If Wishes were Horses, We'd Be Trampled in the Stampede

           It all began in the stereotypical fashion. I purchased an ornate, bulbous bottle at a flea market for two dollars and fifty cents, partly because I was attracted to its swirling colours, but mostly because I have trouble walking away from a vendor’s stall without buying anything. 
           When I brought it home, I had barely started wiping down the bottle when – POP! – the stopper exploded into the air like a champagne cork, bouncing off my forehead. Purplish-green smoke welled from the bottleneck, filling the room. I was still coughing when it congealed into a – a sunburned gaucho?
           I forgot all about my lacerated eyebrow.
           “Hola! Quien es usted?” I asked, drawing on my meager reserve of high school Spanish. In delicate first contact situations, it is safest to be polite.
           “Yo soy Flynn der Flaschengeist,” the gaucho replied. “Why are you speaking in Spanish? I distinctly heard you using Anglo-Saxon epithets.”
           “You look like a South American cowboy,” I said. “I was attempting to bridge our cultural gap. However, your name is Irish, your title is German, and your accent rings of Newfoundland. How should I proceed?”
           “English is fine. I’ve had over three thousand years to study languages. I’m impressed that you were able to identify my accent.”
           “I grew up in the Maritimes,” I explained. “Are you a genie, as the word Flaschengeist suggests?”
           “Indeed. I’ve been working on transcending stereotypes and becoming more culturally pluralistic, in the hope that it will make me more user-friendly.”
           “That is commendable. But I dare say that most people are unlikely to expect anything other than Disney’s conception of a genie.”
           Flynn transformed himself accordingly. “Like this?”
           I nodded.
           Flynn pouted. “But that’s so boring! Who wants to wear the same attire day after day for millennia?”
           “If it makes you feel better, feel free to go back to being a gaucho.”
           “How about this?” Flynn asked, morphing into Halle Berry.
           I drew my breath and applauded. “That’s stunning. But don’t worry about my tastes. Just take whatever shape you are comfortable in, so we can talk business.”
           Before I could blink, Flynn turned himself into a white-haired man in a three-piece suit, holding a briefcase.
           He sat down at my desk and started rummaging through the briefcase. “Let’s see – there must be a copy of the contract here somewhere.”
           “Contract?” I asked nervously. “You’re not the devil, by any chance?”
           “Not to worry. I don’t have that kind of power. This contract thing is just an attempt to avoid misinterpretation. My powers are quite limited, you see.”
           The contract was two pages long, with some fine-printed footnotes. Basically, it promised to provide me with three wishes, within the limits of the power of the provider, whom I was required to absolve from responsibility in case of misunderstandings or unforeseen consequences.
           “What are your limitations?” I asked.
           “Everything you wish must affect you directly. Your wish must be focused and specific, without compromising anyone’s free will. Don’t expect me to create anything out of thin air. All I can do is move around what already exists.”
“So – world peace is off the list?”
“That would infringe on the free will of those who profit from war.”
“How about my mother finds the perfect mate, lives happily ever after, and stops phoning me in the middle of the night?”
“I think even God would find it difficult to make that happen.”
I had just watched both versions of the movie Bedazzled the day before, so I knew how easily wishes can go wrong.
“I’m not sure I should sign this,” I said. “I might end up worse off than I am now.”
“There’s a trick to wishing,” Flynn said. “You have to consider all possible consequences.”
“That would take decades! Perhaps even a lifetime!”
“Flynn smiled. “Exactly. As long as you are considering, you are free.”
I frowned. “Surely I can come up with something more useful than that. Can I have some time to think this over?”
“Certainly,” Flynn said. He pulled an hourglass out of his briefcase and set it on the desk. “You have seven minutes.”
Rather than waste precious time, I did not argue. I pondered for approximately six minutes, forty-five seconds. Then I reached for my pen on my desk and signed on the dotted line. Flynn countersigned it with artistic whorls.
“All right,” I said. “I wish that I will always have the wisdom to know what is in my best interest.”
“Are you sure?” Flynn said. “You will have to give up a lot of your nasty little habits.”
“No, I won’t. I just have to be more creative in rationalizing them.”
“You may have trouble with that. Wisdom is a game-changer.”
“Are going to do it, or am I going to have to call the Better Business Bureau about breach of contract?”
“It’s done.”
I closed my eyes and focused inward, trying to adjust to the new attitudes that were taking up residence in my head. Flynn was right. Wisdom is a game changer.
I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I have everything I need.”
“What?”
“I don’t want something for nothing.”
“We’ve signed the contract. I have to give you three wishes. If you don’t wish now, I’ll have to follow you around and wait until you blurt out I wish, and I will have to make it happen, no matter how stupid it is”
“Hmmm,” I said. “I wish you would answer my next question truthfully.”
“And your question is?”
“Is this a dream?”
Flynn was so surprised that he morphed into Robin Williams, Ava Gardner, and Groucho Marx in rapid succession.
“Well played! Yes, it is.”
“In that case, I wish to wake up now, feeling happy and energetic.”
The bruise on my forehead is still healing. I tell people I blundered into an open door. If I ever experience another genie encounter, I will wish for a video recording