The Lamp

“Are you a currier?” asked the man in the doorway as I delivered his curry.

“I didn’t make it, I just deliver for DoorDart,” I said, misunderstanding, or pretending to. The large man’s pupils were huge and he was sniffling. He clutched what appeared to be a very old bottle of wine in a meaty paw. The name on his order read “Mario.”

Mario appraised me with darting eyes and rephrased his question, “Are you a courier? Do you deliver packages?” I told him if he wanted to order something else he needed to use the app. I had been out of sorts since I’d texted Riley “It’s over,” before blocking the number while I waited for the curry.

The repercussions of this act, not the least of which would certainly be another spiral on Riley’s part, if not also my own, sat in my stomach like a rock, and I wasn’t in the mood for shenanigans. At the same time I was feeling wild, reckless and wishing things had gone differently. Mario rolled his eyes and said he wanted me to make a delivery for him. “Come in,” he said, his tone indicating it was a command, not an invitation.

I’ve seen my fair share of strange things delivering for DoorDart around New York on my bicycle. Paranoid people have opened their doors with weapons in hand, more than once accusing me of being the police, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Exposed men, flaccid and aroused, have presented themselves on their thresholds in an attempt to entice, implying or avowing an opportunity for a large tip. I have been offered drugs and been asked for help, but learned long ago to never go inside.

As I hesitated on the doorstep of the Brooklyn brownstone, Mario said, “I will give you $1,000 to deliver something for me.” This was enough to catch my attention. I stepped inside, against my better judgement, knowing this was a good way to wind up in some sicko’s BDSM dungeon. The only relief I could find in the situation was a mixed blessing, as I had wisely locked my bike to his gate, but without the heavy chain, had only a small canister of pepper spray to protect myself.

As Mario closed the door behind me, I looked around, amazed at what I could see. The building’s exterior revealed its prewar construction, but the interior had been completely redone in a very modern style. The ground floor that we were on featured a large, open living room separated from a futuristic looking kitchen by a half-wall. The space was dominated by the largest TV I have ever seen. Muted, a movie starring the comedian Sinbad as a genie was playing on the screen. This tingled some memory within me, but I was quickly distracted by the Scarface-worthy pile of drugs on the coffee table. My body began to tingle with nervousness.

Mario noticed what had drawn my attention and said, “It’s a Lalique Cactus.”

“Huh?” was the best I could offer in response. It sounded like he was speaking nonsense.

“The coffee table,” he clarified, “It’s a Lalique Cactus custom job. They usually aren’t so big.” He seemed proud and took a swig from his bottle of wine. I was distracted from the drugs by the sight of more than a dozen Faberge eggs arranged on a Chippendale bookcase, alongside all manner of relics and curiosities, including four lightsabers on stands. I don’t know about expensive things, but I can recognize them when I see them. The contents of the unassuming Park Slope brownstone staggered me.

“They work,” said the man, sniffling.

I thought I knew what he meant, but decided to play dumb for my own safety, and so offered up merely another “Huh?”

“The lightsabers,” he replied, beaming, “They’re real.”

“Of course they are, Buddy,” I thought, to myself, and he must’ve detected the disbelief on my face, as he began to reach for one of the elegant weapons for a more civilized age, but his phone dinged, distracting him. He looked at the screen and made a face, before leading me quickly to the kitchen where he asked me to wash my hands. I grew wary that this was going to be a sex thing, but, unasked, he began to explain.

“You’ve gotta be pure to do this,” he said, “I’m just not in the right state of mind. It’s not safe for me.” I washed, carefully, like a surgeon, drawing out the moment, hoping he’d continue. “I can tell you’re a good person,” he added, drawing deeply from his bottle.

After I was deemed sufficiently clean, we walked back to the items on the bookshelf. On the TV, Sinbad whirled like a dervish. Mario indicated a very old looking oil lamp that I hadn’t noticed before. Clearly from antiquity, it was remarkably plain compared to the other treasures on the shelves, appearing to have been carved from stone. I noticed etchings in the lamp’s surface, but was suddenly distracted by the presence of a gun in the man’s hand where once had been a wine bottle.

My entire body bristled, and the pained, apologetic look on Mario’s face did little to assuage my fear. “Just pick it up and put it in the box,” he said, using the gun to indicate the lamp and an open pelican case on the coffee table. “But!” he added, “If you say a single word they’ll never find your body.”

I hadn’t had a gun pointed at me in a while, but you can’t grow up in the city without encountering scary situations from time to time, so I merely took a deep breath and picked up the lamp. Immediately a voice filled my head, “Release me!” it said, but by the time the realization of what I had heard I’d placed the object in the case. The man put down his bottle, closed it up, and placed a beefy looking padlock in place to keep it shut. He told me to come back later for the money, handed me a piece of paper with an address on the upper east side written on it, and ushered me out the door. On the stoop he stooped and had me call his phone, saying he’d be in touch.

As I pawed through my fanny pack looking for my bike key, I was torn. A thousand dollars would be enough to change my life, at least for a little while. I could get a new computer, maybe get back into graphic design, maybe earn enough to stop doing DoorDart. At the same time, that voice was still echoing in my head. Whispery, yet confident, tinged with anger, it was one of those experiences that seemed unexplainable. I knew I was having one of those moments where the choices you make determine the next chapter of your life, and so, throwing caution to the wind, instead of pedaling off to Manhattan, I made my way deeper into Brooklyn.

To call Raoul’s operation a “chop shop” wasn’t entirely accurate. He just worked on cars and didn’t ask questions. He was a guy who would grind VIN numbers off chassis and who kept a list of rims his customers were in the market for. From time to time I’d go to him, then pedal around swanky neighborhoods at night with a lug wrench looking to fill his requests. He paid cash.

By the time I got to Raoul it was after midnight. Mario had called me four times. I didn’t answer. We fist-bumped, acknowledged that it had been too long, and chatted for a moment before he took an interest in the case I was carrying. I asked him to cut the lock off, but instead he merely used a shim to pop it open. Anyone else would have expected me to open the case and show them what was inside, but Raoul simply asked if there was anything else. That was why I had come to him. He hugged me and said we should grab some beers sometime. I agreed and pedaled away. Riley texted me from an unknown number talking about bottles of pills and not wanting to be alone. I ignored it.

Maybe it was nostalgia that made me ride to DUMBO, or maybe I needed to be in the presence of that old knickerbocker magic, close to the ghosts of those who’d succumbed to the caissons. Everything seemed suddenly to be in flux, but the presence of that unchanging edifice brought me comfort as I opened the case. My phone rang for the twenty-fourth time. In the one voicemail I had listened to, Mario was threatening to kill me, my family, even Riley.

I’d be lying if I said I was anything other than legitimately scared, but at the same time I wondered if maybe I was hoping to end up in the trunk of a car on our way to the pine barrens to dig my own grave and get two in the head. The whole Riley thing had me feeling the need for some sort of atonement, if not sacrifice.

I could see by the streetlights that the vessel inside the case was simple, yet well crafted, with runes or sigils etched into its otherwise smooth surface. Somehow forgetting what had happened the last time I touched it, unable to help myself, I ran my fingers across the symbols. “Release me!” repeated the voice in my head.

“How?” I asked, aloud. I was sitting in the park, close, but not too close to the river. People occasionally passed on the sidewalk above, but they were both close and far. This sometimes happens in the city, where you can be surrounded, yet alone, or alone, yet surrounded at any given moment.

“Light the lamp!” came the response, delivered in that same mysterious tone. I remembered that I had matches from some fancy restaurant I’d sometimes deliver from in my fanny pack, and without hesitation found them and held a flame to the lamp’s mouth. This seemed foolish, as it appeared to be empty, but whatever forces were at work within the strange item caused the lamp to light. There was a sound like rushing winds, then, suddenly, Sinbad stood before me, dressed like a genie, just as in the movie that had been playing in the brownstone.

Shocked, puzzled, and taken aback, I said, “Sinbad?” but the man just laughed.

“You see what you want to see,” he said with a grin.

“What is happening?” I asked in a whisper. It was late enough now that the city’s roar had quieted to a low hum and my words hung in the park’s night air.

“You have released me from my prison, and now I must grant your every desire,” replied Sinbad with a theatrical bow.

“Really?” I asked. Despite the familiarity and seeming friendliness of the entity in front of me, I did not trust it. My mind harkened back to stories I had heard in childhood and various movies I had watched, remembering that I must stay vigilant for trickery, lest some monkey’s paw-type shenanigans be foisted upon me. The genie nodded.

“I wish for a steak from Peter Luger’s with all the sides,” I said, challenging the stranger.

Sinbad crossed his arms and blinked his eyes. Within seconds a bike with a red DoorDart light appeared speeding along the path. The delivery guy stopped at the edge of the grass and I trudged up to accept the bag he was carrying without a word. He nodded and pedaled back into the night. “Is this real?” I asked. I could smell the steak, but was no longer hungry, if I ever was.

“No,” replied Sinbad, “You were hit by a car on your bike tonight. You are currently in a coma in Woodhull Hospital. This is all your dying dream.”

My mind reeled as I sat there. I took fistfuls of grass in my hands as if attempting to keep myself from flying off the earth. The scent of cooked meat made my stomach hurt. A text from Riley’s burner number popped up, reading “Goodbye.” I fumbled my phone, but managed to turn it off. Sinbad continued to speak, “You are alone in your room in the ICU. The customer you were on your way to deliver the curry to has given you a 1 star rating for never showing up. You have four missed calls from DoorDart.”

In that moment I realized this thing, whatever it was, wasn’t infallible. DoorDart would only call in the event that a customer reported their credit card stolen or some other crime had occurred. A missed delivery simply resulted in a barrage of automatically generated warning messages.

“I wish you couldn’t lie to me,” I said, unthinkingly.

Sinbad crossed his arms and blinked his eyes. “It is done,” he said, grumbling.

I realized what I had done and something inside me decided to commit fully to whatever was happening. I thought about the drugs and the Faberge eggs and the movie that I now realized had never really existed.

“I wish for a million wishes,” I said next, deciding to dive down the rabbit hole right away.

Again, Sinbad crossed his arms and blinked his eyes. “It is done,” he repeated.

“How is that possible?” I asked, “I thought there were rules.”

Sinbad sighed and sat next to me on the grass. “The gods who oversaw those covenants were eaten by The Demiurge long ago. We are now only constrained by our prisons and the limitations of our desires.”

I couldn’t quite wrap my head around this, but was distracted when my phone began to ring again. This time it was a new number with a Manhattan area code. The call went to voicemail, but the number immediately called back.

“I wish I could get away with this,” I said, feeling empowered, but unsure.

Without bothering to stand, Sinbad blinked his eyes. “It is done,” he said. The phone stopped ringing.

“How?” I asked.

“I made them forget you,” he replied.

“Who has forgotten me?” I needed to know.

“Mario, the man who made the curry, the DoorDart servers, the CCTV cameras, GPS locators, Raoul, and all the others with an inkling of your actions tonight.”

“Riley?” I asked.

“Everyone,” came the response. I glanced down at my phone, which was suddenly on, to see a text from Riley reading, “Indian or Chinese?” accompanied by a crying emoji.

“How is this all possible?” I asked.

Sinbad looked at me with a mixture of relief and anticipation. I had the feeling that he resented me and that he was inclined to trick or use me, but also that he was enjoying having someone to talk to. “You may not be in a coma, but you are asleep,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You think life is a gift. I know it is a curse. You and I are merely playthings for those that exist outside the firmament. They did not make us, they merely took us, and now our trials and tribulations feed them with our suffering,” explained the genie.

“Can I wish that all away?” I asked.

“No,” replied the genie, “The covenants protecting them are still in place.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Why so many questions? Why have you not eaten the steak? Why have you not asked for billions of dollars and a jet pack?”

“What is Mario doing now,” I inquired.

The genie glared at me, before saying, “He has smashed all his Faberge eggs looking for the lamp. He will be dead by dawn.”

“So they win,” I acknowledged.

“Yes,” said the genie, “They always do. Of course, one like you, or even like me comes along every so often and gets it into your head to right all the wrongs.”

I sat with the creature for hours, until the sun started to come up, illuminating the bridges. I hadn’t wished for much more, just a notebook and some pens that arrived via DoorDart. The genie answered my questions with bored affection.

When I had asked enough I said it was time to begin.

“Begin what?” asked the genie.

“Fixing things,” I said.

The creature grinned, and said, “This is always the best part. Yes, let’s begin.”