Three Wishes

Furman Bentley awoke in a foul mood, an emotional state more common than not.

“Deadlines… deadlines, deadlines…!”

A popular author, Furman resented his editor’s incessant prodding him to excellence. Harley Houston, of Houston, Farley and Plum was his editor and publisher.

Their phone conversations usually ended abruptly. Furman would tell Harley, “I’m always excellent. I don’t submit until it’s perfect. You only make changes to justify your pay.”

For emphasis, almost his signature, he’d slam his phone down. Preserving the freedom to slam phones at will, Furman refused to get a cell phone. He strongly believed in the value of well-placed punctuation.

“Technology sucks the life out of everything. AI, my apps…”

He made his way to the kitchen of his modest house. Crowded bookshelves lined the walls, including the hallway. Twenty-eight books there, featured his name as author.

No pictures adorned the walls. Libraries have more décor. Having no visitors, he saw no purpose in cluttering his home with dusty furniture. Abhorring distractions, he had neither stereo nor TV. Three rooms each had a card table, a chair, and a computer dedicated to Furman’s ongoing projects. He spent his days going from computer to computer.

His kitchen had the bare essentials. Furman drank coffee from his single mug.  He used his one plate when sitting for lunch.

“Why clutter up a drawer with unused cutlery? I only use a fork, a knife and a spoon. So…”

Furman liked it quiet. But alone or not, Furman spoke his thoughts aloud. He rarely heard backtalk.

He had no pets. “Pets are noisy. Always demanding something.”

Books filled his static, predictable world. Having no relationships, he had no photos. Furman could always count on words. People? Not so much.

That morning, he muttered about the previous day’s editorial notes Harley had sent. He vehemently rejected Harley’s take on his main character, Bruno.

“Does that meddling fool suspect Bruno’s based on him? Hope so.”

Responding to a knock, he saw no one through the peep hole. Opening the door, he saw an unmarked envelope lying on the stoop.

“Hmm… Early for Valentine’s Day…”

Holding it to the light revealed nothing suspicious. In writing mode and wanting no distractions, Furman set the unopened envelope on the kitchen table. After several minutes of futilely plugging away on his computer, he gave up. Curiosity had disrupted his normal flow. The envelope’s contents nagged him into submission.

He slapped the table and went to the kitchen to see what this secret admirer wrote.

Furman tore the envelope open to reveal an unsigned, typewritten message on a slip of paper. It read, ‘Notice: Your worst enemy has been granted three wishes. You have been named. Prepare.’

Dropping the paper as if it were aflame, it fluttered to the floor.

Furman said, “Harley…”

He shouted while walking to the phone, “How dare you… Want to jerk my chain, you idiot? Don’t pull some tattered trope from a threadbare fairytale.”

Furious, he dialed his editor.

The call went straight to voicemail. He slammed the phone down.

“This is personal.”

He paced from room to room. “Why? Why? I make him so much money. He owes me. And this is what I get? Three wishes…? I’ll give him three wishes… Got a ton…”

Furman wasn’t the type to worry about granted wishes; how many or by whom.

“Unicorns eat them for breakfast…”

 Fantasy was not his genre. And superstition was just silly.

“But what if it’s true…?”

While Furman drove to the H. F. & P. offices, he catalogued the tortures Harley might wish upon him.

“Well, pain, to start with. But Harley’s more specific. Such a nitpicker.”

He listed everything that would destroy his career. The loss of his sight, imagination, or his acute mastery of dialogue topped the list. Losing any would end it all. Furman felt sweat dampening his clothes. 

“Isolation? Bring it on. Please…! That would be a blessing.”

Furman realized every career ending tragedy he suffered would also reduce Harley’s income. “Why’s he doing this? He may be stupid, but he’s not crazy.”

He parked, walked in and took the elevator and found Harley’s office. The secretary looked up. He watched her stifle a yawn.

“Furman Bentley… I need to speak with Harley. Now.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She looked at her schedule book.

“Calling only got me his voicemail. We need to talk, in person.”

“Mr. Houston is not presently available. Would you like to make an appointment? Uhm…I have…”

“If he’s not available, why ask if I have an appointment?” It took everything Furman had not to lunge across the twit’s desk.

“What does this concern…? Perhaps someone else can help you?”

“I received a veiled threat.” Searching his pockets Furman realized he’d left it at home. “Harley’s planning to use three wishes against me. After all I’ve done for this fleabag company…”

The secretary made a note.

He gained velocity. “Where did he get these wishes? Is he using them all on me? Who else will he curse? I’m a best-selling author. Why me? I need answers. Where’s Harley?”

The secretary said, “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Would you like to talk to Mr. Plum?”

“Mr. Plum can’t answer my questions.”

Her phone buzzed and she picked up. She nodded, hung up and said, “Excuse me a moment.”

She left the reception area. Furman looked at her planner and saw Harley had gone to his cabin, up north.

“Long weekend while you ruin my life, eh. We’ll see...”

Furman left. The elevator opened and another writer stepped out. He looked familiar.

“Bruce? Bruce Clark?”

The man looked up. “Uhm… yeah.”

Furman introduced himself. “You looking for Harley?” Bruce nodded. “I’m going to see him. Want to ride along?”

Bruce nodded. They hit the highway into the mountains. He’d gone to Harley’s cabin years ago, when he first signed with H. F. & P.

“I’ll find it.”

Bruce didn’t act as if he knew where he was. They drove in silence. Since he thought out loud, Furman found this awkward.

Furman said, “Harley’s communing with hobbits while we dispute about my style. You need to talk business with him?”

After a pause lasting for miles, Bruce mumbled, “He has some wishes for me. I hope to resolve them amicably.”

“Harley has wishes? For mutual success, right?”

“I spoke to Virginia. She left town in a panic.”

“Virginia Luna? She has a problem?”

“All I know… She only said, ‘If wishes were fishes…’ She wanted to see the ocean while she still could.”

“Sounds serious. Should all stick together, don’t you think?”

After a long pause, Bruce said, “Actually… maybe it’s better…. You don’t want to be there when I meet Harley. Don’t have high hopes for the outcome. Don’t want to get hit by lightning, or…”

“Thanks, Bruce. Appreciate that. How about we present a united front…?”

“You mind pulling over…?”

“Middle of nowhere… Think there’s a gas station up ahead…”

Bruce pointed to a turnout. “Right there is fine. Let me out.”

Furman pulled over. Bruce bolted from the car before it stopped rolling.

“Bruce! Wait! Hear me out…”

Bruce was gone. Furman got out and yelled for him. His voice echoed off the cliffs.

“What’d I get myself into? What’s Harley doing? What can I do against three wishes…?”

Furman continued driving up the winding mountain road.

“Once I get there, then what? What’ll happen when that putz calls in his wishes?”

“What’s this going to come to? So, every wayward comma triggers a crisis. Verb tenses stress me out, okay? Get a life, Harley. Get out of my life! Gotta be another way…”

The road led to a series of switchbacks. Traffic slowed.

“I hate distractions. I have a novel to write.”

Furman always had three books in progress. He’d outline one, flesh out the second and polish the third. Why meddle with success?

“What would my characters do with a jerk like Harley? Hmm… Jane would step away, change gears, hit reverse, start over and not look back. I can’t do that.”

Gunning his engine, he passed a truck. He swerved to avoid an oncoming car. Horns honked.

“Griffith would find a way to turn it around. If he went blind… he’d become a story busker, or something. He’d never give up.”

An hour later, Furman had another novel incubating. “But what will Harley do?”

It was twilight when he pulled up before Harley’s remote cabin. Warm light shone from the window onto glistening pine needles. Smoke poured from the chimney.

He killed the engine and pondered. “Now what? I’ve got nothing. No one knows I’m here. Is this my last hour?”

Standing on the front porch, Harley waved him in.

“Here goes nothing…”

Furman got out of his car. They looked at each other. Neither knew what to expect.

Harley said, “You don’t even like talking by phone. And you drove here? Something serious?”

Furman stepped onto the porch and nodded at his editor. “Let’s talk.”

They entered and Furman sat by the fireplace. He enjoyed the warmth and the hiss and snap of the flames. It smelled good.

Harley brought him a beer. “What’s up? This about my notes?”

“I know all about your… three wishes…”

“My what?”

“Got a threatening note this morning, saying you’re planning to use three wishes against me.”

“Three wishes? Am I your evil stepmom…? Oh… Pitching your next project?”

“Who are you, Harley, to make veiled threats? We have a contract. Hiding behind wishes, witches or omens in the sky doesn’t change that. I’m not your dog to kick.”

Buying time, Harley got two more beers.

He said, “I agree with you, in principle. But have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The note, Harley. Why are you wreaking havoc with my life?”

“This letter named me?”

“Yes… it pointed to you, unambiguously.”

“But what did it say?”

Furman sighed and made air quotes. “That my worst enemy had three wishes to use…”

Harley scoffed. “Wait. Wait… I’m your worst enemy? Furman…”

“You’re my only enemy. I don’t know anyone else. You persecute me over every jot and tittle. You won’t admit you’re my nemesis?”

Harley held up his hands. “Just doing my job, man… This is the first I’ve heard about anyone’s wishes. Sure, we butt heads on occasion. Comes with the territory… But don’t call us enemies.”

Furman said, “I’m so angry now, I wish you weren’t my publisher.”

Harley balked. This was unexpected. He sighed, realizing where Furman was headed.

He said, “That’s one wish. Any others you want to spend on me? Happy to oblige.”

He reached to his desk and picked up papers looking like a contract. He nodded to Furman and ripped it in two.

Furman said, “What are you talking about?”

“You said three wishes. Right?”

“Yeah, I also said, my worst enemy, you, has them. And I would be the victim of your wrath.”

Harley laughed. “You may have misread whatever you got, Furman. You know I’ve always said you were your own worst enemy.”

Furman’s mind went blank as Harley’s statement sunk in. Everything – the world shifted on its axis. Short of breath, his throat constricted.

He searched for words. The right ones. As always, each one counted. He shut his eyes. Every muscle tensed.

Forcing the words out, his face turned scarlet. Huskily, almost whispering, “I wish we got along better.”

Harley nodded. “That’s two. Also doable. Listen to my advice. You’re talented. Do what you do best. Let me do the same… Each an expert in our field.”

Furman’s breathing settled. Maybe this wasn’t the end.

He looked Harley in the eye, “And… I wish you were my editor again.”

Harley smiled. “Done.”

Smiling, Harley stood and offered his hand to shake. Furman took it in both his hands. It felt like some alchemy had transformed everything.

Harley said, “Too late to drive back down tonight. Hungry?”

Furman looked about. “Sure. How can I help?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My dog’s out back. Harvey… He’s hungry. Food’s over there. Handle that for me?”

Furman nodded. “Harley and Harvey… Creative.” They laughed. Furman figured out the routine and set the dog’s food onto the floor. Harvey greeted Furman like an old friend. The dog wiggled around, whined and licked Furman’s face. Both men laughed.

Harley served dinner.

“Great food, Harley. Thanks for the invite. Harvey’s a good dog... Harvey… Never thought about it. Maybe I should get a dog.”