It was week seven of the shutdown, and I was busy "working." That is to say, I had logged onto my computer that morning and spent about an hour and a half doing as much work as I would have in an entire day at the office, then set my out-of-office status to "on a conference call."
So far I'd spent a solid 45 minutes in the shower, read half a novel, and now I was picking through the contents of the "mystery collectible antiques" box I had picked up at the local antique store the week before.
Hey, it was a hobby.
The box was wood, and bound with heavy brass straps and carried by a pair of leather handles. It had a lock, which was broken; and the "mystery collectible antiques" were even more useless than I'd come to expect from old Silas, the proprietor. It was all crap-- little knickknacks like you would find in a box of crackerjacks.
Only, of course; none of the old, valuable collector's item-stuff. Bullshit from the 90's, it looked like. I sighed and tossed aside the last item-- a temporary tattoo with a copyright date of 2015. Silas was really not bringing his "A" game, but at least the box was cool.
I touched the smooth, satiny green lining of the box and squinted. Huh... it looked like there was a pocket. I reached in and found a yellowing card printed on what felt like heavy paper or light cardboard.
Printed in the middle in browning-black ink, was the name "Ishmael," above the words "Services rendered, goods provided." I flipped it over, looking for more information, and saw spidery cursive handwriting. I squinted, reading them slowly aloud while I cursed my modern education.
"Ask and ye shall receive?" I laughed. Maybe this was Silas's idea of a joke? I flipped the card over again. "And who the fuck is Ishmael?"
A deep voice chuckled, and my head snapped up. A man was standing in the middle of my room. He was short, muscular, and wore a neatly trimmed black beard. He wore boots, a pair of battered grayish denim pants, and a blue shirt without a collar.
"That'd be me, my boy." My mouth dropped open.
"What the fuck?"
He laughed again. "I get that a lot. Anyway, what can I do for your this fine--" he hesitated. "June day, in the year of 2020?"
"How did you get in my house? Who the fuck are you?"
He rolled his eyes, giving a deeply exhausted sigh. "Every year, you people get more incredulous. Let me cut to the chase. My name is Ishmael. I am a powerful magical entity, constrained to interact with the world of flesh and physics according to certain rules. The card you hold is used to call me. The box is used to provide me with an anchor to this time and place. I grant wishes."
I set the card down, and stood up from where I sat on my bed. "You're a genie?"
He winced. Sighed. Rolled his neck. "For the purposes of your understanding, yes, I am a genie. I grant wishes because it is part of the deal. I can't enter the world just for fun, and no one would call me if all I did was hang around and drink their booze. Now. What do you want?"
