by Jacob Yaple

I could smell the man before I saw him. That’s how I knew he was no good. In the public library where I worked, you could always tell the homeless guys by their smell. It was the stench of body fluids released in a public place under the cover of darkness, the smell of rotten sweat, ground-in dirt, and guzzled alcohol. I knew they couldn’t help the way they smelled, but homeless people were unpredictable. There was no way to tell whether they’d sit quietly or have a violent outburst. 

I heard the man’s footsteps approaching the bus stop bench where I sat. I focused harder on the book I was reading and hoped he wouldn’t ask me for a handout. It was late at night and I was too tired to try walking home. 

He sat down on the bench, and I slid to the far end, squinting furiously at my book by the scant illumination of the streetlight. I tried to take shallow breaths, but I couldn’t help noticing that the man’s funk was personalized by the strong smell of something burning. And I don’t mean a cigarette, either: even a cheap cigar would have smelled like roses compared to this. 

“Hello, Friend.” 

I winced at the sound of his voice. It was oily and smooth, a voice like the hissing of a snake. He was going to ask for a handout. I huddled against the arm of the bench and concentrated on my book. 

“Can I ask you something?” the man said. 

I kept perfectly still. 

“If you could wish for anything in the world, anything at all, what would you wish for?” 

I ignored him, straining closer to my book under the increasingly weak rays of the streetlight. It was probably about to blow a fuse. 

The oily voice continued. “Maybe you’d wish for light to read by.” 

Just as he said this, the light brightened suddenly, as if undergoing a final surge of power before going out completely. But instead of going out, the light got brighter. It kept brightening until I felt I was under a spotlight on a theatre stage. The shadow of my head on the page in front of me darkened and the edges became razor sharp. I looked up at the street lamp and had to shield my eyes from the glare. 

“Oh, too bright?” said the man. 

I finally put aside my book and turned to look at him. I was amazed to discover that he was a clean-shaven, well-groomed man in a business suit. His dark hair was parted neatly on the left, and he wore a dark colored, conservative tie. A black leather attache case sat on the bench beside him. 

The man snapped his fingers and the light dimmed just enough so my eyes stopped watering. The pattern of shadows on his face shifted to reveal a friendly grin. 

“Ah, got your attention with that, I see.” 

The man was an amateur magician, I decided. Probably the streetlight did that at the same time every night; I wouldn’t know, I was usually safe at home this time of night. But the library had needed extra help, so I had stayed late tonight. Extra pay was extra pay, after all. 

“So, what would you wish for?” the man continued. 

I decided to play along. My bus would be coming along soon, anyway, and the man looked harmless enough, despite the smell that continued to emanate from him. Probably wearing some kind of cheap cologne, I decided. 

“I don’t know what I would wish for,” I replied. 

“You like books, right?” he said, pointing at the book on the bench beside me. “Maybe you could wish for a gigantic storehouse filled with books.” 

“Nah, I’ve got that. I work in a library.” 

The man leaned back, looked up at the sky and held his palms out, as if appealing to God. “Some nuts are hard to crack,” he said to himself. He looked back at me. “I can grant any wish you make. Anything you desire, I can make it yours.” 

“Really?” I said mockingly. 

He paused and shot me an appraising glance. “There’s a price, though.” 

“Ha,” I scoffed. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re the Devil, and the price is my soul, right?” 

“Exactly,” he said with a straight face. 

The guy was a nut after all. Appearances were, as always, deceiving. I should have stuck with my original, smell-based assessment. At least he didn’t appear violent, and I could always run away if he lunged for me. All I had to do was humor him until the bus got here. 

“Okay, I’m in,” I said. “Exactly how many wishes are we talking about here?” 

“Seven,” he replied instantly, fixing me with a deadly serious gaze. He patted his briefcase and smiled. “Don’t worry, no need to sign documents or shake hands. Payment is due upon the granting of the seventh wish.” 

“Okay, let’s start right now,” I said. “Let me think.” 

“You don’t have to start right away,” he said, surprised. “Most people try to space them out over many years. Decades, even.” 

I had to think up some wishes that the man could easily grant me with his amateur sleight-of-hand. Without the wish-granting to focus on, he might think of other, more violent things that he as the Devil might do to me. 

“I’m ready now,” I said. I fished around in my pocket and came up with a pencil. The point was broken off and the eraser was worn down flat. I snapped it in half and handed the pieces to the man. 

“For my first wish, I want you to put this pencil back in one piece again.” 

The man stared at me. He held the pencil pieces limply in one hand for a moment, then spoke. “I don’t think you realize the seriousness of the deal, my friend. This wish will count as one seventh of your total wishes. In a way, you’re giving up one seventh of your soul for it. Do you really want to squander it on a pencil?” 

“Yes,” I urged. “Go ahead.” 

I watched intently as he cupped the pieces in his hands. He folded his fingers over the pieces and closed his eyes. A flash of light came from between his fingers and a puff of smoke drifted up. He opened his hands and picked up the pencil by one end as if holding a dead rat by the tail. He dropped the pencil in my lap. 

“There,” he muttered. “Satisfied?” 

I tapped the pencil against my knee. It didn’t break or even bend. I inspected the entire length of the pencil for cracks, but could find none. It was still the same pencil, though—those were my bite marks on the shaft. 

“Great,” I said. “Now could you sharpen it too?” 

The man gritted his teeth. “If you insist.” He took the pencil and inserted the point into his left ear. There was a grinding noise similar to that of an electric pencil sharpener, and a moment later he removed the pencil from his ear. The point was perfectly sharpened. 

He dropped the pencil in my lap again. “You realize that two of your wishes have been granted,” he said disdainfully, pounding the side of his head to knock the pencil shavings out of his ear. “There are only five wishes left. Choose wisely.” 

“I’m building up to the big finale, don’t worry,” I said. “This next wish will really be a challenge of your powers.” I paused dramatically. “I wish for a new eraser on this pencil.” 

“What?!” he snapped, but his glare turned to a trembling smile when he saw my serious expression. “Well, it’s your soul you’re throwing away, not mine. Wait, what am I saying—I don’t even have one!” He broke into a brief cackle of laughter, then abruptly fell silent. “Sorry,” he said. “Give me the damn pencil already.” 

I gave him the pencil, and he held it in his fist with his thumb covering the flat nubbin of the eraser. I watched carefully as he pressed down hard with his thumb, then raised it slowly to reveal, bit by bit, a brand-new eraser on the end of the pencil. The new eraser was the same pale pinkish hue as the man’s thumb. As I looked closer I thought I could see tiny ridges covering the eraser like a thumbprint. 

“Cool!” I said. “Now I can write with it again.” 

“What do you want me to do next?” he said, turning the pencil over in his hands. “Maybe smooth over these bite marks for you?” 

“No, I have something a little bigger in mind for my next wish.” I pulled a crumpled one-dollar bill out of my pocket and showed it to him. 

“Aha! Money! Now we’re getting somewhere.” He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. “So, you want me to change it into a thousand-dollar bill for you? Maybe a million-dollar bill? Wait, I know—a million million-dollar bills! That’s the ticket. Wish for that.” 

“Here’s my wish: I wish for you to turn this dollar bill—“ I paused dramatically. The man waited impatiently. “—into four quarters,” I finished. 

“WHAT!” he exploded. “I am NOT a change machine! That has to be the DUMBEST wish I have ever—“ He stopped, and glanced at me, then at the sharpened pencil in his hands. “You’re not just toying with me, are you?” he said quietly. “You have a reason for this wish, right? Tell me you have a reason. No one has toyed with me and lived, my friend.” 

“Of course I have a reason,” I sighed. “The bus ride costs a dollar and a quarter, and I only have two one-dollar bills on me. The automated fare machines don’t give change back, so I’ll have to give up the whole two dollars if I don’t have at least one quarter.” 

The man stared at me, then looked away and began counting on his fingers and muttering, “Carry the two…” 

My attempt at humoring the guy had backfired. Now he was even closer to the brink than before. To hell with it, I thought appropriately. I was tired of tiptoeing around homeless people. I really didn’t care if I pissed off Satan himself. 

“Hey!” the man said presently. “That works out to just seventy-five cents! You made a deal with the devil to save SEVENTY-FIVE FRIGGIN’ CENTS on BUS FARE?? Is your soul WORTHLESS to you, Buddy? This wish could buy you a friggin’ LIMO to ride home in! FUCK the bus! Stop thinkin’ so small, for cripe’s sake!” 

“What can I say, I’m an honest man,” I said. “I believe in earning everything I get.” 

“Well, just keep making these stupid-ass wishes and you’ll ‘earn’ yourself an eternity in Hell, Buster.” Grumbling, the man took the crumpled dollar bill. 

“This’ll require a little blood. From me, I mean,” he explained. “This is money, after all, small potatoes though it is.” He pricked his finger with the point of the pencil, and a drop of his blood fell on the dollar bill. There was a hiss like steam from a kettle, and he made a fist, crumpling up the dollar bill inside it. The hissing grew louder as tiny flames licked out from between his whitened knuckles, and plumes of smoke rose from them. 

The hissing gradually died away, and the flames and smoke disappeared. When he opened his hand again, there lay four shiny new quarters on his palm. There was no sign of the crumpled dollar bill. 

He handed me the quarters. “What next?” he asked wearily. 

I was also weary. I looked at my watch, and compared it to my bus schedule. C’mon, bus! I thought to myself. You should be here by now! Then I had an idea. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know the time, would you?” I asked the man. 

“It’s eleven thirty-five,” the man snapped angrily. “This counts as your fifth wish, Buddy. Only two more left. Better piss ‘em away fast.” 

Eleven thirty-five! That meant my watch was fast, and I still had five minutes left before the bus came. What the heck, I could kill a few more minutes with this wacko if I had to. 

I grabbed my book and stood up. “Okay,” I told him. “For my next-to-last wish, I’ll take your advice. I’ll wish for the most grandiose thing Humanity could ever imagine. Any suggestions?” 

With a greedy glint in his eye, he eagerly stood to face me. “Wish for power! Wish for love! Wish for fame! Wish for riches! Wish for all the things you want and need, for all the things you never had. Wish for things you’ve lost and could never replace. Your wish is my command, my friend.” He winked slyly. “And if this wish doesn’t work out, you can use your last wish to un-wish it.” 

“Okay,” I said. “I want to wish for something unique, that nobody has ever wished for before.” 

“Can’t be done. I’ve heard every wish that can be wished by humans, my friend. Everybody wants something.” 

I made up my mind. “Okay, here is my wish.” I took a deep breath. The man held his breath in anticipation, his fascinated eyes fixed on my face. “I wish for a luxury that no man has ever had before. I wish to always be satisfied with the things I honestly earn for myself.” 

“Granted.” Then the man blinked and did a double-take. “What?! Satisfaction?! That’s what you wished for? What a dumb wish!” His tone turned desperate. “If you want, you can use your last wish to make yourself greedy again.” 

I turned away from him, looking down the road in the direction the bus would come from. “I don’t know,” I said distantly. “Suddenly I don’t feel like making wishes anymore.” 

“But—but—but—if you don’t make the seventh wish, I can’t grant it, and if I can’t grant it, I DON’T GET YOUR SOUL! You have BEATEN ME, you fool!” 

The streetlamp’s bulb burst with an audible POP, leaving me in darkness. I turned around. I was alone at the bus stop, with only the distant barking of a dog for company. The man had disappeared, taking my pencil with him. I didn’t mind, though. I still had my copy of Forrest Gump to read, and the passenger lights on the bus would be enough to read by. I had a dollar and four quarters in my pocket to pay the bus fare. I considered myself lucky. 

Finally the bus came into view, but without the streetlight on, it was too dark for the driver to see me. I waited obediently by the curb, but the bus blasted by me without even a tap on the brakes. 

So I ended up walking home anyway. That was okay; I was satisfied with my lot, even when I had bad luck. 

Somehow I’d muddle through. 

Jacob Yaple lives in Rochester, New York and is a page at the Rochester Public Library. To ward off the devil, Mr. Yaple always carries a broken pencil and two one-dollar bills. His watch is always five minutes fast.