Wishing Makes It So

I try to focus, peering through the clouds drifting over the fuzzy dreamscape. “Where am I?” I ask the man on the cloud next to mine.

“This is the land of wish fulfillment,” he proclaims as his jeweled headpiece shifts.

“How did I get here?” I ask.

“You made a wish, didn’t you?” he answers.

“Am I dreaming?” If my subconscious is manufacturing this scenario, I need to make some adjustments. Surely, this man should be better looking. All the men in my dreams are gorgeous. Tall. Tanned and ripped.

“No, you are not dreaming. I’m not a figment of your limited imagination.” He sneers and rolls his eyes—one green eye and one blue eye—very distracting. And that piercing in his lower lip reminds me of the waiter at TGI Friday’s last night. That’s it. I had one too many sweet potato fries. Overindulgence explains the surreal state.

Okay, I know what’s happening here. My psyche is playing another horrid mind game. “How many wishes do I get?” I ask with a knowing smirk.

“Wishes? What do I look like? A genie in a bottle? You don’t get three wishes. You only get one wish, and you’ve already wished it.”

I feel cheated. “What did I wish?”

“Don’t you remember?” he snaps.

My nose tilts upward. I don’t like his attitude. How am I supposed to know what’s going on? Isn’t this smarmy, little twerp invading my lullaby land? He should tell me how the deal works without the fuss.

“If I remembered…” I begin my rant and stop. Right before I fell asleep, didn’t I wish I could retract those awful words I uttered so many years ago? I ponder my self-revelation, tapping my pointer finger on my chin.

“You see, you do remember. Now, I’m going to grant your wish,” he says with a hyena-like laugh. I expect him to wave a wand or blow magic dust in my face, but he doesn’t. His raucous cackling sends shivers of dread down my spine.

“Wait!” I yell.

“Not changing your mind, are you?” He growls with disgust, inspecting me as if he’s seen my type.

Hope skitters across my heart. “Can I?”

“Look, lady, I have twenty cases to oversee tonight. I don’t have time for your self-doubt. This isn’t the land of indecision. This is the land of wish fulfillment. It’s too late to take your wish back.”

“Before you do this, you should know that I didn’t know my wish would come true. I was ignorant of the process. Surely, you should cut me some slack. I am a beginner at this—”

He beams with impish delight. “Hah. Ignorance is no excuse. Wishing makes it so.”

“I wish—”

He shakes one gnarly finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah. No more wishing. One wish per customer,” he barks before I can wish him out of my dream.

My mind gropes for an exit strategy. “But I didn’t mean it. I was mad, and I spoke those words in the heat of the moment.”

“Just as you spoke those silly words on impulse so many years ago? Hum?” Condescension slithers from him and wraps around me.

“What?” I sputter, attempting to shake off his disdain.

“Don’t you remember telling your husband he should beef up like John Cena?” I wince. My conscience stings. Whatever possessed me to say such a thing? Now after years of early mornings and late nights at the gym, I want my husband to spend more time at home with me. Is that too much to ask?

I retreat from my belligerent position. Bluster will not sway this pseudo-genie to reverse my blunder. “Will this send me back in time?”

“Of course not. You should be so lucky.”

Before I can blink, I face the consequences of my impetuous wish. Reality slaps me in the face. Disbelief slams me in the gut. I awake to find my nightmare is more than a nightmare. My husband no longer resembles a pro wrestler. The man sleeping next to me looks like… Oh, wait …He is the science geek from my tenth grade biology class.

(c) Denise Moncrief 2010


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