.

  “You ready?” Goldie’s the one who finally breaks the silence. He does it as he unlocks the door and starts up the stairs to our fourth-floor studio apartment. “Ready for tomorrow?”

  “Hell to the yes, I’m ready.” My guts churn as I follow him up. I’m still like this close to going off again.

  Goldie flips a switch at the top of the stairs, and the apartment lights up. It ain’t much; good luck getting a nice place in this town when you’re 16–17 years old and don’t officially exist.

  But it’s home. Stolen posters cover the cracks (and fist-holes) in the plaster. Mismatched lawn furniture’s patched up with duct tape. Mattress in the corner’s out of a dumpster but bug-free and big enough for two. Good enough.

  Though it’s not like we couldn’t do better. Got a coffee can full of dollar bills in the kitchenette cupboard, scraped together the hard way—but they’re for something other than furniture or fix-ups.

  And they won’t be here much longer. Tomorrow morning, I’m gonna spend every last one of them.

  That’s when we’re going to see him.

  Yawning, Goldie pulls off his gray hoodie sweatshirt and tosses it on the floor. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt underneath. “So you’re not nervous? Not even a little?”

  The questions are pissing me off, but I keep a lid on. Makes you wonder, is there anything that doesn’t piss me off?

  The answer (duh, no!) has always made me wonder about one other thing. It’s partly why I’m so dead set on going tomorrow, to answer this one question.

  “Of course I’m not nervous.” I walk straight to the kitchenette and pull out the coffee can full of singles. “This is gonna be great.”

  “So what’s the first thing you’re gonna ask him?”

  “The Wisherman?” I shrug and start pulling bills from the can. “Who in their right mind would wish for someone as effed-up as I am?”

  There it is. That’s the question. The one I’ve been asking for as long as I can remember, which is one-and-a-half years. That’s how old I actually am, though I look like I’m 16 or 17; I was wished into being one-and-a-half years ago, brought to life as a full-blown teenager.

  “Seriously, right?” I wave fistfuls of cash and laugh out loud for the first time all day. “Who would wish for me?”

  Next morning, we ride the bus up to the top of Mount Washington, overlooking the city. My heart’s hammering in my chest like a caged animal fighting to get out...but for once, it’s all because of nerves, not rage.

  Because who knows if the Wisherman will come through? I’ve heard good things, but what if he can’t or won’t help me? He’s the only hope I have, for real. If he doesn’t come through, it’s the end of the road.

  Then what? Explode in a ball of rage? Fall apart in a crash of despair?

  I dread the possibilities. But eff me if I’m gonna let it show.

  “This is gonna rock.�
� I say it with all the conviction I don’t really feel, as Goldie and I get off the bus and walk up the street in the bright morning sun. “I can’t wait.”

  The Wisherman is rich. His place, a gleaming cylindrical tower with mirrored windows all around, perches on some of the primest real estate in Pittsburgh. Might as well be up on a cloud bank, it’s got that good a view of the city.

  Goldie and I walk up to his frosted glass front door, and it glides open at our approach.

  “Electric eye?” asks Goldie, looking around as he says it. “Magic spell?”

  I shrug. In a world where wishes can take on a life of their own, either one could be equally likely.

  Walking through the doorway, we enter a gleaming white room that smells like roses and mint and doesn’t have a single stick of furniture. Double doors slide open on the opposite wall, revealing an elevator car that’s just as empty.

  The second we step in, the elevator starts moving. There aren’t any indicator lights on the walls to tell us which floor we’re on...but we hear three dings, and then the elevator stops.

  The doors open, and we hear a deep voice booming with an Indian accent. “Early! You’re early! Good for you!”

  Suddenly, a huge man with a mane of springy black dreadlocks and skin the color of potato peels leaps into the car and grabs hold of our left arms. Before either of us can react, he’s hauling us out of the elevator into a big round room filled with sunlight and white fur-covered couches.

  “Welcome welcome welcome!” He spins us around, sending us stumbling toward the nearest couch. He’s wearing a white kaftan and draped in gold jewelry—necklaces, bangles, earrings—which jangles and clinks as he takes three dancelike steps after us. “Which one of you is Nil?”

  “Right here.” I stop myself from dropping onto the couch and raise my right hand. Goldie, meanwhile, flops onto the white-furred cushions with a loud poof.

  “Wonderful!” The dreadlocked man holds out a hand, palm up, and raises his thick, dark eyebrows. “I am the Wisherman, of course.” Grinning with a mouth full of gold teeth, he takes a little bow. “So where’s the sugar you brought me?”

  I pull out the roll of dollar bills stuffed in the front pocket of my jeans and hand it over. Grinning, he counts them out on the spot, pausing once in a while to hold a single up to the light.

  “Most excellent!” he says at last, pushing the dollars down into a pocket of his kaftan. “So you said on the phone that you don’t remember a thing? About your wisher?”

  “That’s right,” I tell him. “The wisher wasn’t around when I was born. I mean when I appeared.”

  The Wisherman frowns a little. “That is unusual.” He steps toward me and gazes deeply into my eyes. “And yet, you most certainly are the product of a wish. This, I can clearly see.”

  No shit, Sherlock, I almost say, but keep it to myself for once in my life. Being a Wishie is like being gay; you just know. So do other Wishies, who can spot you a mile away.

  “I have never met a Wishie I could not help.” The Wisherman reaches toward me, smiling reassuringly. “Now here. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  Suddenly serious, he grabs both my hands and squeezes them hard. His eyes instantly roll up in their sockets, leaving me to stare at the bloodshot whites.

  His lips quiver as he mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, and his thick fingers massage my hands like bread dough. I wait, expecting to feel something different—hoping to feel something different—but no mystic spark comes.

  After a long moment, I start to drift. Nothing’s happening, and I find myself staring at the closest section of window wall. I’m too far back to see the city sprawling below, but there’s a cloud, and then a bird—a hawk? a falcon?—floating in eyeshot across the bright blue sky outside.

  Then, suddenly, the Wisherman tightens his grip so hard it hurts. His muttering gets louder, and his jewelry clatters as he sways back and forth like a metronome.

  My gut instinct is to lash out and break away, to blow my stack—but I force myself to hold back. This could be my only chance at finding my wisher, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let myself screw it up.

  Finally, the Wisherman lets out a sharp cry, a whoop, and his eyes roll back down to meet my gaze. “Got ’em!” He lets go of my hands and pumps a fist in the air. “Damn, I’m good!”

  “What do you mean, you got ’em? Not just ‘him’ or ‘her’?”

  The Wisherman reaches over and tousles my hair. “Meant what I said, Nilsson.” The Wisherman holds up three fingers, each wrapped in an ornate gold ring. “I got three strong readings today. Any one of them could be your wisher.”

  “Three?” I’m stupefied by this crazy-ass verdict. “You can’t tell which one?”

  “They are all equally good possibilities.” The Wisherman shrugs, and his dreads bounce up and down on his broad shoulders. “It happens sometimes.”

  “But...but how do we tell which one?”

  “The old-fashioned way, my friend.” He claps his hands together once, then spreads his arms wide. “You go and see them. Consider their reactions, yes? That will tell the tale.”

  “Seriously?” Remember that rage of mine? It’s starting up again, for real. “I paid all that money, and I don’t even get a definite answer?”

  “You could see it that way.” The Wisherman folds his hands behind his back. “Or you could see it like this: you have three more solid leads than you had fifteen minutes ago.”

  My fuse is lit and blazing toward the bomb inside, about to go off all over this rip-off artist. Then, Goldie takes my arm and gives it a squeeze. Good old Goldie knows the score, knows I’m about to pop...when I really need to stop, because there’s something I forgot. Something I can’t leave here without, though it’s not exactly what I expected.

  “Excuse me,” Goldie says to the Wisherman. “What are the names of the three possible wishers?”

  The Wisherman’s grin widens, and his gold teeth glitter. “I can write them down, if you like. Ought to be able to scare up some photos online for you, too.”

  “That would be great,” says Goldie, giving my arm a shake. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Where the hell would I be without Goldie? “Yep.” I don’t manage a smile, but at least I’m not going ballistic. “Totally great.”

  An hour later, I’m running full-tilt through the Strip District down in the city, trying like hell to catch up to the first person on the Wisherman’s list.

  Goldie’s somewhere behind me, lost in the crowd, and I couldn’t care less. The only thing on my mind is staying focused on the woman up ahead, who swear to God must be some kind of track star or something.

  As always in the middle of the morning, the Strip is packed. Endless streams of shoppers flow along both sides of Smallman Street, the main drag of Pittsburgh’s main market district. I’m shoving my way through them by force, even knocking some down here and there—but the woman I’m chasing just sprints gracefully through them, dodging and weaving like a gazelle through a herd of wildebeest.

  Her long blonde ponytail whips and flaps behind her, swishing over her bright pink jogging suit. She was coming back from a run when she spotted us outside her nearby townhouse—the address the Wisherman gave us—then made a break for it and left us in the dust.

  As if I’d ever give up after coming this far. As if I’d let her get away as long as there’s a chance she’s the one who wished me up.

  Especially now that there seems to be a better chance. Because if she didn’t recognize me as a Wishie she’d kicked to the curb, why did she run for the hills as soon as she saw me?

  Leila Mihalick—that’s her name, according to the Wisherman—bolts across the street a split-second before a line of cars pushes past, cutting me off. All I can do is keep running up the side I’m on, keeping her in sight, waiting for a break in traffic.

  But distracted as I am, I take my eyes off the busy sidewalk up ahead just long enough for a worker to roll a tall rack of baked goo
ds out of a shop in my path. I slam right into it, sending the rack crashing to the sidewalk, spilling muffins, pastries, and loaves of bread all over the place.

  As I come down on top of it, the worker howls and curses with rage. He makes a grab for my arm, but I scramble out of the way and off the rack, quickly regaining my footing. Another grab flies my way, and I duck, pissing the guy off even more. He calls me names I’ve never heard before, and I really wanna get all up in his grill, show him who he’s messing with...but I know I’ve gotta keep my eyes on the prize.

  If I could find her, that is. By the time I start running back up the street again, I don’t see any sign of her.

  But I do see Goldie in action, sprinting up the opposite side of the street. Not only did he catch up when I fell, he passed me by; instead of stopping to help me, he had the nuts to keep on after the target.

  The traffic gaps just enough to let me cross, and I do. This side of the street’s not quite as crowded, so I step on it, hurtling in Goldie’s wake though I still don’t see Leila ahead of him.

  Then I do. The pink track suit’s almost a block ahead and pulling away, zipping past an open-air café. Doubling down, I run even harder, wishing with all my heart that I could catch her...even as I realize she might just get away for good.

  But then, as she clears the café, Leila gets a shot of bad luck. A shoddy blue pickup charges out of an alley ahead of her and slams on the brakes, nearly crashing into a passing Jaguar. As the drivers hit the horns and start screaming, her route is blocked...only for a moment, but that’s long enough for Goldie to go the distance.

  Twenty feet away from her, he jolts to a stop. “Hey!” he says. “Wait! We need to talk to you!”

  Instantly, Leila spins and snaps into a self-defense pose—feet planted, arms angled in front of her. “Leave me alone!” Her face is grim, her body coiled, about to lash out. “I changed my mind!”