Art browsed through the bric-a-brac on the crowded, dusty shelves in the old antique store, finding little of interest. He spotted an odd-looking object tucked away in the back that looked like a little metal pitcher with a handle and spout, tarnished dull brown.
He carefully reached through the knick-knacks to avoid knocking them down, and pulled out the item to examine it. Heavy for its small size. It looked ancient, probably made of brass, because copper would have a more green patina than brown. He noted the designs etched on it, flowing and intricate, giving it a decidedly exotic allure. It looked like one of those Arabian oil lamps that a genie might live in. If only he could be so lucky, he thought. That’s magical folklore, Arabian mythology; it’s not real.
He paid the shop owner $10 and drove home, excited by his find. Later that evening, polish and rag in hand, he sat cross-legged on the living room’s laminate floor and began to clean it. The heavy tarnish required vigorous rubbing, but soon the gleam of shiny brass peeked through the grime. He stopped for a moment to admire the bright luster that sparkled in the overhead light.
He resumed polishing, as more and more of the tarnish gave way to the brassy metal. He thought this little antique lamp would make a great decoration on the coffee table.
He heard a pop, like the sound of a cork from a champagne bottle, and a little wisp of blue smoke swirled out of the spout. “Whoa,” he croaked as his breath caught in his throat. He dropped the lamp with a clank and scooted a few feet away. The smoke billowed in a thick plume for a few seconds, then solidified into a figure.
As the smoke cleared, he got a better look. Standing before him was a tall man with blue-tinted skin, wearing wide-legged white harem pants, a red sash, a gold-trimmed purple vest, and a gold turban with a large red ruby affixed in the front. An honest-to-goodness live genie!
“Three wishes, master,” boomed the genie.
“For real?” Art stuttered. “Are you really a genie?”
“What do I look like, a zebra?” scoffed the genie. “You freed me from my prison of a thousand years, so now I will give you three wishes for whatever you want. Choose wisely.”
“How do you know English?” asked Art. I thought genies only spoke Arabic or something.
The genie snickered. “I am speaking Arabic, but you hear me in English. It’s genie magic, but it’s far beyond the understanding of a mere mortal like you. So make a wish.
Art shrugged as he tried to think of a good wish, but his mind was as empty as his growling stomach. “Okay, I got it. I want some fish tacos. Really good fish tacos with cilantro and salsa and deep-fried breaded fish. My favorite.”
“As you wish, master.” The genie snapped his fingers, and a plate of tacos appeared in his hands, filled with the scent of fresh cilantro, salsa, fish, and regret.
Art frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. Only two tacos? I wanted more than that.”
“You didn’t say how many,” the genie smirked. “You said some tacos. One is a taco. Two qualify as some tacos, plural.” He handed the plate to Art.
“That’s not fair,” Art protested. “You should have given me more.”
“I gave you some tacos, just what you asked for. If you wanted more than two, you should have said so. I told you to choose wisely.”
Art ate the tacos as the genie looked on smugly, his arms folded across his chest. They were very good, he admitted, but not nearly enough. He was still hungry and wanted something more.
“You ripped me off,” Art mumbled, “but I get two more wishes, right?”
“Correct,” said the genie. “Choose wisely.”
Alrighty then, for my second wish, I want a giant overflowing chocolate fountain, here and now!”
“As you wish, master.” The genie clapped his hands, and a ten-foot high gurgling monument of chocolate goodness that reached to the ceiling erupted in his living room, filling the basin and spilling onto the floor in a pool around his feet.
“No, no, no!” Art shouted. “What’s wrong with you? I meant in my kitchen. Why did you do it here?”
“You clearly said you wanted a giant overflowing chocolate fountain, here and now. I granted your wish, exactly as you asked, master.
“Well, it’s too big, and a horrible gooey mess,” moaned Art. “Clean it up. I don’t want this.”
“That will require your third and last wish. Are you sure you want to do this? Choose wisely.”
“No!” yelled Art, exasperated. “Sheesh, I’ll clean it myself. You are a poor excuse for a genie.”
He walked into the kitchen, his shoes wet and sticky, tracking chocolate all over the floor. He retrieved a sponge, mop, and bucket from the cleaning closet and filled the bucket with water.
He returned to the living room, items in hand. The genie stood there as silent and still as a statue, his arms still folded across his chest. “Can you help me?” Art asked. “Please?”
“I can only grant you wishes and nothing more, master.”
Art rolled his eyes. It took 30 minutes of sponging and mopping to clean up the brown liquid on the floor. When he was finally done, he realized he hadn’t yet tried one drop of the chocolate. He dipped his finger into the basin to taste it for the first time. Mmmm, not bad! He would enjoy this later, and there was still plenty left. At least not all of his second wish would be wasted.
He glared at the impassive genie still standing silent, his eyes fixed on Art. “You have one remaining wish, master. Choose wisely.”
Art knew he had to do better than the first two. Something altruistic, maybe, like world peace? Solving climate change? Ending hunger? Finding a cure for cancer?”
“Yeah…no…what am I thinking?” he snorted as a better idea crossed his mind. Yes, that’s it. A wish so good and simple that the genie could not possibly spoil it this time. Art winked at the genie. “My third wish,” he declared, “is to have a million more wishes!”
The genie’s stoic expression shifted to something akin to amusement. “Normally, it is not permitted,” the genie laughed. But I feel pity for you, and I will grant my master this third and final wish.”
With theatrical flourish, he waved his hands in broad sweeps and circles like the ringmaster in a circus, then snapped his fingers one last time and disappeared in a puff of blue smoke.
Art heard a click and a whir behind him; he turned to see a torrent of paper gushing from the lamp. He gasped, astonished and dismayed, as thousands of sheets of paper quickly covered the furniture, chocolate fountain, and entire living room wall to wall, stacking about three feet thick in haphazard piles. “What did you do!” he screamed in frustration, but the genie was gone.
He swallowed a lump in his throat as he picked up a sheet for a closer look.
Oh no.
On each page, written in elegant calligraphy, was a single word: “WISH.” He looked at another, and another, and another. The same word on every sheet. One million freaking wishes.
He sighed, overcome with disappointment. Once again, the genie had given him exactly what he wished for, in the most literal and utterly useless way possible.
