Careful what you wish for II or The Perfect Cup

OK, I’ll just cut right to the chase. I found a magic glass ball buried at the beach. I was out with my metal detector, a new hobby designed to get me out of my apartment more, looking for any old junk that might have washed up when I found it. But this story isn’t about the finding, it’s about the what happened after I found it and cracked it open.

Now you may sort of recognize me. I recently had a bad experience…well, mostly bad…where I was dabbling in some weird ancient mystical crap that I had found online. I had been searching for inspiration in the form of a muse for a new story, but succeeded instead in creating a sort of an alternate ego of mine, almost a Stephen King ‘The Dark Half’ kind of split personality, although I don’t believe mine ever managed to take actual physical form and kill anybody. Not that she didn’t try really hard and threaten to do just that. To me! She was supposed to be helping me become a better writer, but sort of got off on a few tangents. Long story short, after she nearly managed to take over my life, we came to an understanding, inside the confines of my head, and my therapist tells me that I am doing much better now. I’m paying her a lot of money, so I try to believe the things she tells me.

And to prove that I have my emotionally charged other half in check, I promise that there will be no singing or lyrics found creeping into this tale.

I say that the experience was only mostly negative because some good did come from it. Even though I came off less than favorable in her portrayal of me, her descriptions did have a certain level of accuracy. Under our agreement, I am now a slightly more outgoing person than I was previously, though still an extreme introvert by most conventional standards.

The old me would never have set foot on that beach.

Anyway, back to the glass ball. It was buried half in the sand and covered by a mound of seaweed, or kelp, or whatever those long, thick plants are that end up piled in clumps along the Oregon coast. I almost ignored the frantic squeal from the detector in my ear rather than disturb the decaying mound of sea plants. But something prodded me to dig a bit, and it didn’t end up taking much effort to uncover the ball. Made of greenish colored glass, about 4 inches diameter, it had a coarse, rusty wire netting wrapped around it, which was what had set off the metal detector or I never would have found it. After searching the internet that night, turns out it was a Japanese fishing float, or at least a replica if not an original.

I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it was definitely cool looking and worth keeping, so I dropped it in the goody bag I had tied to my belt, along with the other less interesting findings I had unearthed that afternoon, and spent another couple uneventful hours out on the sand before calling it a day and heading back to my apartment.

Looking over my haul of lost keys, miscellaneous hair barrettes and just odd hunks of metal, the glass ball qualified as my obvious prize of the day. I remember placing it on a towel in the middle of my little kitchen table, not wanting to get sand and bits of rust everywhere. I stared at it while I ate a late dinner, finally looked up what it was on the internet, then went to bed.

Now, I am one of those people who the phrase ‘worthless until I’ve had my morning coffee’ fits beyond comparison. Next morning, as I blearily staggered toward my Keurig on the kitchen counter, I noticed that the Japanese fishing float, left last night nearly dead center of my little kitchen table, was now distinctly and obviously lying much closer to the edge, and off its towel, if further proof was needed that it had moved or been moved. No other living things are known to inhabit my living space, be they cat, dog or even unwanted household pests. So short of me sleepwalking, nothing should have been lurking about in the apartment after I went to sleep that could reasonably account for or be blamed for moving the float.

All this thought and reasoning came after the fact. I say I noticed this situation, but pre-morning coffee, it didn’t register with much significance at the time. Blindly continuing with my coffee routine, I popped in a pod of dark roast and waited my usual impatient minute plus for my elixir of life to finish, gauging progress by the familiar drip, splash and gurgling machinations of the Keurig.

Since its going to come up sooner or later here, I’ll get it out of the way now. I am a bit of a coffee snob, as well as having a distinct set of coffee quirks and habits that I try to abide by. To say that I love a good cup of coffee is a bit of an understatement. Bean varieties are a part of it, but I am more of a method gal. I have searched, researched and experimented repeatedly for the perfect method for creating the perfect cup, relying on various apparatus, from an assortment of grinders to French presses, stovetop Moka pots, and toddy cold brewers. They all have their plusses and minuses, and all have their time and place for my consumption.

But first thing in the morning, I simply crave hot, fast and sufficiently caffeinated. The first cup, I don’t even bother with cream or sugar, and have even developed a tolerance for consuming it at a temperature that a lesser mortal might still consider lawsuit worthy if it had been served through a fast food drive-thru.

It was in the midst of this typical morning condition and routine that I turned and bumped sleepily into my table. I had swallowed only my first sip, so I was barely coherent enough to watch as my newly found green glass treasure began rolling, taking only a scant bit of seconds to traverse those last few inches to the edge. It silently tipped over, seemed to balance there in midair for a moment as if to call to me, ’take a last good look because I’m about to be reduced to a shattered mess of green shards’, and disappeared off the far edge, followed by a barely audible tink as it met with the hardwood floor and cracked.

Keeping my priorities in line, I took a larger slug of caffeinated wakeup before attempting any investigation or cleanup of the damage. In those few moments, a misty cloud of streaming vapor arose on the far side of the table from the spot where the float had fallen. White and wispy, the cloud didn’t disperse through the room, but seemed to coalesce into a sort of billowy flattened oval, vaguely reminiscent of a head shape.

Keeping up a steady stream of sips and gulps from my favorite mug, I expected to fully awaken at any moment, or stop hallucinating at the very least. Instead, a noticeable crease began to form near the bottom of the floating head shape, right about where a mouth would be. No other features formed, but the slit continued to grow more distinct, until it parted and bellowed in a deep bass voice,

‘WWWISHSHSH!’

No introduction, no preface, just ‘Wish’.

Even though I had heard the single syllable clearly, in my slowly improving but still drowsy state, my response was less than eloquent.

“Huh?”

‘WWISHH!’, came the reply.

This had all the makings of a truly riveting conversation.

Had I been more awake, this is the point where I would have likely run screaming from my kitchen and hid under my bed until someone came looking for me or I starved.

"Are you trying to grant me a wish?”

‘WWWISHH.’

“Are you some kind of genie? Jinn?”

“Wwishh.”

“Is that ‘wish’ singular, like only one?

“Wish.”

I felt like I was losing him, but to be fair, he wasn’t really holding up his end. This was no big blue cartoon version of Robin Williams, or even Will Smith or Barbara Eden for that matter. This was a cloud with a mouth, and a one-word vocabulary. 

Now I am a big fan of all things horror, fantasy and sci-fi, and just plain weird shows and books, even though they easily and frequently scare the hell out of me, so I recognized this story and where it was likely headed, at least the versions where everything always goes to shit, no matter how carefully you phrase your wishes. From Twilight Zone to X-Files, and I’m pretty sure a Tales from the Crypt thrown in as well, the wishers never do better than breaking even in the end, and usually end up royally screwed.

And I knew the main cardinal rule of wish granting, other than no take-backsies without burning a subsequent wish, but had to ask anyway, even knowing that cloud face would undoubtedly do no better than his previous one-word replies.

“I guess I can’t wish for more wishes?”

It may have been just my imagination, but I swear the swirling ball of mist floating above my table formed a pair of eyes and eyebrows, just so he could arch the latter and roll the former in his cloudy version of derision.

I still wanted more information, but it was quickly becoming apparent that was not going to be forthcoming in any meaningful way.

Admitting defeat, I mentally switched from examining my situation to maximizing my opportunity, keeping in mind the minimizing getting screwed part.

I could wish for money.

I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, but it seemed the most straight forward wish, which also made it the most fraught with unseen opportunities to have it turned against me.

OK, not money. How about happiness? But how would I know the wish was granted. Would I start walking around with a big, dumb grin on my face?

Happiness was out too. I needed something tangible, something I could wrap my hands around and know that I had asked for it and it had been granted to me. What could I wish for, what had I always wanted that was a safe bet to turn out at least minimally advantageous?

The answer, of course, conveniently sat on the table right in front of me, recently emptied and briefly abandoned until the need for it arose again.

My favorite, well-used mug, an odd shade of green, with a few chips on the handle and one big one on the base.

I picked up the mug and wrapped my fingers around it, holding it in both hands, feeling the residual warmth from my first cup of the day, and I knew then what I would wish for, without a doubt.

“The perfect cup”, I whispered.

“BUT THAT’S NOT MY WISH!” I shouted at the cloud, realizing I had spoken my thought out loud. “I didn’t say final answer, or take my fingers off it like if we were playing chess, or whatever I’m supposed to do to let you know I mean business and have made up my mind. No final answer yet.”

Cloud head simply hovered.

“OK, I’m just thinking out loud here, not actually wishing. I could wish for, what, the perfect cup of coffee, but I drink that and its done. And what is the perfect cup?”

“The perfect cup, to my standards and liking…no, to my liking and desire at that moment…whenever I want one, or better yet, always there and ready in my cup, at the perfect temperature and taste, never getting old, cold or moldy, or anything bad. I could wish for the perfect cup of coffee always available whenever I pick up this mug, based on whatever I wanted at that moment.”

Was that it? Was that what I really wanted?

So that was what I wished for. Almost before the words were out of my mouth, my mug started miraculously to fill. I sat down, leaned in and watched as light brown delight slowly bubbled up like a tiny spring, the aroma alone setting my mouth to watering. When it was done, I stared at in awe, dying with anticipation to taste perfection, but equally afraid to even touch the wondrous item that my simple coffee mug had suddenly been transformed into. Should I really drink magic coffee? Was it safe?

A little voice in the back of my head spoke up, whispering loudly, ’drink the damn coffee, candy-ass’. Another part of our agreement, she got one of those a day that I wasn’t supposed to argue with.

The mug was the perfect temperature in my hands, the color the perfect shade of tan for the optimum amount of crème. I had no doubt the sugar would be equally perfect.

My first sip – java nirvana!

My life has been golden ever sense.

I bought a used food trailer and opened a roadside coffee shop; Minerva’s Magic Mudd. I hung the glass float over the counter, as decoration and as a reminder of how I got here. Somewhere along the way, the crack disappeared, along with Smoky Joe. How did I serve other people coffee with only one magic mug, you might ask. Simple. I found a large urn, all copper and kinda cool looking, then rigged it so my mug is suspended inside. A handle coming though the side of it extends even further through the side of the trailer. People come up, ask for the coffee of their choice while holding the handle, then turn it to dump the mug into the bottom of the urn. Most people think it just all gimmicky and goofy, but all agree it’s the best coffee they’ve ever had, so no complaints on the presentation.

I’ve made a small fortune out of it, so much that I’ve had to hire security to keep those waiting inline, well, in line.

A year-to-the-day since my wish had changed my life, I was closing up the trailer for the afternoon. I said goodnight to the last of the security team, Robert I think his name was, as he was leaving. He waved, went and got into his truck, and proceeded to back into the hitch of the trailer. It wasn’t much, really just a little jostle that I would have forgotten about two minutes after it happened if it hadn’t knocked the glass float loose. The nail that held it over the counter pulled clean out of the wooden edging, sending the ball once more on a quick journey ending with it meeting its fate when it hit the floor.

Robert kept going, hadn’t even realized anything had happened, so he didn’t see the cloud billowing up from the floor of my little coffee trailer. In no time, there he was again, cloud face, in all his misty glory.

I watched in fascination as the slit of his mouth began to form. The déjà vu was palpable. Was I to be granted another wish? Was this going to be an annual event? The possibilities were flying through my head when cloud face’s mouth split and he announced:

‘Restitution.’

“Beg pardon?” I replied.

‘Restitution’, he repeated.

No dramatic enhancement or any such nonsense this time. Guess he wanted to make sure I got the message, clear and plain.

Still a pessimist at heart, I had anticipated something like this since the first magic cup of mud. Or rather, my alternate ego had. (No, I do not actually have a split personality disorder, or other serious mental problem. This is just the way I have adapted to dealing with certain situations).

I (or my alternate ego, if you prefer) devised an emergency kit that I had assembled and kept close at hand in the corner of the trailer, consisting of a heavy plastic lined garbage can, a large Tupperware container and a roll of quality duct tape. As nonchalantly as I could, I retrieved my kit, acting as if I was just planning to continue to clean up and close for the day. Instead, I rushed the floating menace with the garbage can, pulling it down around his smoky ears and trapping him in the plastic bag. Using the duct tape, I first twisted the bag tightly closed, then taped it shut. For good measure, I stuffed the bag into the Tupperware and used over half the roll of duct tape to seal it closed as best that I could.

  Normally I would never think of disposing of anything in the river, but I made an exception here. I drove my captive down to the Columbia and chucked it in, setting him to drift who knows where, and relying on fate to banish him from my life for good.

I never opened the trailer again. My magic mug continued to work sporadically for a few weeks, before it finally died completely. I didn’t dare sell it anymore, but I still drank it. The coffee never tasted as good, but it was still free, and it helped me to ween myself off the good stuff.

I have no regrets. I knew better than to wish for health, wealth or world peace. That last one was the one that got Mulder on the X-Files.

It was great while it lasted, I haven’t heard about any strange happenings on the news that might be related back to some unfortunate schmuck finding cloud face, and I still have most of the money I made over the last year.

Maybe I’ll just return to writing. First thing will be to think up a better ending for this story.