Opened Eyes

“Sorry, no can do, bud. I can’t make your book a best seller. I can’t make your parents accept you. Besides, I don’t think you’d appreciate it if I made you not gay–”

I spit my coffee out, the spurt of brownish liquid spraying out onto the beach below us. Thankfully no one was down there or it would have been awkward, but he had caught me off guard. I could already feel my face growing hot as my brow furrowed. I turned towards him, teeth gritted, my eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head.

Who the hell does this wannabe genie from a dime-store comic book convention…

I cut him off mid-speech with a swift wave of my hand. To his credit, he looked like he wasn’t understanding what was going on. His mouth was agape, eyes half open, one eye kind of squinting as if he was going to ask a question. I didn’t let him get another word out.

“Now hold on, you ass, I never wished for that! I am proud of who I am, and I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks!” I say, glaring at him. “Besides, this is 2025, not the dark ages. Gay people are accepted, asshole! I mean, not that it's anyone's business who I date! And my parents don’t talk to me because I chose to write for a living, not because of who I choose to date!”

He froze, his eyes went wide and his ears turned an interestingly dark shade of red. He touched his forehead, scratched the back of his neck and turned to me. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as if he was going to start to say something, then hesitated. I was of a mind to simply throw his damn book in the ocean and walk away, curse or no curse.

“Gosh, I am very sorry, bud. I thought you meant your parents disowned you because they didn’t approve of you being gay.” He said, sputtering. “I really am very sorry, it's been a while since I’ve been…let’s say consulted, you see.” He stammered, tugging on the brim of his beige fedora cap. Sweat was running down his cheeks into his scraggly grey beard, his too big eyes in his narrow, homely face seemed to grow even larger as his bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead. He looked so comically embarrassed, I had to laugh. I don’t know why, but any anger I felt seemed to melt away.

It must be the beautiful weather. I think, taking in a deep breath of the wonderful ocean breeze.

“It’s ok. I get it, old man. But, you know, next time don’t make assumptions, ok?” I say, turning back to lean on the railing, looking out at the beach as the ocean waves beat against the sand. I loved the way the breeze came in off the ocean at this time of day.

“So if you can’t make my book a best seller, and you can’t make my parents accept that I write...” I say, giving him a little side-eye to emphasize the word. I pause for a second.

Come to think of it, how’d he know I’m gay? Not that I do labels, I date who I date, but…well, maybe he really is some kind of mystical being? I think, shaking it off as I notice him turning to lean on the rail with a blank expression on his face, seemingly lost in thought.

”I mean, you can’t make them happy for me that I’m a writer. Then what the hell did that old lady at the bookstore mean when she gave me your book and said you could grant my wishes? I mean, I thought it was a self-help book at first, and then I thought it was a joke, but when you came walking up behind me after I read that first line…” I said, looking over at the erstwhile genie summoned by the book.

I’d been given the small book by an old woman at a bookstore I’d gone to earlier. I was only there to check on my recently published book. It’s my first publication after all. She was apparently the owner of the cute little boutique store. She’d said she thought I looked down and gave me the book for free.

In hindsight, as a writer, I should probably have seen that for the monkey’s paw trope it was. I’m probably even more cursed now. I think with a sigh, sipping my coffee.

Probably going to be my last publication if nothing changes. It’s been on the shelves a month and still close to no sales at all. All of five people came to my book release, one of them thought I was someone else. I can’t believe I sunk all of my savings into publication. I wasn’t expecting a bestseller right off the bat. I know it's a niche market, but at least something. Well, maybe my dad was right.

I slumped against the railing, not expecting any answer from the old man standing next to me. I was sure it was all an elaborate prank at this point.

There’s probably some streamer, wannabe influencer hidden somewhere catching all this on video, let’s prank the no-hit wonder L.J. Simmons. Maybe my book will get some attention at least.

I noticed he was looking at me under the brim of his fedora. He certainly looked like your average old white guy in cargo shorts, unbuttoned plaid shirt, blank grey shirt underneath, wearing Birkenstocks with socks. I shuddered. The only flavor was the beige fedora with the black band, albeit the sparse white hair poking out from underneath ruined the look. He literally could be any non-descript, retired old white guy on the beach about to regale me with stories from his vigorous youth.

“Ok, bud. I’ll level with you. I’m not so much a genie as I’m what you might call the anthropological manifestation of the older, wiser man. You see, I exist as you see before you. Yet I am not as you see before you. This man is and is not, ends and begins. This very same conversation has happened countless times, through countless ages, in countless languages with countless people. I am the mentor, the wise man, the advisor. I am the ouroboros, beginning with no end, and ending with no beginning."

His voice seems to change, warbling into a deep, thick vibrato that seems to pierce my skull as if I’m standing next to a large speaker at a music concert. A piercing whistle accompanies his voice as time slows. I slap my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to drown out the booming noise. I can’t look away as he speaks. He shimmers, blurring so my vision waters. I think he’s vibrating, but as I peer closer, I realize it's more like there are many images of him overlapping themselves, spreading slightly to either side. A strange glow seems to emanate from his eyes as a crackling, eldritch light twinkles out of them. I step back, hunched over as I start to feel nauseous, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I open my mouth to scream, but he reaches out, grabbing my forearm with one thin, thickly calloused hand. He comes back into focus, into once again being just the old man on the beach. I turn to the side, heaving and retching.

“It’s alright, bud. Happens when I pull back the veil for a quick looky-loo. Give it a minute, it’ll wear off.” He says, voice back to normal. I feel his bony hand pounding my back as I lean my forearms against my thighs, breathing deeply.

I don’t know what just happened. I’m not sure how to process what I just saw. I must have had too much coffee, must be seeing things. The thoughts tumble around in my head as I stare at the cracked concrete below me. The nausea finally passes so I slowly stand up, backing away from the old man to lean against the railing behind us. My coffee seems to have disappeared until I notice it on the ground behind him.

I need to remember to pick that up. I think, for some reason, latching on to it as the most normal thing I could think of. I look up as a slight shimmering haze seems to move behind the old man. I shake my head again, rubbing my eyes.

“Feeling better bud? Right, you definitely look like the colors coming back into you, that is for sure.” He says, grinning as he stretches his arms, cracking his knuckles in front of him. I just stare at him, unsure what to say. He looks at me, a smile spread across his face.

I wonder if he’s actually smiling or if that’s some kind of mask.

“Yes, this is really my face, and I am really smiling. Like I said, this is the anthropomorphic manifestation of what I am. But it is still a manifestation, a real being in and of itself.” He says, winking at me. My face must be showing my surprise because he adds. “Yes, I can see your thoughts, at least the surface ones that are not too muddled by the noise of your brain. Anyway, that is beside the point. What I was saying earlier is that the old woman at the bookstore did not tell you that my book would grant you wishes. She said that it would help you get what you need. There is a minor difference.”

“Ok, so...look, I don’t understand what's going on and I’m...I’m not going to sit here questioning things because this is obviously either a very vivid dream or I am having a mental breakdown. I know it is not drugs, because I don’t do any. Unless I started and I just OD’d...” I say, images of myself dying in my bathtub in my shitty one-bedroom apartment flashed before my eyes.

“Its not a dream and you are not dying, bud. This is real, but deal with it how you will, others have taken much longer to deal with it, so you definitely have a strong mind.” He says, turning to lean on the railing with a grin on his face. The sun hangs low as the day slowly turns to dusk. Oranges, greys, and blues mingle in the sky, the ocean breeze flowing in off the waters has a calming effect. I breathe deep, naming things around me in my mind to ground myself, a trick my therapist taught me for when my anxiety starts taking control.

“Ok. So, if you are not a genie, why did I have to say I wish? Despite the fact that you couldn’t grant any of the wishes I made earlier. And why can’t you grant them? And if you can’t, then what the hell good are you? Anthropo-whatever you are.”

“I never said you had to say that, bud. To be honest, it was a challenge not to laugh, you looked so sincere.” He said with a chuckle, a wry grin splitting his annoying face. “No offense, mind you, now.” He winked at me while he said that.

He must know he’s irritating me now. Wait, if he can read my mind, then can he..? I think as I realize he must be rooting around in my head.

“Don’t worry, bud. I can only suggest certain things, kinda like muzak in elevators calms people down, you know?” He says, sighing as he turns back to look at the ocean.

“Well, this is all some stupid dream I’ll wake up from soon anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “So why not? If I was a critic, though, I’d say that's some pretty shoddy writing to get around gaping plot holes, if you ask me. Which I guess tracks, since this is my dream and I’m a shoddy writer.” I say with a snort, standing up to cross my arms, glancing at the old man.

“Like I said, deal with it as you will, bud. My time here is running out, so we need to be getting down to business.” He says, nodding at the horizon as if that was supposed to mean something. I hazard a guess that he only has until nightfall before he has to leave.

Either that or the hidden camera-man won’t be able to record any more. I think, not caring that he probably heard that. If he did, he doesn’t show any reaction.

“So, the answers to your questions are a bit complicated. You see, bud, it has to do with the very nature of mankind. Everyone is unique, every single one the main character in their own stories. People who study people try to lump them together, they try to make hasty generalizations to simplify and predict things. But that is just not how things work. In order to make your book a bestseller, I’d have to change a great many stories. In order to make your parents accept you, I’d have to either change their story, or yours. And I simply cannot do that, bud. Goes against the rules, you see. But, despite that, I can help you. Matter of fact, I already have. It’s just going to take a bit of time for it to kick in.” He says, turning to me, pinching the brim of his fedora as he tips his head in a little bow towards me.

“Ok, that makes no sense at all, old man. But why not? It's a dream, my dream, and like I said, a shoddy writer’s dreams have shoddy writer's plots, so why not?” I say, leaning back against the railing and staring up at the sky. The sunlight starts to wane as the sun settles in the sea, the night sky in the east rising as the day turns.

“Now, what did I say earlier? I’m an adviser. And I have not only advised you, I’ve opened your eyes.” He says, wagging his bushy eyebrows at me when I look at him with my best look of incredulity. “What did you think was happening earlier when I pulled back the veil for a little looky-loo? I was peeling back your inner eyes, bud. Letting you see more of the world as it is and then some. Maybe that’ll help you find yourself a second chance. I don’t know, the rest is up to you. It is your story, after all, bud.” He says, waving his calloused hand with a little flourish.

“Hah! Ok, old man. You mean earlier when I almost fainted from anxiety and too much coffee? I don’t feel any different. And I don’t believe in any of that inner eye bullshit, so thanks for nothing.” I say with a loud sigh. “At least tell your viewers to check out my book. Living through Time, by LJ Simmons, ok?” I say, knowing they’ll probably edit it out.

“Sure, bud. Like I said, deal with it how you will. Now, my book, if you please. Our time is up.” He says, holding out his hand.

I pull the small, ornate booklet out of my back pocket, dropping it into his large, gnarly hand.

“Here you go, mister. Thanks for an interesting, albeit useless, conversation, at least. Now I expect you’ll fade away into the night as mystical beings do? It is night time so you have to return to the spirit realm, right?” I say with a snort.

“Hahah! You crack me up, bud. No, I’ve got an Uber coming and the bookstore closes at 8. I need to get the book back to the little old woman before they close or...well, let's just say there are consequences and leave it at that, shall we?” He says with a grin. He squints as if in thought, then reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small rectangular piece of paper.

“Tell you what, bud. Give me a call sometime. You seem like a good egg. Sorry for yanking your chain with the whole...bit earlier.” He says handing it to me. I take it as he walks off towards the parking lot in the distance. Halfway there, he turns back, giving a small wave of his hand. I take a step back, bumping into the rail as I notice his eyes flash a bright orange as a white, twinkling light emanates from them for just a second.

Must be his contact’s reflecting off the sunset. I think, shaking my head. I need to stop drinking so much coffee.

I looked at the card he handed me, a heavy stock business card with only a bold name emblazoned across: Gene E. Hakim

Now, how am I supposed to contact him with just a name? I think, shoving the card in my back pocket.

I reach down to pick up my wax paper coffee cup from earlier, intending to drop it in the recycling bin on my way to my car when I notice her. A young lady riding what looked like one of those old bicycles with a huge wheel up front followed by a tiny wheel in the back. Her face was scrunched up in concentration, tongue poking out one corner of her mouth as she silently pedaled the contraption. I could see right through her to the trees behind her. She was a terrible, greenish hue, glowing in the encroaching darkness. She wore a high collared dress that looked like it was Victorian era. She didn’t seem to notice me staring as she passed, a breeze lightly tickling my bangs.

Ok, it’s time I wake up now, these tropes are killing me. I think, slowly standing up, trying my best not to gain the ghost’s attention. This is definitely a dream…