A Long Drive to Nowhere

Here I am ten years later, still in this same old record store, with the same old smell, with the same emotionless faces. I'm still sitting on this stool, staring out this window that's so conveniently placed, so I am staring at happy faces eating expensive meals most of the day. This is the first time since I found that dreadful thing that I have had time to contemplate just how awful my life really is. So what if I have an endless amount of wishes? So what if I am envied by every greedy man who had wished he'd found it before me? I am not happy; it's the one wish that can't be granted.

The alarm clock always seemed to do a little more than just wake me up. I would almost scream; maybe it was more like a whimper. Charlotte insisted it was the only way I'd ever wake up; I insisted that she just loved to see me practically jump out of bed every morning. She wasn't the best woman to ever shop for alarm clocks, but she was my wife; I loved her. As my heart rate began to slow down, I looked at the clock, 6:15 a.m.; today was going to be a long, predictable day. I washed my tired face, put on some wrinkled clothes, drank some leftover coffee, and I was out the door. It was so predictable and routine it was almost scary. These were my thoughts everyday on the long drive to nowhere.

My cubicle was approximately five feet by ten feet. Its sides were covered by blue carpeting and their height wasn't very impressive either; my neighboring cubicle was occupied by a man with a horrible receding hairline. My desk was covered by the same things it's always covered in; the same pens, the same stapler, the same computer screen with the same beach-scene desktop. Except today, something caught my eye; something was different. This pen, it was fantastic. This pen on my desk, the pen that I had never seen before, was the most beautiful pen I had set my eyes on. It was trimmed in gold, with beautiful, sparkling diamonds on the spots the gold had missed. I looked around.

Someone is trying to set me up. I am going to pick up this pen, and it's going to send electrical shocks through my entire body. The whole office will laugh at me, and I'll never live it down.

I picked up the royal pen.

No shock? No heads popping up from cubicles to witness the practical joke of the week?

I was impressed, to say the least. This pen was beautiful. I began to scribble on an extra sheet of yellow paper I had laying around. But instead of scribbling what I thought would be a simple square, I had managed to jot something else down. "Make A Wish My Friend!" What was in that coffee? I soon began to realize that it wasn't the coffee, and this is where my story begins, and quickly spirals out of control.

That first day was calm. I tested the pen out, just to see if I was nuts. I wished a beautiful head of hair upon my neighbor in cubicle 23. I looked up five seconds later, and there it was; the most magnificent hair-do I've seen on a 70 year-old man. I forgot the saying "Money is Power" and thought to myself, This golden pen is money AND power. I quit my job, and this is when my life became frantic.

I wished for money. I wished for a couple of nights with young ladies out at high class bars. I wished for a bigger home. I wished for more money, and more young ladies. I wished for a car that only God could afford, and shoes with solid gold soles. I wished for wishes, and I wished for a record store. I had wished my life into the All-American Dream. Then Charlotte found out about the young ladies, and assumed I was doing something illegal to get all this cash, fast. A divorce was followed by a custody battle over the kids, followed by anger, which only lead to me to one thing: blame the pen. It wasn't beautiful anymore, or fantastic, or magnificent. It was soon sitting at the bottom of a six foot hole; I buried it.

So here I am, ten years later. In this same old record store, with that same old musty smell, with the same emotionless faces. No more young ladies in high class bars. No more beautiful wife and perfect children. No more golden pen of endless wishes. Today I realize that I had everything. For a split second I had what every greedy, all American man could ever wish for. I had a fancy car, with expensive suits, a giant home, a lovely wife and children, and I owned my own business. I still have a fancy car, and expensive suits, and a giant home. I still own my own business. I miss my wife and kids. As I sit here concentrating on the hungry faces of the people across the street, it dawns on me. In between the wishes for young ladies and giant homes, I forgot to wish for happiness.