Three Wishes

At forty-three years old with an expanded waist and hips wearing pillows of plumpness, I of course didn’t expect a driver to stop when my car sputtered out on the road to Barstow, but it would have been nice to see a friendly cop. Most of the vehicles passing me were doing seventy or eighty, so it’s possible they didn’t even notice me. After all, even as a kid, my waving hand was frequently ignored by the teacher.

The desert was no place for a comfortable wait. The sun baked the air at a crisp, dry 105 degrees. The rising heat waves, layered like flying carpets, made breathing difficult. I finished my bottled water, hunted in the trunk for another, and then, empty-handed, sat down to wait, cursing my stupidity for leaving the cell phone recharging on my bedside stand.

A rustling sound behind me made me jump up, but it was only a jackrabbit. He twitched his nose and bounded away. I sighed with relief and then stared. A broken bottle was probably the cause of the reflection I saw, but with nothing else to do, I walked over to get a better look.

It was a bottle all right, but not the kind that people toss out of car windows. I reached down and picked it up. An old wooden cork had been jammed into the top of it. I don’t know why I started to work it up. I didn’t usually go around picking up beer bottles and sniffing the contents, but I felt driven to do so.

A couple of cars sped by. Neither of them slowed, but it reminded me that I needed to get back to the side of the road. I sure didn’t want to miss a Good Samaritan. Meanwhile, as I walked, my jogging shoes, sinking low into the soft sand, began to fill.

“Urgh,” I cried out, remembering how I hated the desert.

It was at that moment, right after I said “Urgh,” that the cork lifted up and . . . and . . . a genie came out.

I suppose I should describe him, but you wouldn’t believe me. In fact, I didn’t believe me! The guy was gorgeous – big brown eyes, naked chest, muscles like a weight trainer. I almost swooned. I would have, I think, but he reached out and grabbed me, holding me steady.

“You’re, you’re, you’re . . .”

“Yes,” he said, his teeth flashing like the Taj Mahal. “I’m a genie.”

I figured I must be dying from heat prostration, but what a way to go!

“You have three wishes, fair lady,” he said with an accent that would melt any woman -- even inside a freezer unit.

He was still holding me when his hands began to stroke places a stranger’s hands shouldn’t touch. I jerked away. “What are you doing?”

Again he flashed that blinding smile. “I’ve been inside that bottle for a very long time. It’s hard when I see beauty not to attempt to enfold it in desire.”

My legs turned fickle. I collapsed onto the curb and gazed up at him.

He laughed, low and inviting. I blushed and broke eye contact.

“A virgin. How delightful,” he chuckled, moving closer.

At that point, I heard the squeak of heavy braking and the shush of a big rig coming to a stop. Without hesitation, I corked my bottle and stood up.

“Oh, thank you,” I called out to the huge, black man who'd stopped. “I’m so obliged to you. I’ve been here for hours.”

The man climbed down from his rig and came closer. “Are you out of gas?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. It’s got plenty, but the car died. I think it needs a tow. Could you please give me a ride into Barstow? I’d be so grateful.”

My angel man did exactly that and then refused the fifty I offered him. I kissed him on the cheek and waved goodbye, feeling a tinge of jealousy for his sweet wife, Ruby, whom he'd talked about for the entire drive.

I got my car picked up by the garage, endured heart failure when the estimate came in, and made my way back to my house via their courtesy shuttle. After a quick shower, a change of clothes, two cokes, three bottles of cold water, and half a bag of potato chips, I propped my feet up and started thinking over my day. That’s when, right in the middle of Oprah, I remembered the genie.

Now, if I’d been listening to my mother’s voice, which still liked to make my decisions, I’d have tossed that bottle into the trash, but I don’t think many people could do that. I decided to listen to what the genie had to say.

“That was rather rude, my beautiful goddess,” the genie protested as he oozed out of his bottle.

His smile was as devastating as before. I swallowed hard and told him I was sorry. That brought the genie immediately to my side. He lifted up my hand and kissed each finger, holding my wrist firmly when I tried to pull away.

“Stop it -- please,” I said, as his mouth continued upward.

“With pleasure,” he whispered, just before he wrapped me in his arms and seized my lips.

If my mom were still alive, I’d say that I immediately pushed the genie away . . . and I did do that -- after a minute or so.

He laughed softly and stroked my hair. “Ah, my princess,” he said. “Your surrender is inevitable; I have read it in the stars.”

I shook my head and backed away. “Why? If you seduce me, you don’t have to give me wishes?”

He burst out laughing. The sinews in his abdomen rippled. I watched as entranced as if he were a cobra, dancing to my flute.

“Of course I shall not cheat you of your wishes, but finding pleasure in the interlude while you ponder your decisions will be most satisfying to both of us.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurted out as I rushed off. Behind me I heard him chuckling knowingly.

What should I wish for? I asked myself. Money would be nice – especially since the car’s repairs were going to put me into debt. I supposed I could ask for youth or a nice figure, too. A new job, a boyfriend . . .

I was washing my hands in the sink when I glanced up and took a good look at my face. I almost screamed. At forty-three, I still had acne. A new zit was inflating as I watched. My eyelids bagged, my cheeks were pudgy, and my neck was starting to droop. Not even the strongest wish could make me beautiful.

“Please," I said, returning to the living room where the genie sat flipping channels on my TV. “Can you explain about the wishes? Are there guidelines? Is anything possible? If I do wish for something, does it reach back and bite me somehow?”

“Ah, my princess, you are not only beautiful, but intelligent, too. I like that in a woman.”

The genie turned off the TV, set the channel control on the coffee table, and strode toward me.

“You have legs!” I cried out, startled because before he’d ended in a narrowed stream of smoke.

That set off the genie’s laughter again, but it didn’t stop him from coming closer.

“Uh . . . how about I make us some iced tea?” I asked, backing away again.

He didn’t answer as he followed me into the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table and watched as I poured ice water into a pitcher and stirred the powdered tea mix into it. After placing the filled glasses on the table, one in front of him and one for me, I sat down, slid a box of cookies toward him, and took my first sip.

His eyes still watched me.

“Don’t you like tea? The cookies are store-bought, but they’re chocolate chip.”

“I have never had chocolate chip. But it does not matter. A genie does not eat. What is your name, my princess?”

Gees Louise. It was like the dating game. I slid the cookies back over my way and pulled out a couple. Taking a bite of the first one, I told him I was Cindy, found out he was Ishmael, and we went on from there.

Ishmael was easy to talk with. He, like me, hated spiders, snakes, and other creepy-crawlies, and he was also an only child.

I fixed a sandwich and finished off the rest of the potato chips while Ishmael told me about some of his past clients (Yes, that’s exactly the word he used.)

We talked all afternoon and kept talking until it grew dark. I turned on the lights, sat down with a piece of cheesecake from the freezer, and we continued on. At midnight when my eyes were drooping, I said goodnight and corked the bottle. His eyes looked sad as he was being pulled back inside; I felt almost guilty.

In the morning, I rose slowly, slightly groggy and cross. I called the garage first thing and found that my car was still not ready. In fact, a part had been ordered, which for some reason, couldn’t be shipped out until Monday. I was in the middle of a two-week vacation so I suppose the timing was right to be minus a car, but it still wasn’t convenient. I'd planned to run errands and check out a new local gym -- in case I ever decided to go back on my diet.

I cooked breakfast, cleaned up the dishes, and was just finishing up my third cup of coffee when I thought about Ishmael. What was I going to wish for? I uncorked the bottle and asked him for suggestions.

“Good morning, my princess,” he said. “May I kiss you?”

I was about to say “no” when he swept me off my feet and bent me backwards into one of those embraces you only see in movies. My toes curled, and I took a ride to the stars. Wow!

When Ishmael let me up, I could barely stand. I dropped into one of the kitchen chairs like a thawed bag of green beans.

“Please, don’t do that again,” I sputtered. “My heart can’t take it.”

Ishmael's teeth flashed, and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “That was just a warm-up, my princess.”

“If that’s a warm-up, the real thing would be a conflagration!” I quipped.

His eyes flashed with admiration. I smiled and flushed.

All that day, I went about my business: paying bills, washing laundry, and scrubbing the bathtub. Ishmael shadowed me, chatting as if he were a husband conversing with his wife on a normal Saturday. When I got out the ladder and began painting the spare bedroom, he even held the wiggly contraption steady for me. Then when I got down for a moment to get something, Ishmael picked up the roller, climbed up himself, and took over.

Darn, I wish he were my husband, I thought wistfully.

I hadn’t said anything aloud, but Ishmael turned and searched my eyes. “Be very sure of what you want, Cindy. I can’t undo a wish.”

“You read minds?”

The warmth of his smile showered me with happiness. At that moment there was nothing I wanted more than to ask that particular wish, but I said nothing. He was once again walking toward me with that look on his face, and I knew what it meant.

“Gotta’ go to the bathroom,” I said, bolting.

Inside that tiny room, I bent over the sink and splashed water on my face. I took a moment to stare into the mirror and have another hard look.

Sure, I could make Ishmael marry me, but he’d never stay. Look at me. No one would ever choose me. I was ugly and fat. I was old and . . .

I burst into tears and sagged down to the floor. Ishmael entered at once. “Enough of this. I shall validate your worthiness, my princess, right now,” he said, scooping me up and carrying me into the bedroom.

My mother’s voice was screaming in my ear that what I was doing was wrong, but Ishmael was kissing me, and . . . And thus, I discovered paradise.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


“I know what I want to wish for, Ishmael,” I told him exactly one month later.

He smiled sweetly and lifted my hand.

“I'd really like for you to love me and want to marry me . . . and to be beautiful and thin so you'd always adore me. . . And to have money. And . . .”

“Hold it,” he said, laughing. “I don’t like thin, and I already proved what I think about your body. You don’t need to use wishes on that.”

“Thank you, Ishmael. These weeks have been wonderful, but I’m ready to make my wishes."

“Don’t rush it, Cindy," he urged. Giving me one of those romantic looks of his, he added "After all, I think we’re both enjoying our interlude.”

I shook my head and backed away. “I have to do it, Ishmael, don’t you see? I have to make my decisions and get on with my life.”

He sighed heavily but nodded for me to begin.

I gulped and swallowed, nervous as a non-swimmer taking her first step into a swimming pool.“Okay. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong, and it’s possible I’ll wish I’d said something different tomorrow or next year, but my first wish is that I have plenty of money, but not a troublesome amount that would give me problems with the IRS or anything. Was that said correctly?”

Ishmael’s eyes were smiling. “Granted,” he said, and he squeezed my hand and nodded for me to continue.

“My second wish is that we both have good health and that nothing bad happens to either of us. Okay?”

“I’ve never had a client include me in their wishes. How considerate. Granted,” he said, kissing the palm of my hand. “You don’t have to make your third wish now, Cindy. You can wait, you know.” But he read my eyes, moaned softly, and asked sadly, “What is your last wish?”

“Oh, Ishmael, I’d really like to wish that you loved me and wanted to marry me, but that would be wrong. I want you to have my third wish, Ishmael, even if it means you’ll leave. If so, I guess that’s Kismet.”

“Granted.”

With a puff of smoke, he was gone. I placed his empty bottle on my mantel and had a good cry.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


In the days that followed, the pain refused to depart. My loss took away the very breath of me. Nights were lonely. Days were slower than snails.

But then, about a week later, the doorbell rang.

It was Ishmael, dressed in a very non-genie suit of some expensive European blend, an extremely attractive blue-striped tie, and a silver clasp that sparkled with diamonds. His muscles were covered but nothing could hide those shoulders of his. I almost swooned at the sight.

He bent down on one knee. His right arm moved forward. My first thought was that he'd fallen, then that he'd come to say goodbye and shake my hand, but in his fingers I saw a rainbow of sparkling gems and finally realized that he was offering me an engagement ring.

Of course I said “yes," which is how I got my third wish, even though . . . I never officially wished it.

Oh, and I should add -- that we are deliriously happy.

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