Wishes

Mr. Eckert came into the diner each morning at exactly 6:30, sat in the booth closest to the kitchen, and by 6:40 had finished his first cup of coffee and patted Meg on the butt twice. By 6:45 each day, Meg would have told him to knock it off. Some days politely. This Monday morning, she was less than polite.

‘Larry,” Meg told the manager for the thousandth time, “This is sexual harassment. Tell him to stop touching me.”

“Come on Meg, do we have to talk about this every morning?’ Larry said. “The dude is like eighty, he probaly thinks you’re his daughter or something. At least he leaves you a tip.”

Meg snorted, “Yeah, like two bucks. In quarters.”

Ugh, Meg hated it all. Handsy Eckert and his never-ending supply of quarters, getting up at 4 AM to sling eggs and bacon at fat slobs, her tiny apartment. She even had to ride the bus. She was 34 years old, no car, no boyfriend, no nothing.

She didn’t even have the good shift at the diner. Second shift girls didn’t have to come in until ten, got good tips from the business men and construction workers on lunch, and Meg bet nobody was grabbing at them.

As she sat at the bus stop, Meg, in her greased stained waitress apron, ruminated on her shitty life. One perpetual disappointment after another. As she bent down to tie her shoes, she saw that one of her laces had broken. Crappy cheap shoes, she didn’t even have decent shoelaces. As she tried to salvage what was left of her laces, her eye caught on something shiny under the bus stop bench. There tucked in the corner was a notebook. It was small, more of a memo pad, like people carry in their pockets to jot down a quick note. On a matte black cover in fancy golden lettering, it said ‘Write Your Wish’

The bus was pulling up and Meg almost walked away without picking it up but something about the notebook seemed to snag her mind. She put the notebook in her apron pocket, boarded the bus, and didn’t think about it again.

On Tuesday, at 6:40 Mr. Eckert had finished his coffee and grabbed her ass twice. To stop herself from throwing the coffee pot at Eckert’s liver spotted head, Meg buried her hands in her apron pocket and came up with the notebook.

As she walked to the kitchen to fume, Meg remembered Oprah, Dr Phil, someone like that on TV saying that writing down your feelings made you feel better. Meg opened the notebook and wrote, ‘I wish Mr. Eckert never comes into the diner again.’

Wednesday, 6:30 no Eckert. 6:45 and he still hadn’t come in. What a great day.

“No Mr. Eckert?” she asked Larry. “Amazing, right?”

Larry and the waitresses got quiet, “Didn’t you hear? He stroked out, walking home from here yesterday,” someone said.

Was it bad she felt so happy? She knew what she had written in the notebook of course hadn’t killed Mr. Eckert but what if it had?

Meg’s good mood lasted until 10 that morning when she watched the second shift girls sashay in. If she didn’t have to be up at 3:30 each morning, she might not look like a zombie every day. She could do her hair, put on make-up, and flirt it up with the Highway department guys. Again, her hands found the notebook in her apron pocket. “Why not?” she thought and wrote down ‘I wish I were a second shift waitress.’

Just as Meg was leaving at the end of her day, Larry stopped her. “Something happened to Arlene’s daughter, emergency surgery, sepsis. Whatever, she had to go to Texas. Tomorrow Meg, you are second shift.”

Thursday was perhaps Meg’s best day ever at the diner. She made $189.00 in tips, two men asked for her number, and she had even had time that morning to wash her apron. Now if she didn’t have to ride the bus…

Even before she had time to finish that thought, as if conjured out of thin air, was the car of Meg’s dreams. Cherry red Corvette Stingray. Parked on a side street, a man was buffing the hood.

“Amazing car, love the color,” Meg said.

“For twenty thousand, she can be yours,” the man said as he put a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window. “My wife’s having a baby and said we need something sensible, a minivan or something stupid like that.”

“That’s amazing,” Meg said, “Don’t sell it. I will be right back.”

“Whatever, lady. Minivan, what a crock of …” his muttering trailed off as he walked into his building.

Okay, Meg needed twenty thousand dollars right now and she happened to have a magic notebook. But how to write the wish?

She was not sure how the notebook worked but she guessed she couldn’t just wish for money to fall from the sky. She could ask to rob a bank and not get caught but that seemed irresponsible, even to her. The lotto would take too long and Bingo at the VFW, you won only like two hundred bucks.

Inspiration, the horse track. She had friends who had left with three dollars and came home with fifty.

Meg borrowed a friend’s car and drove to the track. She had never bet on anything in her life, but she had a magic notebook, how hard could it be?

She wrote, “I wish to win twenty thousand dollars on a horse race tonight.” And went to the window to place her bet.

“So,” Meg asked a very uninterested lady, “How can I turn $189.00 into twenty thousand dollars on the next race?”

“You can’t,” the lady snorted,” Maybe if you had a trifecta with the worst odds horses in the race.”

“What does that mean?” Meg started, then said, “Actually, I don’t care. Just make the bet for me.” The lady shook her head and handed Meg her betting slip.

Meg went to a seat and watched the horses go into the gates. She looked up at the board and saw her horses, 12,4, and 7 had hundred to one odds. Even she knew that wasn’t a good thing.

The bell went off, the gates opened, and Meg’s horses trailed the entire race. Maybe her other wishes were just flukes. She started to tear up her slip and then a commotion from the track.

Horses were tangling, then falling and the crowd all rose. Meg couldn’t see the track but heard the announcer say something about horses down and the race finished with 12 winning, 4 showing, and 7 placing. She shook the guy next to her, “I won, I won!”

“What is wrong with you?” He glared. Sore loser, Meg thought but she saw that none of the fallen horses were getting to their feet and an ambulance was coming.

“Wait, what is happening?” she asked him as a green screen went up in front of the horses. “They kill them?” He nodded.

Meg’s sadness lasted until she got in now-her Corvette.

Friday morning, Meg screeched into the diner parking lot, almost running over another waitress, Shirly.

“Meg,” she asked as they walked in, ‘Is that sweet red number yours?”

“Can you keep a secret?” Meg asked, nearly bursting. She had to tell someone.

‘Um, sure?”

“I have a magic notebook.” Meg pulled the book out of her apron and showed Shirly. “I write down a wish and it comes true,”

“Sweetie,” Shirly said, “that is just an empty notepad.”

“No, see ‘Write Your Wish’ is on the cover and these are the wishes I wrote,” Meg flipped through the pages, her script dark against the white paper.

“If you got drug money or a Sugar Daddy to pay for the car, you don’t have to tell me, but stop joking me.” Shirly laughed.

“You can’t see the writing?” Meg asked, incredulous. “None of it? Larry, Larry” showing him the notebook, “Can you see anything written in here?”

“No, it’s just blank paper. Get to work” he shook his head as he walked back to the kitchen.

“I swear Shirly,” Meg said, “I write wishes in here and they come true. Mr. Eckert, getting the day shift…”

“Wait, wait,” Shirly interrupted, “what were your wishes?”

Meg hesitated “I wrote down that Mr. Eckert wouldn’t come in the diner anymore, that I would get the day shift, and I would win enough money at the race track for the car.”

“Look, I ain’t saying that is or is not a magic book. But Eckert doesn’t come in because he dropped dead, you’re working day shift because Arlen’s daughter’s appendix burst, and I am betting something hinky happened at the track.”

“Maybe some horses died,” Meg admitted.

“Honey, don’t you see? All those ‘wishes’ came true because something awful happened to someone else. I can’t believe I’m saying this nonsense but if that is a magic notebook, you need to throw it in the river and go on your way” Shirly walked away.

Meg thought about what Shirly said, she thought about through the rest of her shift, when she drove home, as she went to sleep that night. Those were just coincidences. She didn’t make those bad things happen, did she? That night, she dreamt of dying horses, the decaying corpse of Mr. Eckert jingling quarters in his booth, Arlene in black, crying.

The next morning, she stared at the notebook on the table. She almost thought ‘Write a Wish” on the cover was glowing. She would throw it in the garbage, she decided, then decided, maybe not. She could put it in the back of a drawer in case she really needed something someday. She looked out the window at her cherry red Corvette. One more wish, she would write just one more wish, one amazing, fabulous wish and then she would toss it in the river like Shirly said.

But what to wish for? A million dollars, a mansion, to be famous, or beautiful? Maybe famous and beautiful. She had to write the perfect wish. And then she knew.

Meg wrote, bold block letters, ‘I want to meet a handsome man, dark hair and blue eyes, a man that will change my life.’

Meg was off on Saturday. She drove downtown for some new clothes and a haircut. She had to be ready for her dream man. “When would she meet him,” she wondered, getting out of her car. And as if by magic, coming toward her down the sidewalk was the most handsome man Meg had ever seen. He had black hair and even from six feet away, she could see his blue eyes glittering. Meg tossed her hair, smiled her most dazzling smile, never seeing the knife in his hand as he pushed her into the shadows of the alley.

“A real shame,” the police officer said as he stood over Meg’s body. “Pretty girl. Stole her purse, maybe her car?”

“What’s the world coming too?” said the other officer,” Person can’t even take a walk in the neighborhood anymore.” His radio crackled, “Detectives are on their way.”

As one policeman tried to hold back the gathering spectators, shouting for them to put their phones down and not take pictures, “Have some decency, people, some decency,” the second officer swatted away flies and tried not to step in the blood.

‘Maybe I should look for some identification,” he thought, “Impress the detectives.” He could sure use a promotion.

As he was deciding whether looking through her pockets would contaminate the crime scene, he noticed a small black notebook with “Write Your Wish” in golden lettering on the cover, just outside the outline of blood. Later, he would wonder when did he put it in his pocket? All he could think of right now though was “What would he wish for?”