Fix It

Fix It

  By Grayson Queen

  Copyright 2013 Grayson Queen. Editing and cover provided by Queen Creative.

  “Initial here.”

  It’s a stack of papers really.

  “Here.”

  More than it is a contract.

  “And here.”

  Then again, it’s more of a work order. A little thing you do to get things moving forward, but don’t really read. Like when you load new software onto your computer. There’s a contractual obligation that says, click here if you agree. As if you wouldn’t. You’ve already spent two hundred some odd dollars.

  What if you don’t agree?

  Then you get nothing-- no ifs, ands, or buts.

  I rip off the pink copy and give it to the man who didn’t bother to read, only signed where I put my finger. He signed because he had to. If there was anything he didn’t agree with, then he has to hold his tongue. He’s the one who got himself into this mess.

  Thirty pages of small text titled: I’ll be careful what I wish for.

  The entire packaged document-- pictures and all-- fits neatly into my briefcase, company issued to everyone in my department. I am the facilitator and standing behind me is my crew. They aren’t waiting in bulldozers or holding wrenches. These are educated men-- educated in various ways with a plethora of abilities.

  “Now what?" The man asks.

  I won’t bother describing the man now because you won’t recognize him later. I’m sure he has a name, but I don’t care. He looks eerily like every other person I’ve dealt with before and after I’m done dealing with them.

  “I’ll need the item and then my men will take care of the rest.”

  The man grimaces with reluctance. There’s been times these men and women have changed their minds, tightened their grips, and ran.

  We also have a department for that.

  This is the item he hands me; a claw. Writhed and dead from that which was once a chicken. I have him place the claw in a box. The box goes under my arm, my briefcase in my hand, and I into my car.

  Here in my car, I make a call.

  Number one on my speed dial.

  “It’s Mark,” I say. “Everything is signed and collected.”

  “Good job,” my boss is on the other end, “take it from the top and let me know when you’re done.”

  I hang up, step out of the car and signal the boys to get to work.

  The organization I work for is highly tuned. It’s had thousands of years to work out the kinks.

  And no, I’m not thousands of years old. I’ve only been working here for ten years, but I burned the midnight oil, got my promotions, pulled down the paychecks, and now I’m here.

  Do I like my job?

  I don’t know what you want me to say. Maybe.

  Once upon a time there was always something different, but after awhile you begin to realize that people are all the same. They all want money, power, and more of both. So I suppose if it weren’t for the people, I’d love my job, but I think that’s everyone’s problem.

  Anyway, we're finely tuned. Facilitator means boss, but I don't sit around all day eating. I work every step of the way.

  Facilitator means problem solver.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  Doctor Roy is circling the man like a specimen.

  “Not much to think,” Roy says, “Same old, same old. Spot inject cellulite, a little facial reconstruction, add some hair, remove some hair and maybe some laser eye surgery.”

  “So?”

  “So, what you want to know is if I’ll meet deadline and the answer is yes.”

  “Perfect, I’ll leave you to your work.”

  To this man, these people aren’t people. They might as well be a wall and we might as well have been discussing what color we were going to paint it.

  And yes, I admit I find some amusement in it-- talking around the man as if he wasn’t there, his eyes darting back and forth as we converse. A little fear drifting in his eyes. Fear is good. Maybe he won’t forget, maybe all my work isn’t futile, maybe the human race isn’t destined to destruction.

  Yeah! I am helping the world.

  Could you hear the sarcasm?

  God, I wish I hadn’t quit smoking.

  Don’t ask me to explain this, but the chicken claw only has three fingers (if you call them fingers). As far as I knew, most have four, one of them being a thumb type of thing. Again, don’t ask me to explain. Three is the magic number. Three wishes. Three. Three. Three. Three times two is six. Three sixes are the sign of the beast.

  Someone once, who wasn’t so happy with the contract, ranted to me and said I was in league with the devil.

  “If we were,” I said, “then we wouldn’t have given you something for nothing. We wouldn’t be here now cleaning up the mess you made. What we are doing, kind sir, is educating people on the need to gain and achieve things for oneself.”

  He made the sign of the cross and ran away screaming.

  Sometimes it’s hard to remember why I do this.

  With wish one down, we move on to number two.

  I’ve already called ahead to the office to get my accountants running over the numbers. When I get there, my thousand-square-foot space is littered with papers. Waiting for me are Jack and John-- twins, accountants, and creepy.

  They say at the same time, “We have to hand it to this one, he thought big.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Could be worse,” John says.

  “He could have asked for all the money in the world,” Jack says.

  “But he settled for one billion dollars,” John says.

  “So?” I ask.

  “So he spent it all,” the twins say.

  “Which is why he went to wish three,” I say and pull out my tablet. The file comes up and I can feel my stomach turn. I think I have an ulcer.

  I think.

  What does an ulcer feel like? What I have is this sharp pain, like I have cramps and my skin gets sweaty. If it’s not an ulcer, then it should be. I deserve an ulcer. I’m over worked and over stressed. I should be sitting down with the rest of the guys in my department, doing shots of antacid. I should at least get that much from this, camaraderie in discomfort.

  “Well,” I say still glaring at the display. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”

  The twins glance at each other.

  “The password,” John says.

  “To trade stocks,” Jack says.

  “Time on the super computer,” John says.

  “A lot,” Jack says.

  “Coffee,” John says.

  “Snacks,” Jack says.

  “That it?” I ask.

  The twins look at each other again.

  “Yup,” They say.

  “Give me an hour.”

  I seem to be rushing everywhere. I’m rushing headlong into an ulcer and an antacid addiction.

  The things most often wished for in first wishes are menial (i.e. I wish I had a beer or I wish I had a hamburger.) Unless, of course, you believe that you’ve actually found yourself a magic lamp, in which case the more common wishes are testing wishes. Testing wishes are never too in depth, but never too wasteful -- I wish I was attractive or intelligent.

  Then the second wish, ninety percent of the time, is for money. The other ten percent is for sex. There’s a correlation there, but I’m not so sure I want to explore it.

  And for the third and final wish, everyone-- and I mean everyone-- even if they don’t think they’ll get it, wishes for more wishes. The downfall of this idea rests in the next wish.

  Do you assume that your wish for more wishes worked? Do you wish for that neato island off the coast of Greece, or do you play it safe
and make the next wish as if it’s your last wish?

  We all know wishing for more wishes is invalid. You’d laugh at how many people screw up their last wish because of this.

  And you wonder why I doubt the intelligence of the human race.

  Oh yeah, every so often you get a guy making altruistic wishes-- like I wish humans would evolve, I wish cockroaches didn’t rule the world, or I wish lizards tasted like chicken. But these people are so few and far between that it’s best to consider them anomalies.

  Yet still, these anomalies are the reason we exist. The ones who do something right. The ones who understand that they should work for what they want and be careful what they wish for.

  Be careful what you wish for. Seriously, be careful.

  Tell everyone, spread the word and educate your children. And if you aren’t going to teach them about wishes, at least send them to school for chemical, molecular and biological science, so that one day, maybe it’ll be easier to figure out how to de-solidify Jell-O.

  That way I’m not standing on a beach looking at this freaky red wobbly mass because all the fish are flopping around, making googly eyes and sucking faces.

  Seriously, who wishes the ocean was filled with Jell-O?

  ###

  About the author:

  Grayson Queen is a full-time novelist and painter located out of Orange County, California. His artistic passions range from deeply philosophical to unusual science fiction and fantasy.

  In his free time, Grayson dabbles with music, sculpture, and various explorations of geek culture. He is happily married to a dinosaur, and is happily owned by two amazing cats.

  Novels:

  Orange Buffalo

  Short Stories:

  3676

  A Pirate's Life for Me

  Coinage

  Dehydration

  Fix It

  Hostile Takeover

  The Telltale Toilet

  Graphic Stories:

  Dead Happy

  The Eater

  Children's Books:

  The Angry Dragon

  The Lonely Robot

  Check for other upcoming books in print or follow at:

  https://www.graysonqueen.com