Be Careful What You Wish For

Be Careful What You Wish For

The First Day

As much as I don’t like it, I have this infallible way of knowing when to get out of bed in the morning. When I hear the big tractor trailers rumbling and roaring their way out of the warehouse across the road, I know it is time for me to get up. The first trucks leave at the same time every morning. I should know. I work in the logistics office at that same warehouse.

           I really hate the sound of those trucks. I would prefer an alarm going off next to my head to that annoying noise. But I have no choice in the matter. My house is the one I grew up in, and I cannot afford to move. I just have to put up with the disturbing consequences. There is really nothing that I can do about it..

But this morning I do not hear them, not a one. There is complete silence outside. The light was coming through the roadside window as I opened my eyes, so I realize that I have slept in. If I keep to my usual routine, I will be about half an hour late. And the boss really doesn’t like that. And he has ways of making me pay for lateness.

Now the situation is getting stranger. I still don’t hear the trucks driving by my house. Come to think of it, I don’t hear the sound of the many cars that should be out by now either. Something must definitely be wrong. 

So I go to the window.   Much to my surprise, I see cars, the usual number, and the last few of the trucks are moving out of the warehouse. Why can’t I hear them? I am not deaf. I was very aware of the much lighter sound of my naked feet making contact with the wooden floor when I went to the window. It doesn’t make sense. It is not as if my house is particularly well-insulated.

I’ll think on this later when I have the time to do so. I have to get moving and get to work fast. Dressing in a hurry, I run across the road, nearly getting picked off by a speeding car while so doing. I arrive at work more or less on time, but with no breakfast in my stomach or a coffee-fueled wakefulness in my head. The only comment I receive upon my arrival at my office is, “I hear you were out last night at The Flying Pony”. That was the local bar frequented by the people who work at the warehouse. And I had been up rather late that night, but that had no effect on my time arriving at work as far as I know. I didn’t drink myself deaf.

The Second Day

I decide not to take any chances the next morning. Whatever happened yesterday will probably happen again today. I have to make myself ready. So last night I set the alarm on my old clock radio, and placed it on the table by my bed. As it turned out, I didn’t really need it, as I woke up several times beginning very, very early. When the usual time came for the trucks to be leaving the warehouse, I ran to the window to watch for the big guys. Sure enough they appeared on schedule, as they may have done the morning before. But there was no sound coming from them that I could detect with my otherwise fully functional ears. I had turned on the radio and heard the news being read.  There is no explanation I can come up with for this selective hearing. They are just simple but strange facts with no story behind them. 

That Night

Tonight, I am going again to the Flying Pony. I definitely have a good excuse to drink on this night, not that I really need an excuse. A couple of the regulars are seated or standing by the bar. This is good, as I will have people to drink and talk about nothing important with. I won’t be thinking too much about what happened over the last two mornings. I just have to accept it with all its weirdness.

We were hitting the bottle for about an hour, when Martin showed up, another one of the regulars. I had shared a few beers with him on the evening before the first of the strange mornings.

Martin sits on the stool beside me. His first words to me are “Well, that old beggar is back. He’s out by the front door again, asking for money again.” There was a short silence, and Martin added with a smirk “Did he grant your wish?”

           At first I stare at him, not comprehending what he had said. Then I remember the old fellow. Two nights ago he sat beside the front door, dressed in a tattered old white shirt, a faded brown leather vest and gray pants that had seen much better days… and nights. He had placed his hat in front of him, hoping for people to drop coins or bills inside it. He repeated the words “Grant your wish. Grant your wish,” trying to catch our attention.

           I remember that seeing him was a bit of a shock at the time.  I was deeply engrossed in complaining to Martin about my life, especially about the loud noise of the trucks early in the morning, and how I wished that I did not have to hear them every single working morning.

           When I saw the beggar, I felt sorry for the poor guy. I remember thinking that at least I had a job, and could pay for everything I needed without having to beg for money. So I tossed a five dollar bill into his hat, and nodded to him. His only words to me as I went through the door were, “I will grant your wish,” not that I believed then that he could do so.