Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard (2 page)

Michaels nodded slowly, as if he had heard that song before.
“Yeah, that’s rough. So, that’s going to affect your retirement? If you don’t
mind my asking.”

On another occasion, Paul would have found the other man’s
questions annoying, even intrusive. But replying just seemed like a polite way
to pass the time. Paul silently reminded himself that as soon as he dropped this
stranger off in Mojave, he’d never see the other man again anyway. So why not answer
a few harmless questions?

“No, I don’t mind,” Paul patiently admitted, but with a
disinterested voice. “I’m sixty-one, and my retirement plan is simple. One day,
a few years from now, they’ll find me at work, slumped over my computer keyboard,
probably from a heart attack or maybe just a stroke.”

Michaels blinked and then frowned. “That’s too bad.”

The conversation then shifted to Michaels, and during the
rest of the drive into Mojave, Paul learned that the other man had lived a hard
life. Michaels’s job had jerked him all over the country, leaving him for a few
years in each place before forcing him to move again.

“I was on my way to meet up with my wife. She’s staying with
some friends in Bakersfield. Guess I won’t get there tonight.” Michaels frowned
for a moment before continuing. “Struck it rich a couple of years ago, too,” he
bragged. “Got real lucky. My life hasn’t been what I’d call great and I’ve done
a lot of things that I’m not too proud of, but I wouldn’t change anything.”

Paul nodded absently and let the man talk. The first Mojave
off-ramp was coming up, and he carefully steered the car down the snow-encrusted
exit, angling inward to the “downtown” section of the small town.

“Shall I take you to the Texaco station?” he volunteered
helpfully. “As far as I know, they’re the only place in town with a tow truck.”

“No, I’ve had enough for today,” Michaels freely admitted,
again glancing out the window. “And from the looks of things here, they
probably aren’t open anyhow. Just take me to the Best Western. I’ll tackle the
car tomorrow.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the
display. “Yes, I’ve got four bars now, the ruddy thing.”

As the car neared the first traffic light, it cycled from
green to yellow to red—which was Paul’s typical luck when it came to traffic
lights. He grudgingly grunted and slowly braked to a stop, watching as the
light swung wildly back and forth in the wind. Except for the street lights and
some lighted Christmas decorations on the telephone poles, the small town
seemed vacant, almost deserted. At least here, it wasn’t snowing so hard.

Michaels looked at Paul thoughtfully and reached for his hip
pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

Paul had half-expected the offer, and although he was always
in need of extra money, there was no way he was going to accept any for his
having given Michaels a ride. By nature, Paul was very much a generous person.
Indeed, he deeply regretted his earlier hesitation, but he was inwardly
mollified that, when it came down to brass tacks, he had rendered the
appropriate assistance. Taking money for it now would only demean the deed,
turning it into a business transaction instead of an act of kindness.

“Nothing. Not a thing. As I said, it wasn’t even out of my
way,” Paul replied charitably and with a small shake of his head.

Michaels’s eyes seemed to twinkle in amusement at an inside
joke. “Okay. But you really have done me a good turn and been pretty nice about
it, too. So I plan to return the favor at my first opportunity.”

In response, Paul’s eyes narrowed, partly in irritation and
partly in confusion. Michaels’s statement made no particular sense to him, so he
didn’t bother to reply. It was extremely unlikely that he would ever meet Michaels
again. To be honest, Paul was already having trouble remembering the guy’s full
name.

The light turned green, and Paul resolutely drove on. A mile
farther, after being stopped by the second traffic light in town, they finally
approached the motel.

Paul nodded weakly in the direction of a long two-story
building with a large vacancy sign out in front. “Here’s the Best Western Inn.
About the finest they have in town.”

Relieved to have reached their destination, he pulled into
the parking lot near the motel’s entrance. “Let me open the trunk for you,” he
offered, grateful for the opportunity to have helped someone, but also grateful
to have the task completed and therefore shortly to be on his way home, toward a
warm meal and a comfortable bed.

“Thanks,” Michaels replied, another happy smile plastered on
his face. “I still say you look familiar to me. It’ll come to me eventually.”

It took only a few moments to recover the stranger’s bags,
though both men staggered in the gale force winds like drunken sailors. Then
Michaels shook Paul’s hand again before he turned and disappeared through the
motel lobby’s front doors. Paul never saw the man again after that. Fatigued to
the point of exhaustion, he climbed back into the warm car and headed for home.

• • • •

Upon arrival, he eased his car into the garage, allowing the
big folding door to close behind him before climbing slowly out of his vehicle.

In the kitchen, Paul snapped on the lights and wearily dug
through the freezer compartment of his refrigerator. Pulling forth a
frost-covered meatloaf dinner, he slit open the box and shoved it in the
microwave, setting the timer for several minutes. As bone-tired as he was, he
was even hungrier, not having had time to eat anything since breakfast.

Retrieving a canned soft drink from the refrigerator (root
beer, his favorite), he took the hot meal and utensils to the den, where, with
a sigh,
he contentedly dropped into his worn, but
serviceable easy chair, feeling very comfortable.

However, there wasn’t room on the coffee table for his meal,
the clutter there consisting of half a dozen science-fiction books, several
open DVD cases, various papers, the remains of a previous frozen dinner, and a small
stack of Blu-ray discs. On top of the nearest pile was the last DVD movie he
had had time to watch:
4D Man
with Robert
Lansing and Lee
Meriwether. Shoving some of the books to one side, he made room for his current
meal.

“I really should clean this place up,” he muttered unhappily
to himself. “Tomorrow. Maybe.”

As he dove into the meatloaf, he silently contemplated his
plans for the next day, Sunday. In the morning, of course, he would attend
church, as he did every week. But this Sunday would be somewhat special. His
church was holding a Christmas pageant, and what’s more, for the first time,
Minister Parsons had actually drafted him to play a part in it! A small part,
to be sure. A small, non-speaking part, to be more specific. But it was a part
nonetheless.

And since he had missed the dress rehearsal that afternoon,
it was a very good thing indeed that it was a small, non-speaking part.

Then, after church, he would come home, relax, and watch one
or two movies from his science-fiction collection as a special treat, as he did
every Sunday afternoon. It was one of the few breaks that he allowed himself.
And this week, he sorely needed the indulgence and the rest.

In one of the spare bedrooms was stored a large collection
of DVDs and Blu-ray discs, even a few VCR tapes, ranging from the 1927
Metropolis
to the latest movie releases
with thousands of other movies and TV
episodes in-between. He had seen all of them multiple times (and had whole
sections of the dialog memorized). Each and every one of them was like a
treasured old friend.

Consuming the last bite of his meal, he glanced up at the
mantel clock above the fireplace. The time was 1:08 a.m. For a couple more minutes,
Paul simply sat quietly in the easy chair in deepening melancholy, not moving
but listening to the ticking of the clock in an otherwise silent and empty
house.

My life is approaching the endgame
, he thought.
I
could theoretically pass away in the not-too-distant future from one of several
medical causes. And what do I have to show for a lifetime of work? Although
there have been moments of satisfaction and complacency, there really never has
been any happiness or joy. On the balance sheet, there has been little to
compensate for all the years of struggle, of disappointment, of anxiety, of
hopelessness, and of abuse and misuse. I went for the brass ring, grabbed ahold
of it with both hands, and discovered that it was just a lead weight with a
little gold paint. Is it just me that feels this way about life? So many others
seem better off.

I feel so terribly useless and alone
.

With a grunt of irritation, Paul forced himself to his feet
and moved toward the bedroom. He deplored self-pity.

“It’s a good thing that tomorrow is Sunday,” he muttered
sleepily. “I need a spiritual shot-in-the-arm, some Christmas cheer,
and
some rest! That prescription should help me feel a whole lot better!”

Mojave, CA

Home

December

Sunday, 7:30 a.m. PST

W
ith
the clamor of the clock radio on his nightstand the next morning, Paul
reluctantly and wearily rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. A
quick, hot shower helped revive him somewhat, flushing some of the fatigue from
both his muscles and his mind.

After getting himself dressed and eating a hearty breakfast,
Paul grabbed his pageant costume and exited the house, driving the Toyota to
his local church. With less than two weeks left until Christmas, this was the
Sunday selected for the special church Christmas pageant. The pageant was a
yearly tradition, an event that he never failed to enjoy. And it was the only one
where many in the small church’s congregation practiced for weeks to give their
best performances. Each year, Minister Parsons and the Christmas Committee
managed to make the pageant creatively different from previous pageants and entertaining
as well.

The storm of the previous evening was long since gone, the
bright morning sun already melting the snow on the streets, creating rivers of
dirty slush in the gutters on both sides of the roadways. Traffic was light,
and Paul made good time, pulling into the parking lot of the Church of the
Christian Savior and taking a slot next to that of his neighbor’s car, that of
Sidney Dumont. Sidney was a good soul, the evening manager of the local grocery
store and the resident Scout Master. With a grin on his face, feeling
considerably better about himself on this cold, but beautiful Sunday morning,
Paul tucked his car keys into his pants pocket and sauntered up the concrete
sidewalk. As he approached the church, he sidestepped around Mrs. Frieda Weiler,
an elderly widow, and pulled open one side of the church’s
double-oak-paneled-doors for her. Then he bowed in her direction. She smiled
back at him, using her cane to push herself up the small concrete step as she
proudly entered through the church’s doorway.

Inside, Paul made his way into the nave and took a moment to
glance around. Apparently, Minister Parsons had gone all out this year. There
was a new Christmas tree in front of the organ, much larger than last year’s,
at least ten feet tall. And it was well decorated with strands of silver
“icicles,” lights, and large ornaments. The youth choir was already in their
seats. Each young person wore a smartly pressed green gown and held a lit
electric candle in front of them (real candles were deemed much too dangerous
by the church’s insurance provider). There were also a number of wreaths and
other decorations strategically placed around the chapel. Paul nodded in
approval at all the hard work that had obviously been donated to the cause.
There was no doubt in his mind that this year’s Christmas pageant would be more
memorable than even that of the previous year.

“Brother Armstead!” squawked a familiar voice.

Paul turned to see Sidney, who was already dressed in his
costume (a ragged-looking robe), rushing in his direction. He smiled at his
neighbor.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” exclaimed Sidney. “And you
have your costume, too! When you didn’t show up for rehearsal yesterday, I
thought I might have to set up the sound system myself! Come on, you’d better
hurry. After you set up the PA system, you still have to get dressed in your
costume. Minister Parsons wants us in position early!”

Following the Scoutmaster into the chancel, Paul stepped
around him and ducked into a small maintenance closet. On a shelf near the door
sat the small PA system, a positively antique device with small dials and
knobs. However, Paul had long ago mastered both its intricacies as well as its
idiosyncrasies, and he soon had it powered up and the microphone volume
adjusted the way Minister Parsons preferred.

Reemerging into the chancel, Paul stood next to his assigned
seat (across from the choir section) and unwrapped his costume. Like Sidney, he
was playing the part of one of the shepherds in the nativity scene. It only
took a few moments to slip the robe over his suit and don the traditional
headpiece. There! Now he looked the part.

He gazed out over the nave at the knots of people standing
about in huddled conversations. Many of them, such as the ponderous, almost
blimp-sized Sister Georgette, were like him, regular weekly attendees of the
church services. However, Paul also noted with amusement the presence of
several additional people who weren’t regulars.

The “newcomers” reminded him of the old joke about the
church that was infested with mice. The pastor had tried traps, poisons,
repellents, and even cats. Nothing seemed to work. Finally, one of the deacons
recommended baptizing the mice. According to him, that way, as members of the
church, most of the mice would only show up twice a year—at Christmas and at
Easter.

Chreasters. That’s who many of the “newcomers” were. One of
them, Gordon Atherton, the manager of a small bank in the neighboring city of
Rosamond, was guiding his wife and three small children through the archway
into the nave of the large chapel. Another such person, a young woman whose
name he couldn’t remember at the moment, was one of the more successful lawyers
in town. She was nervously glancing around, obviously debating her decision to
attend services.

Oh, and neither last nor least, there was Oren Burchfield
himself, shaking hands with Minister Parsons. Brother Oren was, if not the
worst town drunk, certainly in the bottom ten of such august “celebrities” and
definitely the oldest. By all accounts, he was in his mid-eighties. Paul noted that
the man was already having difficulty staying on his feet. It would seem that
even this early in the morning, Brother Oren had taken the opportunity to hit
the egg nog—laced with a healthy dosage of gin, of course.

Paul waved at several friends and acquaintances, before
taking his seat and making himself comfortable. He noted with satisfaction that
Sister Olivia was already seated at the church’s organ, located in the front of
the nave and over against the right wall, and that she was just starting to
play the prelude music. Within moments, he relaxed, enjoying her expert
rendition of one of his favorite Christmas hymns, “Joy to the World.”

He leaned back in his seat, patting Sidney’s arm. “This is
going to be good!” he whispered with a cheerful smile.

• • • •

Paul was sadly regretting his earlier assumption. The
Christmas pageant was not going according to plan at all, despite all the
obvious efforts that had gone into its preparation.

For one thing, Minister Parsons, standing behind the pulpit
at the front left corner of the chapel, was apparently suffering from some sort
of throat problem. His voice was harsh, strained, and nowhere near its usual
volume and timbre. And every ten or twenty seconds, he coughed or sneezed as
well. It would seem that he was coming down with a cold and a rather ill-timed
one, at that.

In addition, the youth choir was absolutely murdering the
Christmas hymns. As best as Paul could tell, the cause was one of the young men
on the back row. It would seem that the individual in question had reached the
age in puberty where his voice was changing, the vocal cords of his larynx
thickening. And the notes he was singing were cracking pretty badly. It was
throwing off all the other children’s harmonies. Naturally, some of the younger
ones were trying hard not to laugh each time it happened.

No, the pageant wasn’t going well at all. And to tell the
truth, it was pretty embarrassing. Paul winced as the choir made mincemeat of
yet another hymn, this time “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.” He could
see by the expressions on the congregation’s faces that they weren’t enjoying
it either.

It was almost time for Paul’s part in the pageant, where the
shepherds were visited by the angels, which would be followed by the shepherds’
visit to the manger. He didn’t know why, but he was a little nervous about
this, his acting debut. He shouldn’t be. After all, he only had to look the
part of a shepherd for a minute or so. But on the other hand, he could possibly
trip over the robe and fall down, step on Sidney’s foot, or maybe just....

There! The cue!

Paul took a deep breath. “‘As Dame Honor would say, people,
let’s be about it,’” he muttered under his breath, quoting Captain McKeon from
David Weber’s book,
In Enemy Hands
.

In unison, he and Sidney stood and took their places.

• • • •

At the Best Western Hotel, Glenn Michaels finished packing
his duffel bags and zipped them shut. Only a half hour before, the local Texaco
station tow truck had finished bringing his SUV to the motel. In a few minutes,
Michaels would check out, toss the bags in his vehicle, and continue his trip
to Bakersfield to meet his wife.

There was only one more task to be completed first, before
he could leave the motel room.

Seated at the small desk in the room, pen in hand, Michaels
carefully crafted a letter to Paul Armstead, the man who had rescued him from
perhaps death itself the previous evening. With quick strokes, he penned the
letter, and then he folded it and stuffed the paper into an envelope. Then he
taped the envelope to the top of a small wooden box sitting on the bed.
Reaching out, he patted the side of the box.

“Well, old friend, it’s goodbye and good luck to you,” he
stated with a sad, but meaningful smile. “I sure hope you can do as much for
Mr. Armstead as you did for me. I can tell he’s a good man, he is, and he sure
needs the kind of help you can give him. Take care, my friend.”

Wiping a tear from one eye, Michaels got up and left the
room, a duffel bag in each hand. Behind him, the wooden box on the bed--with
the envelope still taped to the top of it--slowly faded out of existence,
leaving behind only four small dimples in the bedcovers.

• • • •

Gratefully, Paul turned and retreated out of the spotlights,
back toward his more dimly lit seat, his and Sidney’s part in the floundering
pageant now over and done with. And without a screw-up on his part, either.
What a relief. The choir had struck up with “O Holy Night,” and Paul winced at
every off-tune note of it.

But then, a surprise. There, in his seat, was a wooden box!

Sidney plopped down into his seat and urgently beckoned Paul
to get into his as well.

Puzzled by the presence of the mysterious box, Paul
hesitated for a moment, before snatching it up out of his way and taking its
place.

“Where did this...?” he whispered, nodding at the object in
his hands.

“Shh!” admonished Sidney. The hymn was thankfully over, and
Parsons was speaking now—and sneezing again.

Paul winced in mortification and looked away.

Perplexed by the article he was holding, Paul leaned forward
and squinted at it more closely. There was an envelope taped to the top, with
his name printed on it. The darkly stained box was perhaps a foot tall and
seven or eight inches wide, its surface decorated with dozens of small
six-pointed stars in a sea of intricately carved scrolls, spirals, and whorls.

The envelope was the standard white business type. Paul
peeled it off the box and took a closer look. There was no writing on the back,
only on the front. And that was just Paul’s name and underneath it the words
“Read me first!”

The lamentable and embarrassing Christmas pageant was
forgotten, Paul’s curiosity aroused. He pushed his eyeglasses further up his
nose and then opened the envelope’s flap. Inside was a neatly folded single
sheet of letter-sized paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it. Again in black
hand-lettered print, it read:

• • • •

Dear Paul,

I hope you read this before you open the box. Of course
you will.

Ever had to explain something real complicated to someone?
Never been any good at it myself, but here goes.

A couple of years ago, I got the thing that’s in the box.
I won’t tell you how I got it, ’cause that ain’t important, and it’s a long
story anyway, too long to tell here. I don’t know what it’s called. Maybe it
doesn’t have a name. I wouldn’t know. But I do know what it is. It’s like
Aladdin’s lamp or that bottle the astronaut found on that TV show with the
beautiful girl inside. There’s a genie inside this thing too, though it ain’t a
bottle and this genie is not a girl. Funny, ain’t it? An astronaut finds a
genie on TV, and now you, a jet engineer, have one too.

I told you I’d do you a favor. I know you need one. That
worn-out antique you drive is pretty good proof of that. Course, it might not
be much of a favor if you ain’t real careful, and I do mean REAL careful.

You only get three wishes, you see. And those wishes
usually have strings attached. The bigger the wish, the bigger the strings. By
cracky, even though I was warned, I had to use my second wish to undo my first
one. My third wish I was more careful with, and that’s why I have some money
now.

Yeah, I know you don’t believe me about the genie. At
least not yet, you don’t. But this genie is yours now, and it will follow you
around until you do two things.

First, you have to make your three wishes. That ain’t
hard. What’s hard is ONLY making three wishes.

Second, you have to find someone to give the genie to.
Not just anyone, either. It has to be someone especially deserving, someone
that does you a favor, a big favor, and then turns down money for it. This is
harder to do than I thought. Took me a year to find a guy that fit that
description. You.

Okay, so, now you’re asking, if I had a genie, why did I
give him up? Well, he’s already given me my three wishes. And also, he has to
stay close to his owner. Never more than a hundred feet away. Any time I tried
to get farther away than that, the little thing he hides in would show up by
magic in my car or luggage or whatever. After a while, it got to be a drag. I’m
actually a little relieved to give it to you.