Three Wishes

Just unrolled a red rug at a flea market to shake it out and suddenly there's this guy standing there. Tall, swarthy, thick black beard and mustache. He's wearing a long, colorful dishdasha and sandals. "Three wishes," he says in Arabic- accented English. 

I'm a little taken aback. Where did he just come from? "Three wishes?" 

"Three wishes. Hurry up, I am tired.  Then roll me back up. It has been a hell of a century."

"That it has." I peer closer and notice that his black eyes are full of fire. "You're a djinn?"

He bows low, sweeping out an arm. "Faran Al-Naar. Djinn. Now about those wishes."

"Okay, okay." Persistent guy. I think a minute. "All right. I want you to have whatever you want." 

His brow wrinkles in confusion. "You want what now?"

"I want you to have whatever you want," I say again. "I mean you're hundreds of years old, right? Maybe thousands. And all that time somebody rubs your lamp--"

"Unrolls my rug." 

"Unrolls your rug, right, and wishes for three totally impractical things that'll never work, like a giant house they can't afford the taxes on, or--"

"Or a yacht, when they live in North Dakota and don't know how to sail," says the djinn.

"Right, or they wish for world peace, so you have to make all the humans disappear, or for global warming to be fixed, so you have to move us all into grass huts--"

"And then they spend their second and third wishes undoing their first wish!" exclaims Al-Naar. "Exactly!"

"And you never get what you want. Nobody ever grants your wish."  I fold my arms. "So that's my wish. I wish for you to get whatever you wish for."

The djinn's eyes flash. "All right," he says. "Done." 

Nothing happens. I glance around. Three men and a woman are entering a Starbucks across the street. A few cars go by. Al-Naar stretches his arms and takes a deep breath. 

"Well?" I say. "How is it?" 

"Hm." He looks at his hands. "Not at all like I expected." 

"Isn't that what usually happens?"

"Yes."

I pat him on the arm. "Come on, I'll buy you a Starbucks. There's a lot more to life than being rolled up in a moldy old rug." 

He starts to follow. "What is a Star-bucks?" 

"It's a drink we drink a lot. You'll like it."

He stops. "Oh."

"What's wrong?" 

"I just realized. I cannot grant you your second and third wishes now." He looks sheepish.

"That's okay," I say. "I couldn't think of anything good anyway."