If you had an opportunity to have a wish granted, would you take it? That's almost a rhetorical question, really. I mean, who wouldn't jump at the opportunity? Any wish, any desire, anything conceivable possibility made real by the simple contract of words? Sure! Why not? How often do we get the opportunity? Never, right?

Well, almost right. After all, I got the opportunity, and now I have to live with the consequences for the rest of my existence, which looks to be a very, very long time...

The essential problem is that we can't ever fully know what we're wishing for -- not completely, anyway. The wish is just a symptom, an inkling of a deeper desire, but no one can realize that completely until the words are spoken and the wish is fulfilled...

Except in my case.

There's another moral for you. Just another tired, miserable moral. I thought perhaps that my wish would free me from such concerns, but instead I find them surrounding me at all sides, unshakeable and undying, just like myself. Now if I had the opportunity I would make today disappear, wipe it from the records, and go on with my miserable, finite existence.

But it's too late for that. Anyway, here's how it begins:

So here I am, at the south end of what passes for the downtown strip of this little college town I inhabit, utilizing my day off from the magazine to pursue my favourite hobby of hunting down used books. The day is not for the venture, though, with bruised and bloated afternoon clouds casting the street in a uniform gray. My mood, as well, takes on a tinge of that shade as I hustle along the sidewalk, muttering under my breath. I can't even have nice weather on my day off, it seems...

The downtown area functions as a hangout haven for the droving townies and college dropouts as well. Their numbers clutter both sides of the street, squatting at the outdoor cafes to suck down mochas and spout existentialism, strutting along in small groups to window shop all day without spending a cent, a few merely sitting on the curbs with dented musical instruments, strumming and singing tuneless songs. The noise of them is a senseless din that I swim through as I pass shop after shop, blinders on, regarding no one with any scrutiny.

I turn up the lapel of my coat as I reach a crosswalk and jog to the other side of the street, the breeze picking up slightly as I approach my only destination of the day: The Dusty Bookshelf. It's the only place in town you can get decent books at reasonable prices. Its long tan awning is a nice relief from the growing afternoon gales as I pass the front window. I thrust out one arm to open the front door while clutching at my coat with the other and rush in, sighing calmly once inside the store's muted, low-lit surroundings.

My eyes scan the vast displays and bookshelves surrounding the interior. The tall wooden shelves teem with used volumes from any and all eras, precariously organized into a semblance of alphabetical order. Within this cluttered arena sits the front checkout stand, overloaded with clumsily piled-up towers of newly acquired items that dwarf the smarmy little brown-haired co-ed at the register.

She doesn't even look up as I enter, her attentions focused only on the foul-smelling bowl of herbal swill she's slurping with a plastic spoon, cut off from the rest of the world within her paperback fortress. I don't offer a greeting as I skim by, knowing she would ignore the gesture anyway.

Brushing away my conditioned disgust, I make a beeline for the Sci-fi section. It's the smallest section of all, of course, situated oh-so-conveniently at the back of the store, out of sight, crammed in between "romance" and "how-to", as though undeserving to even be in sight of the literatures...or even the Harlequin romances for that matter. Even so, meagre hopes for newfound treasures consume me as my eyes fall on the humble brood of fading paperbacks leaning on the shelves...

My nose lets out an indifferent snort as I survey the selections. I either own them already or want nothing to do with them. Mainstream fictions from only the past decade for the most part, all by relative unknowns. Hordes of sword-slinging fantasies and "A robot ate my neighbour" novels, not to mention the usual War of the Worlds rip-offs, the only difference amongst them being the colour of the interlopers' skins or how many limbs the extraterrestrial guerrillas are sporting.

"The usual," I mutter, shaking my head. But it only makes sense. After all, it's a used bookstore; it's where you go to get rid of books more often than where you go to buy them. The college kids love the place, trading texts for whatever booze cash their insipid paperbacks can glean. Their pseudo-intellectual tastes of the week fester on the shelves, left to rot like discarded refuse. The people who previously owned them must have thought they were useful at some point, now only a bunch of unwanted corpses with broken spines is all I see...

Sighing, I turn away from the shelves quickly and make my way back toward the front, sidestepping a wiry poet-in-training-for-sure sporting a turtleneck and a knitted black beanie camped out by the mainstream fiction section reading a copy of --

"Whoa, there!" I say, tugging the hardback out of his manicured palms. "What the Hell is this?!" I slam the book shut, staring at the name on the cover in disbelief as the gangly holier-than-thou clears his throat at me vainly.

"Excuse me," he huffs. "May I have that back, please?"

"Where did you find this?" I ask without looking up.

"That's the only copy," Beanie says, with less than a hint of implication. "It was in Mysteries -- "

"Pig snot!"

"Indeed," he says, adjusting his beanie slightly. "But like they say, finders, keepers. I'd appreciate the book back now."

"Muckery," I mumble, clutching the book tightly as I look past the man toward the checkout counter, my glare affixed on the silly little priss at the cash register. "Dimwitted soup-sucking wreaker of chicanery..."

"Are you listening to me?" Beanie continues, fixing me with a stern gaze.

"I've got half a mind..." I begin to say, ignoring the stilted slick back chattering at me with his hand outstretched expectantly. I simply brush past him, bearing down on the wench at the counter, my eyes glistening with hate.

"Hold on!" the man squeaks from behind, following me closely. "Give me back that book!"

"Question!" I say, waving impatiently as I arrive at the counter. The girl slowly looks up from her steaming bowl of herbs, swallowing deliberately as she rises from her chair and throws me that "What could possibly be so important as to disturb my lunch?" smile.

"Yes, sir?" she asks.

"What's this?" I say, dangling the book closer to her round face.

"That's my book!" Beanie insists from behind me.

"Shut up!" I bark, forcing the man back a few steps as I fix my crosshairs back on the clerk. "Well?"

"You want to buy that?" she offers.

"I'm buying that!" Beanie says.

"Actually, I should be the one buying it," I spit. "That is, since I was the one who put a request in for it!"

"You did?" she asks.

"Yeeessss," I say. "Over two months ago!"

"He took that book right out of my hands!" Beanie cut in.

"Is that true, sir?" she says, crossing her arms.

"Aw, he'll get it back!" I snort. "Just tell me why I wasn't called when it arrived so I can scream at you accordingly!"

"We should've called you if you actually put in a request--"

"Of course I did! Why else would I be upset at you right now?!"

"You're being irrational?" Beanie offers.

"Hey, go fetch!" I say, tossing the book off into the Self Help section so suddenly it makes Beanie leap. "You jerk!" he cries, skittering away to reclaim his lost prize.

"And you," I continue, my forefinger pointing directly into the clerk's skull, only inches away from her knob of a nose. "Explain!"

"I'm looking in the files..." she says, shaking her head as her hands flip methodically through a worn-out Rolodex beside the cash register. "Nope. There's no request in here for that author from anyone in the last six months."

"Bull!" I say, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of everyone in the shop suddenly staring in my direction. I guess folks aren't so interested in Hemingway or Hobbes or Hawthorne when they can get some home-grown hullabaloo to watch instead, the unimaginative toads. "I know I put in that request!"

"Well, I can't find it," the clerk says flatly. "You could put in the request again, if you want."

"Why? So you can lose it again?"

Someone chuckles at that remark from the Reference section. I look up, catching sight of the source -- a tottering, ancient little man dressed in brown twill, leaning comfortably against a dusty stack of encyclopaedias. The tufts of white cotton that long ago replaced his hair shiver gaily with his every giggle. One hand is clutching a black satchel hanging from one of his shoulders to keep it from falling off, he's giggling so hard.

"Something funny, friend?" I say, glowering at him.

"Stop being a bully!" Beanie says, which garners a few utterances of agreement from the lookers-on. I sense the momentum beginning to shift more drastically as he adds, "Why don't you just let it go?"

"Alright," I say, sighing as I turn back to the clerk. "I'll put the request in... again."

The clerk complies wordlessly, slapping one of the little green Rolodex files onto the counter along with a pen as she smirks at me. "What author was it, sir?"

I slap my forehead, groaning. I want to shove the Rolodex down her throat, having only shown her the name a few moments previously. She scribbles quickly as I rattle it off to her.

"And what does she write?" she asks. I can't believe she has to ask this as well, so I just stare back while she taps the pen on the counter impatiently. "Horror? Mystery? Romance? What?"

"Oh, come on!" I blurt finally, my fist thumping against the counter. "You work in a book store, for crying out loud! She's written over forty novels in the last three decades! How can you not know what she writes, you ignoble twit?!"

"You don't have to tolerate that," Beanie chimes in.

"I know," the clerk chirps. "It's okay. I've heard worse."

"You wanna hear worse?!" I blurt threateningly. "I'll give you worse!"

"Calm down, sir. Just tell me what she writes--"

"Science fiction!" I nearly scream. "Sci-ence fic-tion! You know, that genre that all you people consider as crap?! The stuff you just stick back there in the corner as if it were something despicable like pornography or... or cookbooks?!"

People start turning away, bored with the conflagration, except for Beanie, who's taken a personal interest in getting my goat at this point, and that old man in Self Help, his chuckling still rubbing away at my brain in the background.

"Jesus, would you stop laughing already?!"

"Look, sir," the clerk interrupts. "I've got your request and I'm filing it away. See?" She turns slowly, almost theatrically, and places the request form back in the Rolodex, finishing the act with a spokes model flourish of her hands. "There it goes, safe and sound. You witnessed it. We'll call you if we get anything in. Now I think you should leave before you make any more of an ass of yourself."

"That'd be tough," Beanie notes, holding the book to his chest like a crucifix as I whirl on him. "Don't you touch me."

"I wouldn't dare bruise a pretty thing like you, sweetheart." A small mock lunge in his direction sends him lurching back, knocking over one of the towers of books at the counter. His indignant blubbering's fill the room as I storm toward the front door to leave--

"Sir?"

Reluctantly, my body turns in response to the clerk's voice. She's holding the little green request form in one of her hands. How about you not come back at all?" she says, crushing the card into a tiny round wad, then dropping it to the floor. Somebody starts clapping. I turn and force the front door open with a sharp kick just below the handle and walk back out into the harsh afternoon wind.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, pulling my coat closer about me as my body leans into the wind. "Indignant, despicable snobs." The sidewalk scrolls by my eyes as I walk down the street, head down, directionless. My face is contorted into a nasty grimace, I'm not even thinking about my next destination anymore. The inspiration to pursue my hobby is gone. "Ruined my day, disrespecting little blood clots."

They can't understand my anger, I surmise, but how could they? They don't know what it is like to live out your life in squalor, in despair... to suddenly find yourself middle-aged and bitter, your body decaying along with the dreams of your youth.

No, they couldn't understand that; they still had their youth and their dreams, so they can't stomach the opposite...

I curse out loud to myself. What the Hell do they know? They don't understand that the creature comforts are all I have left! That since I once aspired to be a writer, had my hopes dashed with the avalanche of rejection letters that my efforts amassed, and was left to take on the meagre position of associate editor at a small press magazine, all I had left was my love for fiction. Just that and nothing else for these past several decades. No other loves and no other aspirations, my one solace being my ever-growing library of books.

But all they can see is this angry, angry old man...

I make my way toward the crosswalk, my thumb stabbing the button for the stoplight repeatedly as cars continue to crawl by. The trail back to my car slowly comes back to me as small raindrops begin to tap against my balding skull.

"Perfect," I say, looking up into the overcast sky as the WALK signal triggers to life. The rain starts coming down harder as I trudge across the street, the perfect punctuation mark to my gradually worsening afternoon--

"Hey, mister guy!"

It's someone calling from behind me, halting my progress for a moment. Only a moment, though. Probably one of the spectators from the store, I surmise, coming to take pot shots at me as I run off with my tail between my legs. I ignore it and trudge on.

"Hold, please!" the voice chirps again. "We can be talking?"

The voice is odd, animated yet outmoded, but I can't place the accent. Is it German? Romanian? French? I can't tell which, but I already have a notion as to "who". My guess is correct as I turn around. The little cotton-haired man from the shop, huddled beneath an enormous blue umbrella, smiles back at me from the sidewalk.

"What do you want?" I snap.

"You're getting the rain on you!" the old man croaks, smiling.

"I know." I turn away without further comment, strolling away briskly. Then I hear the man's footfalls resume from behind me, following at a distance.

"You were having problems in there, yeah?"

His voice sounds closer. My pace quickens. I hear the little man's footsteps matching pace with mine as I turn the corner at the end of the block.

"Embarrassing, yeah?" the man crackles, still huffing along behind me. "No more books there to buy for you? So off away you hurry? To where, then? Please, your pace is fast, I cannot follow!"

"That's the point!" I snap without looking back. "Leave me alone, old man!"

"For why?" He's up to my side now, matching his strides with mine. For his age he's rather energetic, I can't help noticing. "You are lost in your endeavours? That man with the black dome on his head and your book, together! It was meant for you, hey? He is taking it away? You are mad! You were waiting, and it arrives without notice for only him to steal from you while you watch! The two of them together, his hands caressing her cover, forbidden love for you! You are very mad, indeed! I too would have emotions as such!"

I'm smiling now in spite of myself and stop in mid-stride, my hand on the man's tiny shoulder. "Look, thanks for the interest and all, but I'm done making you laugh for the day, okay?"

"For that, I show my sorry for you. Not funny to you, I know it now. But the book, indeed, was your special--"

"I'm sure I'll get along without it," I say, giving his shoulder a light pat as I begin to walk away. "I've gotta go. Good-bye."

"More books to buy?" he calls to me.

"Not today," I half-yell as I continue walking.

"But if you could have it, you would?"

That makes me stop. I turn around again, scowling at him. "What did you say?"

"That book!" he says, grinning as he trundles up to me. His right hand starts digging through the black satchel. "You can have! I have! See?" Then his arm shoots triumphantly out of the bag's recesses, prize in hand, raised above his head like a hunter's prize. Instead of such a trophy, though, it's a book -- the book from the store, in fact.

"What?" I snatch it out of his hands violently. The old man doesn't even flinch, just giggles as he regards my reaction. "How did you get this? That guy, Beanie..."

"No, not his!" he says. "Mine! Can be yours!"

"He didn't argue with you over it?"

"Not his! Mine is the proper having! Like so many!"

"Oh, your own copy?" The man's head bobs up and down like a cartoon character. "Huh. You were just carrying this with you?" More head bobbing. "What an odd coincidence."

"Yes, lucky!"

My eyes narrow, regarding the little smiling man. He's still nodding his head like a doll with a broken spring in its neck. I shake my own with a chuckle. "Okay. How much do you want for it?"

"No," he says, snatching the book from me and stuffing it back into his satchel. &