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Copyright Oggbashan May 2003/October 2013
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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Reginald was a nerd, a geek, a wimp. He was the man who had sand kicked in his face; who lost the girl; a real mummy's boy.
Except no one would have bothered to kick sand at him. He would never have had a girl to lose. His mother pushed him out at 18 and told him to find his own place to live.
Apart from being a nerdy geek or a geeky nerd, Reginald had been successful. He qualified as an accountant and was a partner in the business. He owned his four-bedroom house with double garage,
stabling and paddocks. Not that he used the stables or paddocks.
He was scared of horses but that hadn't stopped him from renting out the stables and paddocks to the local riding school. Money is money after all.
His hobby was beachcombing. He had an expensive metal detector and had an exclusive agreement with a local landowner to search the couple of miles of private beach. Apart from the few weekends when the landowner had houseguests the beach was Reginald's.
The beach was a disappointment to Reginald. He liked to have it all to himself but that was also the problem. The beach had been private for hundreds of years so the public had not dropped coins, jewellery or even litter. There was little for Reginald to find unless it had floated. Anything that floated ashore was obvious. It didn't get buried because the beach was made of large stones.
Reginald enjoyed walking along the beach at weekends in the winter and mornings and evenings from spring to autumn. His leg muscles were well exercised on the uneven surface. His slight frame was much more muscular than he looked. If he wore swimming shorts he might look small. Reginald never wore swimming shorts. Even on a hot summer's day he would wear a baggy jacket and long trousers.
That Sunday Reginald came to his beach early. Friday night and all Saturday there had been a fierce storm and heavy rain. Now the storm had passed leaving watery sunshine breaking through a light sea mist. The tide would be low in about an hour. If anything could shift the stones on the beach the recent storm would have done it. Perhaps, just perhaps, there might be something new to find.
Being Reginald he worked systematically. He walked from one end of the beach to the other swinging his metal detector. The storm had rearranged some of the beach and he was rewarded with a few metal fittings from fishing gear. At the far end of the beach he turned to sweep the part newly exposed by the tide.
There was a loud pinging from the detector. Reginald dropped to his knees. Nothing to see. He pulled at the stones. A couple of layers down he saw the neck of a metal sheathed bottle. He had to dig around it for half an hour before he could lift it from the hole. He handled it very carefully because it looked something like a carboy for acid, about two feet in diameter. Whatever it was, it was not modern. The metal sheathing was elaborately decorated with geometric patterns. The seal of the same metal was inscribed in a strange script.
Reginald carried the carboy carefully above the tideline. He sat down looking at his find. What was it? What should he do with it? Was it dangerous?
The sun had burnt through the sea mist and was now shining brightly. It glistened on the glass revealed by the decorative holes in the metal sheathing.
Reginald peered closely at the inscription on the seal. It seemed much less distinct than before. He touched it tentatively with a finger. The metal crumbled to dust and fell away exposing most of the neck of the bottle.
Reginald scrambled away as fast as he could. He retreated up the beach and to the edge of the trees. He got out his binoculars to peer from behind the thickest trunk that he could find. As he watched the metal sheathing shrunk visibly. Within ten minutes it had gone leaving a pitted glass surface.
He sat down with the trunk of the tree between him and the beach. He poured tea from his Thermos flask with shaking hand. He decided to wait at least half an hour. If nothing had happened by then he would go back to the bottle.
Half an hour seemed a long time. It passed too quickly. With just a few minutes left Reginald was panicking. Should he call for help or just walk away? With a minute to go he decided. He would not wait. Whatever happened the waiting was intolerable. He left his pack, his metal detector and his Thermos and strode towards the bottle.
The bottle was still sealed by a thin wafer of metal. Reginald touched it gingerly. It popped and a wisp of smoke started to rise from the open neck. He retreated a couple of yards upwind and watched. The smoke thickened to an impenetrable cloud about six feet in diameter. It did not flow with the wind but remained above the bottle. Gradually it took a semblance of a human shape.
"Fuck me!" said Reginald.
"If that is really what you want, that can be arranged." replied a bass voice.
"What!" squeaked Reginald.
The form became distinct. The person standing before him was richly dressed like an illustration of a Prince from The Arabian Nights.
"Who?" Reginald's voice was still squeaking. He tried to control it.
"Who or what are you?"
"I should have thought that was obvious. I'm the genie of the bottle. You released me from my centuries of imprisonment so now I have to grant you the usual three wishes."
Reginald sat down hard on the stony beach. The genie started a complicated series of exercises that looked like a variant of Tai Chi. Reginald watched, rubbing his eyes from time to time.
"That's better," said the genie. "It is cramped inside a bottle. Now I suppose I had better explain the conditions applying to your three wishes. We genies have had a bad press because humans have made such poor choices for their wishes. Are you ready, Reginald?"
"You know my name?"
"Yes, Reginald. I know too much about you. I have been watching you for the past few years. You were my only realistic chance of release because no one else was likely to dig on this beach. So, I ask again, are you ready to hear the conditions?"
"I suppose so."
Reginald pinched himself. Surely he was dreaming. Genies didn't really appear now or ever. They were myths. He was talking to a myth. Accountants didn't believe in myths. They were as unlikely as sympathetic taxmen.
"I'm not a myth, Reginald. I am here. Feel."
The genie held out his hand. Reginald touched it. It felt real.
"Back to business. You have three wishes. The wishes can only affect you, yourself. You cannot wish for world peace or famine relief. You can have riches or health or a new talent but they are achieved by changing you not others. Follow me, so far?"
"Yes. But this doesn't sound like the traditional form."
"It isn't. We genies have changed the contract after complaints from disappointed humans. This is the twenty-first century version. We have built in a few safeguards. You have twenty-four hours to decide what the first wish will be. Each wish has a one week long trial period before it becomes permanent. If you survive the week and then decide that the wish was not what you wanted you can have another one. You can undo any wish instantly but then that wish has gone forever. All three wishes must be made within four weeks. You must make three wishes that will be permanent. You cannot stop at one or two wishes. Do you understand?"
Reginald was doubtful. This wish business sounded dangerous.
"Can you advise me about my choices?" he asked.
"If you want. Whether my advice will do you any good is a matter of opinion. You can ask."
"So, hypothetically, if I were to wish to become attractive to young girls, what would your advice be?"
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"There are several errors in that hypothesis. You might become attractive but could find those you attract are not attractive to you. If a plain girl or a girl who had traits that you detest were to be attracted to you, what would you do? Unwanted attention can be painful. Then there is the plural "girls". Would you want say twenty girls chasing you? The final error is the adjective "young". What is a girl? One definition is a female younger than a woman. With the onset of puberty happening so early, a girl could mean a pre-pubescent girl. Add the word "young" to that and you might become attractive only to females under the age of what? Seven years old? Is that what you want?"
"No. I thought..."
The genie sighed loudly. "You didn't think. That is the problem with humans and this three-wish contract. In the old days I would have given you your wish and you would have ended up like the Pied Piper walking around your town followed by an embarrassing procession of seven year old girls. Have you any ambition to start teaching at an Infants' School?"
"No."
"Then start thinking. You have until this time tomorrow morning.
