The Perfect Wish

The old guy had been patting his pockets for long enough that Jared had started to feel embarrassed for him. The waitress stood beside the table holding the black plastic check presenter against her hip, doing her best to politely hide her mounting frustration.

“I know I had it,” he said. “I wouldn’t have ordered if I didn’t.”

“It’s okay,” she told him. “Take your time.”

Jared watched over the rim of his coffee mug from the adjacent booth. The entire scene was playing out three feet to his left. When the man removed his jacket to more thoroughly rifle through his pockets, Jared couldn’t take it anymore.

“How much is it?”

The man turned to look at him. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

Jared cut the man off. “I know. How much?”

The waitress glanced at the check. “Fourteen eighty-six.”

“Put it on mine.”

The old man immediately shook his head. “No, I have it here somewhere.”

“It’s no big deal.”

The waitress smiled and strode away, but the old man looked crestfallen.

“I don’t take charity.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Jared considered the question. “Efficiency. You can either let me pay for your meal or you can keep checking those same six pockets until lunch. One of those options seems more productive.”

The old man’s mouth lifted in a slow grin. He snaked his arms back into his jacket sleeves, pulling it up over his shoulders and adjusting the collar.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’d still like to.”

Jared smiled. “Fine. Next time you see me, you can buy me breakfast.”

The man glanced at the empty seat across from Jared. “Mind if I join you while I finish my coffee?”

Jared gestured with an open palm. The man slid out of his booth and into Jared’s with his mug in tow. He was older than Jared had initially guessed, probably in his late seventies, though there was nothing frail about him. His white hair was combed straight back from his high forehead, and a neatly trimmed beard covered the lower half of his face. His dark wool coat carried an odor of sweet pipe tobacco, and the rest of his outfit did not appear to be cheap, which inclined Jared to believe the man had genuinely misplaced his wallet.

The man held out his hand. “Gunnar Verdandi.”

“Jared Rand.”

“Thank you, Jared.”

“You’re welcome, Gunnar Verdandi.”

“You always use people’s full names?”

“Only when they sound made up.”

Gunnar laughed as he leaned back in the booth. The waitress returned with the combined check and a pot of coffee, topping off both their mugs before moving on. Jared placed his debit card onto the holder and slid it to the edge of the table.

Gunnar brought his mug to his lips. He blew air from his nose, and Jared watched the steam from the scalding liquid pour over the edge like smoke from a cauldron.

“You do that often?” Gunnar asked, placing his drink back on the tabletop.

“Pay for strangers’ breakfasts?”

“Help people who didn’t ask.”

Jared shrugged. “I’ve never been one to shy away from a good deed when an opportunity presents itself.”

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The silence was filled with the clink of silverware against plates and the dull murmur of conversations happening around them. Gunnar looked thoughtfully at Jared, as though weighing his next words.

“What if I offered you something in addition to your next breakfast?”

Jared looked at him skeptically. “Such as?”

Gunnar gestured with raised palms. “A wish.”

Jared lifted an eyebrow, as though waiting for the punchline. “A wish?”

“One wish.”

Jared chuckled. “Can I wish for anything?”

“No restrictions. My gift to you.”

“No offense, but that’s a terrible gift.”

Gunnar cocked his head. “Most people don’t think so.”

“Most people don’t think things through all the way. In every story where someone gets a wish, they impulsively spew out what they want without any regard for the consequences and it always backfires.”

Gunnar’s lips curled into a smile again. “I see you’ve thought about this before.”

“Sure. Take money, for example. Probably the most common wish someone would make given the chance, right?”

“I imagine so.”

“Alright, so let’s just say I were to wish for a billion dollars. Does it appear in my bank account? Because if so, now I have a billion reasons for the IRS to knock on my door. Does it appear in cash? That’d be significantly worse. Do I win it? Inherit it? Does somebody have to die for me to get it?”

“You’re making this complicated.”

“No, I’m acknowledging that it is complicated,” Jared continued. “Forget money. Let’s say I wish for immortality.”

“You’d live forever.” Gunnar shrugged.

“Which sounds great until the sun expands. Forever means forever. Earth goes, I’m still here. Humanity goes, I’m still here. Eventually I’m floating through space for a few trillion years, experiencing the heat death of the cosmos, wishing I’d picked the billion dollars and taken my chances with the IRS.”

Gunnar laughed delightedly. “Then don’t wish for immortality.”

“Perfect health, then?”

“Sure, that sounds less risky.”

Jared leaned forward, squinting theatrically. “For how long?”

Gunnar’s smile widened again.

“See?” Jared said, leaning back with a grin of his own.

“I see.”

“And what does perfect mean? Do I still age? And what if I get hit by a bus? If I can’t get sick but I can spend the rest of my years paralyzed from the neck down, that’s a pretty awful wish.”

“You could wish to be happy.”

“No.” Jared stared at him. “That may be the worst thing to wish for.”

“Why?”

“Because happiness is chemistry. You could scramble my brain until I’m thrilled to stare at a wall while wallowing in my own filth for the rest of my life and technically, you’ve fulfilled the wish.”

Gunnar laughed hard enough that other patrons glanced over to see the source.

Jared shook his head. “This is why you don’t give people unrestricted wishes. It never ends well.”

“And yet I gave you one.”

“You offered one. I have not actually accepted.”

Gunnar’s countenance shifted from amused to something resembling approval, and with a slow nod, he said, “No, you haven’t.”

Jared picked up his coffee. “I’m not a very impulsive person.”

“Then think about it. You don’t have to decide now,” Gunnar said as he slid out of the booth. “Tomorrow morning. Same time. Breakfast and a wish.”

“You’re really committing to this bit, aren’t you?”

“I made you an offer.”

“You can take it back.”

“Some things, once offered, cannot be revoked. Think carefully, Jared Rand.”

Gunnar headed to the door and walked out of the diner.

⸻

Jared’s office was a short walk from the Ash Street Diner, occupying the third floor of an old building that had sat vacant for years before someone decided exposed ductwork and century-old hardwood floors justified charging twice the rent. The surrounding area had also enjoyed the same renaissance, and the stretch of buildings lining the red brick street that had once been left to rot had transformed into the center of modern commerce in Woden. Boutiques, restaurants, and trinket shops stretched off into the distance. Jared was in the heart of the town, and the view from his office window never failed to make him smile when he sat down each morning.

He was feeling unusually productive that day, and by mid-afternoon, he was caught up on work. His mind drifted back to breakfast and the offer he’d been given. He knew it was absurd, but he opened a new word document anyway. He wanted to try to puzzle his way through an idea that tickled him. He’d always found the monkey’s paw to be an intriguing premise. Be careful what you wish for. Why couldn’t he be careful enough to beat it?

“Okay,” he said, clicking on the blank title. He wrote precisely what he was attempting.

The Perfect Wish.

His fingers hovered over the keys, then he typed.

I wish for the best possible life.

He stared at the sentence. Best according to whom? He amended:

I wish to experience the best possible version of the remainder of my life, according to my own values and desires.

Except, he realized, his desires would change as he aged. Would the wish allow for change or keep him trapped with his current wants? Or worse still, what if the wish altered his desires? He could lose everything good in his life and the wish could make it so that was what he wanted.

“No,” he muttered under his breath. “That won’t cut it.”

He leaned back in his chair. He was playing with too many variables. Every choice branched into consequences, those consequences into others, spreading outward beyond any capacity to anticipate. Jared could spend the rest of his life constructing the wish and still overlook something because he could never know enough to specify the correct outcome.

But a wish could.

Jared sat forward and began typing.

I wish to live the best possible version of the rest of my natural life, according to what I would knowingly choose for myself if I could fully understand every consequence of every possible alternative—

He stopped, read it, then continued.

—without my benefit requiring greater harm, suffering, loss, or deprivation to anyone else than they would otherwise experience.

He read it from beginning to end, smiling at one portion in particular: according to what I would knowingly choose for myself if I could fully understand every consequence of every possible alternative. He had effectively outsourced the impossible variable calculation to the wish while retaining his own agency and values as the decision-making standard. Without specifying what the wish should give him, he had told it how to choose, and how to do so without purchasing his good fortune at someone else’s expense.

He hit print, retrieved the wish, folded it, and put it in his back pocket. He was looking forward to breakfast tomorrow.

⸻

Gunnar was already occupying the same booth they had shared the previous morning when Jared walked into the diner. A brown leather wallet sat conspicuously on the table. Jared slid into the seat across from him and nodded toward it.

“Glad to see you got your finances in order.”

“Indeed,” Gunnar chuckled. “It was waiting for me right where I’d left it. Order whatever you’d like.”

The waitress came over with a fresh pot of coffee, and Jared ordered eggs over-medium, bacon, and hash browns as she filled his mug. Gunnar asked for the same.

“Well?”

Jared reached behind him and pulled the folded sheet from his back pocket. He held it up between two fingers.

Gunnar’s eyebrows rose. “You wrote it down?”

“A perfect wish is complicated.”

“I thought you said this was a bit.”

“Oh, I still think it is,” Jared said, sliding the paper across the table. “But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t solve it.”

Gunnar picked it up and unfolded the page. Jared watched Gunnar’s eyes move as he read it carefully. When he finally placed it on the table, a faint smile appeared beneath Gunnar’s beard.

“You’re certain this is what you want?”

Jared laughed. “That’s your critique?”

“It isn’t a critique.”

“I spent half the afternoon trying to break that sentence.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

Gunnar leaned back, tapping his finger on the page.

“Did I miss something?”

Gunnar picked up the paper again. “Explain this part to me.” His finger pointed to the middle of the sentence.

“I can’t know every consequence of everything that happens to me. I can’t account for all the possible outcomes,” Jared continued. “But the wish can. I’m not choosing what happens to me. I’m choosing what I would choose if I knew everything that would happen afterward.”

“Every consequence of every possible alternative?”

“That’s what it says.”

“And you trust that version of yourself?”

Jared frowned. “What version?”

“The one who knows everything.”

“He’s still me.”

“Is he?”

“Sure. I mean, same values, same priorities. He just has information I don’t.”

Gunnar nodded slowly. “And if he chose something you didn’t understand?”

Jared hesitated before answering. “If he has all the information and I don’t, then I suppose not understanding would be the point.”

Gunnar’s gaze remained on him.

“Did you find a catch I missed?”

“No.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m just making sure you understand your own wish.”

“I do.”

Their food arrived. The waitress arranged their plates in front of them, each the mirror image of the other, then asked if they needed anything else. Once both men had shaken their heads, she left them with ketchup, a bottle of Cholula, and two sets of silverware wrapped in paper napkins.

Gunnar unwrapped his fork and began eating. He chewed, swallowed, then wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“It’s the best version of a wish that I’ve ever heard,” Jared said with a shrug.

Gunnar took another bite.

“So, do I need to say it out loud or something?”

Gunnar washed down his bite with his coffee. “We talked it through. That’s enough.”

“That’s not how wishes work.”

“You seem remarkably confident about that for someone that doesn’t believe in them.”

Jared laughed. “So that’s it?”

“That’s it. I’m not one for theatrics,” Gunnar said with a wink, sliding the paper back across to Jared. “But I assure you, the wish is granted.”

He wasn’t sure why, but for just a moment, he had expected something. A sensation. A sound. Anything.

Instead, his bacon was getting cold.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.”

Gunnar smiled. “No one ever does.”

⸻

Jared went about his morning as though nothing had changed, because as far as he could tell, nothing had. He answered emails, started his next project, and didn’t think about the wish at all until a little past noon when his stomach started to grumble. He glanced out his office window, his eyes darting back and forth between his two favorite lunch spots. Deli or Mexican?

It wasn’t until Jared was faced with such a simple choice that he realized how useless his wish truly was. The optimal path might exist, but Jared had no way to identify it. If the wish were real, he had created a version of himself that knew all the answers without giving that version the means to communicate them.

Jared sat forward. He had an idea.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He rolled it over in his hand. Heads or tails. He reasoned that if the wish were somehow guiding him along an optimal path, then the result of a coin toss could be part of that path as easily as anything else. If he reduced a reasonable choice to two options, perhaps the coin could become a means of communication between himself and the version of Jared who already knew which outcome was best.

He positioned the quarter over his thumbnail. “Heads, deli. Tails, Mexican.”

The coin rose through the air, turning over and over before gravity snatched it back. It struck the desk, bounced once, then settled in front of his keyboard.

Heads.

He smiled, picked up the quarter, repeated the same designation, then flipped again.

Heads.

By the tenth identical result, Jared stopped smiling.

He reversed the order. “Heads, Mexican. Tails, deli.”

Tails.

Tails.

Tails.

By twenty in a row, he was no longer amused.

Thirty.

Forty.

Every time Jared assigned the deli to heads, the quarter landed heads. Every time he assigned it to tails, it landed tails. On the fifty-first flip, he left the quarter lying on his desk and stared at it with a dawning sense of surreal excitement.

“No effing way.”

⸻

Jared carried the quarter with him after that, and he did not hesitate to use it. Whether to stop for groceries tonight or tomorrow. Whether to go out for drinks with work colleagues or politely decline. Jared never obsessed about the path he didn’t take. He simply trusted the results of each toss and moved on with his day.

One evening in late September, the coin was still in his pocket when he started his car and headed home from work. It was an unremarkable drive until he noticed the smoke. He saw it rising black against the autumn sky from a few blocks ahead. By the time he reached the intersection, flames were visible through the second-story windows of the corner house. Several people stood in the front yard. He pulled over.

Before he could open the car door, he heard a woman crying.

“Is everyone out?”

The woman turned toward him, tears cutting trenches through the soot on her face. “My father. He’s still inside.”

Jared looked at the house. “Where?”

“Upstairs,” she said, pointing to a window on the side of the house that was not yet engulfed in flames. “That’s his bedroom.”

Someone farther back shouted that the fire department had been called. Jared couldn’t hear any sirens. He took two steps toward the house, then paused. Smoke was billowing out the open front door.

His hand went into his pocket. His fingers closed around the quarter.

Heads, I go in. Tails, I wait.

Jared looked at the woman, barefoot in the grass, crying for her father who might still be alive inside. He thought about Gunnar asking whether he trusted the version of himself who knew everything. He had been so certain at the time that he did.

For the first time since he had begun carrying the coin, he was afraid to flip it.

He pulled his empty hand from his pocket.

“Screw it.”

Jared ran toward the house.