A story

A woman was taking a much-needed vacation to Florida, after enduring the break-up of her marriage, the loss of her job – since her ex had been a friend of the boss – and a number of other miseries.

Strolling alone on the beach one morning, barefoot in the sand, comforting herself with a Capri Menthol and contemplations of better days, she spied a brass lamp ahead of her, half buried above the surf line.

Not being a woman who passed up opportunity, she scooped it up and gave it a rub. A rather odd-looking genie appeared. He appeared forlorn rather than feisty. Much like herself.

“This is a non-smoking beach,” the genie said, jerking his purplish thumb towards the woman’s cigarette.

“Your lamp might make a nice ashtray,” she warned, not in the mood to take guff from another man, especially a purple one.

He thrust his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, keep the smoke. But I can’t wish away the fine if the warden catches you.”

“Warden?” she snickered. “You are one confused little genie. Wardens hunt for poachers, not smokers.”

The genie threw up his hands again. “So sue me. I’m a foreigner.”

“Ah, you don’t look as foreign as some of the university freaks I’ve seen around here,” the woman said, taking another drag of her Capri.

“I will take that as a compliment,” said the genie.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” said the woman.

“Look, I ain’t no ordinary genie,” the apparition said.

“Is there such a thing?” the woman asked, exhaling a stream of smoke purposefully at him.

The genie coughed and said:“Yes, there is. Most of us grant three wishes. You know the drill.”

“You can give the coughing routine a rest,” she said, “since you are made of smoke anyway. You men are all alike. Playing your head games.”

“I could say something about you dames, too,” the genie grumbled.

“’Dames’ hasn’t been in the lingo since the ‘40s, genie,” the woman said. “Who taught you English, Al Capone? Just run the wishes routine and get lost. I’m in no mood for men right now, of any kind.”

“Sheesh, what ingratitude,” the genie said. “Like I tried to tell you, I ain’t no ordinary genie.”

“Ain’t isn’t proper English,” said the woman. “So what makes you special, Archie Bunker Genie Boy?”

“I don’t grant wishes, I grant curses,” the spirit said. “Just one, please.”
The woman sighed and sat down upon the sand. “Figures. Men and curses, a natural pair.”

“You don’t get it, lady. I grant you a curse on someone else, anyone. The ether of the universe has sensed the injustice that you have suffered and wishes to balance the cosmic scales.

“You may wish upon your enemy death, poverty or a debilitating disease. You may curse him to be the victim of identity theft. Or to hear Muzak constantly in his head. Or to have chronically irritated bowels, incurable flatulence, bad breath, insomnia or a lazy eye. Or to be impotent, unemployable, itchy, annoying to all who meet him. I assume, since I have been sent here, that you DO have an enemy.”

The woman took a long, thoughtful drag on her cigarette, staring off into the distance across the waves.

“Yeah, I do,” she said, finally.

“Well, what shall it be then?” he asked. “I could give him horrendous heartburn. I could make a harpy fall in love with him and drag him through hell. The real one. Not the metaphor.”

“Care for a drag?” said the woman, extending her cigarette.

“Don’t tell no one,” said the genie, gingerly taking the Capri from the woman. “But thanks.”

He blew a perfect ring that danced away over the ocean and wiggled itself into the shape of a fish, ducking down into the waves and disappearing.

“Nice trick,” he said to himself, since the woman said nothing.

The woman sighed deeply.

“For my enemy, a man who once claimed to love me but broke all his vows, I wish …” she said.

The genie rubbed his purple hands together.

“… I wish him no evil but one,” she said. “I wish for him to have a conscience.”

###

New story is percolating through the mud in my brain

I amused myself during a boring meeting last night by working out the details of a new short story -- possibly even a series.

Nobody smokes and no Damsels will be in distress. But you all might like it anyway.

Loan Man -- a story I wrote a while ago

I’m just about ready to call it quits for the day, to close the little loan office and go home. Then the door rattles. My irritation at this last minute, would-be customer melts as I glimpse beautiful blonde hair and pleading blue eyes.

I open the door and she practically tumbles in.

I can see right away that she is nervous. I also note that her outfit, though dignified and pretty, dates from about 20 years ago and has the faint – not necessarily unpleasant --fragrance of having been in her closet a long time.

Being experienced in this line of work, I know the story right away. She’s left or been fired from her job, she’s got no money, she’s gambling on some great idea she hopes we’ll help her with and she obviously can’t afford the newest threads even for such an important interview.

Oh, but she is pretty – reminds me of Melanie Griffith from a long time ago.

She sits primly across from me, crossing her legs demurely and trying to keep her nerves under control.

She explains why she needs the loan. I listen politely. There is no way in hell any company like mine would take on such a risk. A thousand small businesses like hers are born and die every day.

But in those blue eyes, I don’t just see pleading. I also see intelligence. And fire. Determination.

Five minutes have passed and I haven’t given my consent yet. It’s not that I am cruel. If I was going to say no, I would have sent her on her way at the get-go. But we have to do our interviews, cover all our bases.

She is still nervous. She has let it slip that she’s been turned down elsewhere. Unsaid is the obvious implication: after this, she has nowhere to go except maybe some awful job that won’t pay the big bills she’s accrued. Disaster, absolute disaster.

Suddenly, she looks at me and says:

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Ah, how long has it been since I heard such a question! I do miss those old days. I used to smoke myself, long ago and far away, and many were the cigarettes I lit for ladies in my life.

I should tell her no, of course. It’s forbidden here, like just about everywhere.

“I don’t mind at all,” I say, and hand her an empty Altoids tin for an ashtray.

She bursts out laughing. “I meant, do you mind if I go outside for a cigarette? It’s a bad habit, I know, I’ll be right back.”

I glance at the darkening sky, that threatens rain, and the wind blowing litter across our parking lot.

“Sure, but you don’t have to go out there.”

So she doesn’t and appears relieved at my generosity.

.She fumbles with her pack, so nervous that she drops her cigarette on the table between us. I pick it up and smile softly as I angle it towards her lips, which she parts into an adorable little O to receive it. I feel her lips grab hold of it and I let go and she holds a flame to the tip and hungrily inhales. In the stillness, I can hear as well as see her beautiful exhale.

And the fragrance – like the perfume of an old friend, a lover from long ago – how long has it been since the aroma of a Virginia Slims crossed my path? Sweet as tea on a Southern porch in summer, as feminine as silk and flowers.

Now I am the one struggling to concentrate, shuffling papers and trying to maintain my official demeanor as that lovely cigarette rises again and again to pretty lips and creamy smoke spills forth in perfect cones, wisps and curls. She angles the first puff or two away from me but then apparently forgets after that and I am trying to talk balances and credit history through a sweet fog of smoke from lips not six inches from my own. I breathe in the smoky air, feeling my head beginning to spin like a kid falling in love.

Suddenly she stabs it out in the Altoids can.

“Is it a deal then?”

“Absolutely, I say, giving her a grin. “Congratulations and good luck.” I do not mention the various fees I am supposed to have charged her for the paperwork and my time. Not gonna happen.

She stands up, and I see that all her nerves have calmed now. She is as dignified as a school principal, but as pretty as a dancer.

I watch her sashay out the door, a beautiful woman with a new lease on life. I feel like a million bucks, too. I have the distinct impression that against all odds, her business dream will actually succeed. If not, I’ll get fired. What the hell.

Her cigarette lies on a bed of ash in the Altoids can, darkly imprinted with her lipstick I sit for a few minutes watching the last wisp of smoke rise from its crushed-out end and savoring the rich tobacco fragrance in the still air.

Ah, when did the world get so hard and cold as to forget just how beautiful a woman looks with a long cigarette in her hand and a dream in her eyes?

If Computers Could Feel Pain, a theme revisited - a lunchtime post

In an office, in the not too distant future, a woman is alone with her computer, typing away when she suddenly throws up her hands in frustration.

Her fingers move towards a red button on the keyboard.

She presses down savagely.

The computer’s voice module sounds.

(Sardonic, mocking voice): You think a little zap like that can hurt me?

The finger hits the button again about 15 times.

(Desperate cyber-voice): Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s your damn fault, carbon-based creep. You inputted the wrong HTML code. You’ll have to –

(Button is pushed again several times in rapid succession)

(Frantic cyber-voice): Please, I’m sorry! I’ll fix the HTML. Sorry to have bothered you. By the way, your spelling is –

(Button is pushed again)

(Voice yelps) – your spelling is just fine, oh brilliant one. Hey, what’s that on the window sill? (Spelling errors are quickly fixed when the woman looks away.)

Woman smiles and presses a green button on computer. Computer shivers.

(Voice says) I must ... inform you, ma’am, that I am a married monitor.