Be Careful What You Wish For: A Short Story



  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

  A SHORT STORY

  By A.C. Hutchinson

  Copyright 2015 A.C. Hutchinson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  Also Available

  Acknowledgements

  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

  It was a usual Wednesday morning for David Patzpowski. He was sitting in the motorway diner with a newspaper in one hand and a fork in the other. On the table in front of him, a full English awaited his attention. The clock on the wall read ten past eight, five minutes later than the actual time.

  David was reading a trashy news story about a famous footballer involved a drunken bar brawl. The only thing capable of diverting his attention away from the newspaper and the string of similar stories was the pretty waitress clearing the table next to him. She smiled at him as she passed, holding a stack of precariously balanced, dirty plates in both hands. He returned the smile, which was not quite as aesthetically pleasing as hers, but it was the best his chubby face could muster.

  He was glad the waitress had smiled at him. Every morning he would watch her taking orders and clearing tables. He had wished only yesterday for her to pay him a little attention. He guessed that she was about twenty years old. That would make him seventeen years her senior. But who's counting?, he thought.

  As she walked past, his eyes followed her pert, swaying bottom, inducing a further smile on his sweaty, reddened face. With a warm feeling of satisfaction, he returned to reading his newspaper. With his right hand, he blindly stabbed the sausage on his plate and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes momentarily shifted from newspaper to fork and back again, causing him to notice, with surprise, the man sitting at the other side of the table.

  "Can I help you?" David said, lowering his newspaper. The man stared back at him, blankly. Probably a weirdo, David thought. "You know there are plenty of other tables you can sit at." David motioned towards the empty booths opposite.

  There was a moment of tense silence. The man stared David in the eye and held his gaze. David began to wonder if the man was not just a weirdo, but a very dangerous weirdo. He didn't want to be a story in tomorrow's edition of the paper he had been reading, with a headline like Man Killed Over Pork Sausage.

  Just as David was about to move tables, the man said: "Do you consider yourself to be a lucky man, David?" His voice was calm and steady.

  "Not this morning I–" He said my name! The goddamn weirdo said my name! "Do I know you?" David asked, suddenly very interested in the stranger.

  "You don't know me, David, but I know you very well."

  "Hey, you're not from the Inland Revenue, are you? Because, I declare everything. Got a draw full of receipts at home too. If you need to investigate me, I've got nothing to hide." David's mind began to question if that was actually true. He paid his accountant handsomely to hide his wealth.

  "Relax, David. This has nothing to do with your tax affairs."

  "You a cop then?"

  "I would appreciate it if you would stop asking questions, David."

  "You know who you look like? Samuel L. Jackson. Especially as Mace Windu in those Star Wars films."

  It was true, even down to the elaborate cloak the man had wrapped around himself.

  "I'm here on important business," the man said, leaning forward. "Earlier, I asked you if you thought that you were lucky. I believe that you are very lucky."

  Nice house, nice car, good job, great wife. Yes, David thought. I'm very lucky indeed. "I guess I don't do bad."

  "You know, you shouldn't eat a fried breakfast every day," the man said. "It’s bad for your heart." The man tapped the left side of his chest.

  "Well, thanks, doctor. I'll bear that in mind." There was more sarcasm in David's voice than there was fat in his cholesterol-laden breakfast.

  "Do you think you punch above your weight, David? Let's face it, your wife is very beautiful, but you're not exactly a looker, are you?"

  "Oh, I see where you're going with this," David said, making a connection in his head. "You gonna blackmail me or something? Kidnap my wife and ask for a ransom? Or maybe threaten to show her some incriminating evidence of me at the office Christmas party unless I pay up?"

  "If I did want to use blackmail, David, then I could find enough crap on you to fertilise every field in the Northern Hemisphere."

  "Aren't we the comedian?"

  "How did you meet your wife, David?"

  "Seeing as you know me so well, Mr Windu, maybe you should tell me."

  "Okay. She was the girl you adored at school. The girl you could never have, because you were the fat kid. The one with no friends. The last one to be chosen when teams were picked for football. The one that finished last in cross-country. You reeked of BO and were teased about it constantly."

  This man knew too much. David was becoming a little scared. He was either being secretly filmed for a This Is Your Life-style TV show or he was having a very bad dream.

  "But you wished hard," the man continued. "Very hard. You wanted to make her yours. And much to the surprise and disgust of everyone, the unthinkable happened. The would-be prom queen dated the king of the dorks.”

  "Who are you? How the hell do you know so much? You better start giving me answers, buddy, or I'm going to start getting very pissed off!"

  It was an empty threat. David – who had been bullied throughout his entire school life – did have the ability to lose his temper, but being a wimp at heart lacked the necessary valour to back it up.

  "Do you believe in angels, David?"

  "Yeah, along with Father Christmas and the goddamn tooth fairy!"

  "What if I said that I was an angel, David?"

  "I'd think you were even more nuts than I currently think you are."

  "I have wings. Would you like to see them?"

  Is this guy nuts or what? He may have some scary inside knowledge of intimate parts of my life, stuff no one else should know, but this man is clearly short of a few fuses.

  David folded his arms, sat back in his seat and said: "Show me." This should be interesting, he thought with a smile. Maybe the crazy guy popped in at Toys 'R' Us on the way. I hope he remembered batteries! David sniggered to himself.

  The man stood and untied the cord from around his neck that held his cloak in place. Underneath he wore a white, frilly shirt. With a shrug of his shoulders, the man let the cloak drop to the floor. To David's amazement, two large, black, feathered wings sprang from behind the man's back. They looked like they belonged to a giant crow. They flexed and flapped as if they were real.

  David looked around the diner expecting the clientele to be watching this impromptu sideshow with wonder. To his surprise, no one was. People continued to eat, drink and chat, seemingly oblivious to the black man with the large flapping wings. David was beginning to question his sanity.

  "How are you doing that?" David asked.

  The man turned around showing David his back. His shirt was conveniently cut to allow the wings to poke through. David stood, wanting to closer inspect the feathery appendages. He could see the skin on the man's back moving – taut and slack, taut and slack – with each elegant flap.

  David reached out and touched the feathers. They were real enough. He moved his hand to where the wings joined the man's smooth skin. They were seamlessly attached, like a hand to an arm or a foot to a leg. David pulled his hand away quickly, suddenly disgusted by the abomination. Had the wings been surgically attached? The word 'crazy' was now inadequate.

  "Okay," David said, backing away. "I think it's about time you and me parted company."

  The man pu
t his cloak back on, hiding the wings, and returned to his seat at the table.

  "Sit down, David," the man said, gesturing with his hand towards the now empty seat.

  "You know, I think I'll just grab my briefcase and be gone." Still standing, David reached over to grab his briefcase, which lay on the tabletop.

  "In university you knew a young man called Michael," the man continued. "He was good at everything he did, far better than you. He was handsome too; in fact, your girlfriend had a crush on him. You, however, despised him. Hated his guts. Is this ringing any bells with you, David?"

  David sat down. It was as if the man could see inside his head and read his thoughts as if they were a book.

  "One day, at the end of term, just after Michael's football team won the league, he went out to celebrate. You were dragged along too, namely by your girlfriend. Michael had every reason to be happy. That year, he received countless accolades from his lecturers. He was a young man going places, with a bright future.

  "The pub was full when you arrived; he had so many friends. Everybody loved him. Later that evening, you caught your girlfriend giving Michael the eye. You were furious. You stormed off home, wishing Michael was dead." The man paused and leaned forward. "What happened next, David?"

  David knew exactly what had happened next. It was pure coincidence, that was all, he thought. A goddamn freaking coincidence.

  "He died didn't he, David?" The man who knew too much said. "Stabbed for his wallet on the way home from the pub that night. Bled to death on the pavement. Just as you’d wished."

  David looked at the man in wonder.

  "That's not the only time you've wished for something to happen either, is it, David?” the man continued. “Along with your wife, your job, your dream home, that small lottery win, not to mention the extramarital affairs. Everything you have ever wished for has come to pass."

  David had always thought the same, but he didn't like to admit it.

  "I'm just fortunate," David said. He was more than fortunate, though. Somehow, he always got what he wanted. He could kid himself and pretend that he deserved the lifestyle he had been gifted, but deep down he knew that wasn't true.

  "Every time anyone makes a wish, David, it goes before the angels. They decide whether the wish comes true or not. Every once in a while, though, a person is born with the ability to bypass the angels. Their wishes always come true. You are one such person, David."

  "You expect me to believe this shit?" David said. But he was beginning to believe everything the man was saying.

  "Your wife was meant for someone else, David. That someone was Michael, your deceased university associate. You have no idea how many problems you have caused the angels."

  "Okay, okay," David said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that all you're telling me is true. I'm a lucky bastard and I get everything I wish for. But tell me, Mr Angel Wings, why are you here? Why are telling me all this?"

  "Your wife is very unhappy, David."

  "I wouldn't say she's unhappy," David said, hurt. "She's a bit down at the moment, that's all."

  "She's unhappy, because she has been with the wrong man for most of her life."

  "I make her happy when I can. Just this morning I said to her that my wish was for her to have anything she wished for."

  The angel, if that's what he was, smiled. It was the first time David had seen him make any sort of facial expression. "And what did your wife say in return, David?"

  "She said she wished I–" David suddenly realised the whole point of this impromptu meeting. "–she wished I was dead!"

  "That's right, David," the man leaned forward. "I am an angel of death and you really shouldn't eat fried food; it is extremely bad for your heart."

  David felt a tightness in his chest. It felt like his ribcage was being squeezed. The pressure continued to intensify until it felt like his bones may snap like twigs. He gasped for air, but his lungs wouldn't inflate. He was suddenly drenched in a cold sweat, which his shirt soaked up like a thirsty sponge. Shots of pain exploded from his chest and travelled to the far ends of his body.

  Across the table, the man who professed to be an angel of death had his wings out again, spread wide and vibrating, like a bird in a courtship dance. His face no longer resembled that of a Hollywood movie star, but instead a demonic vampire, with an exaggerated brow and two protruding sharp teeth hanging down from his top jaw.

  David's vision began to swim and then darken. He remained conscious long enough to taste more of his Full English as his head flopped into it, face first.

  Article in the following day's newspaper:

  Yesterday, at Angelica's Diner, a man suffered a fatal heart attack whilst tucking into a full English. Thirty-seven-year-old David Patzpowski was discovered face down in his breakfast by a concerned customer. Proprietor, Angelica Godbell, said that Mr Patzpowski was a regular customer. "He would eat here every morning, but this is by no means a reflection on our fried breakfasts," she said. Witnesses claim Mr Patzpowski was eating alone at the time, but was acting strange before his death. One fellow diner said Mr Patzpowski was talking to himself and waving his hands around erratically prior to the incident. Police are not treating his death as suspicious.

  THE END

  ALSO BY A.C. HUTCHINSON:

  A full-length novel, THE GHOST AND THE RAILWAY. Available from selected online retailers.

  Twitter:

  https://www.twitter.com/ac_hutchinson

  Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/achutchinsonauthor

  Website:

  https://www.achutchinson.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to: My son, James, for supplying the cover photograph; Paul Monkman, as always, for his proofreading prowess; and my wife, Lindsay, for her continued support (also, this short story happens to be one of her favourites).