"Yeah, like that. Only let's say it's four wishes. What would you ask for?"
"Easy. A million bucks."
Mike takes a hit, holds it, then exhales loudly. "Okay, sure. But then what?"
"What, a million bucks and sex with Jinny Kidwell ain't enough for you?"
"Not if I got two more wishes coming. What else would you wish for?"
"Wait," I say. "Where's this bullshit coming from?"
Richie and Mike look at each other.
Mike says, "We found this website called Wish List. It's like a survey. You type in your wishes and they compile them and tell you the most popular ones. It's updated every day."
"This is guys only, right?" I say. "'Cause chicks are gonna put down stupid shit."
I don't normally talk this way in real life. Mike and Richie probably don't either. But when we're together we talk the way we used to, growing up in the South End. It's comfortable. We're hard working guys, stuck in dead-end jobs. We're a hell of a lot smarter than we sound on afternoons like this when we're passing a joint around, shooting the shit.
"There's a guy list and a chick list," Richie says.
"You guys fill it out?"
"Naw," Richie says. "But it's fun to think about."
Mike says, "I did."
We look at him like, no shit?
"Yeah, I filled it out. It's just a flippin' survey, right?" He shrugs his shoulders. "What's the big deal?"
Lissie's home now. From the kitchen, we hear her shout, "Buddy? Want to help me with dinner?"
Richie grabs his crotch and says, " I'd like to help her with dinner!"
Mike says, "Jesus, Richie, show some respect. She's Buddy's wife! "
I glance at Mike, thinking there's something weird in the way he said it, like he was really pissed. Hey, if anyone should have been angry…
"Hey, sorry man," Richie says. "It's the weed. You know I'm just acting out."
"Bygones," I say.
Mike stares at me a long moment, then stubs out the joint, puts the butt in his pocket, and stands up. Gives me a bro hug and says, "Check it out: Wish List.bz. Let me know what you wish for."
My friends leave. I'm in the kitchen, checking out Lissie's ass while salting the water for the pasta.
I'm thinking Mike's right about Lissie being top of the food chain in my pond. I take a minute to wonder how a beautiful, kind, loving woman like her winds up with a fat fuck like me. Well, I'm not fat fat, but compared to the guys Lissie could get, I may as well be the Hindenburg.
Anyway, here's the thing about me: I'm ungrateful as hell. Here I am, an average guy with a cartoon last name and a shit job I'm on the verge of losing. I hit the lottery when Lissie fell for me-and it's still not enough.
I know I've already achieved the pinnacle with Lissie, but I'm thinking about Jinny Kidwell anyway. I try not to, but there she is, fixed in my brain, like a pregnant woman craving Twinkies at two a.m.
I know it's nuts. I mean, come on-Jinny Kidwell?
Of course it's nuts. But I've studied enough biology to know that a half million years of evolution has hard-wired my brain with the biological imperative to spread my seed with the highest genetic code available, and…
Christ, listen to me. I embarrass myself sometimes.
Forget my biological imperative. It's not utter bullshit, but I don't know enough about it to make a winning case to a female jury. Nevertheless, there is something utterly compelling about Jinny Kidwell. You know it, I know it, and Hollywood knows it. Or they wouldn't pay her twenty-five mil to star in movies, and we wouldn't pay ten times that to see her in them.
I know there is no way in the world I will ever have sex with Jinny Kidwell. If she and I are stuck in an elevator and the world is coming to an end it won't happen. If we emerge from that same elevator to find we're the last two people on earth-it's still a no. I know with every fiber of my being there is no set of circumstances on earth that could result in the two of us being in bed, in a sexual situation, with her consent.
And yet…
And yet it did happen, five days later.
But wait. I'm getting ahead of myself.
Dinner's over and I'm in the kitchen, watching Lissie bend at the waist to pick a bit of lettuce off the floor. I'm staring at her long, tanned legs looking for a flash of panty. Her dress doesn't hike that high, but I see it in my mind anyway. Now she's tossing the lettuce into the sink, asking me if the puttanesca had been hot enough.
