The Wish Giver's Song: Part 1
Part 1: "A Quest"
It was just past eleven o’clock in the P.M. Kelvin cinched his knapsack, downed a tall glass of 2% milk, grabbed his bulky, yellow flashlight, and crept out the back door of his family’s modest bungalow.
Kelvin had no friends. You could chalk it up to a difficult transition into high school, but he didn’t have any friends in middle school, either. Elementary wasn’t much better. No, Kelvin was just scrawny, squirrely, so pale he was practically translucent, and excruciatingly shy to boot. Things could be worse; no one really bullied him. He was more of a non-factor. Quiet, translucent, practically invisible.
Mom was working a night shift at the hospital, so she wouldn’t be home until around sunup. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too steamed that he’d finished off the milk. Maybe he could grab a gallon from Cranston’s on his way home.
The subdivision was completely still and nearly pitch black as Kelvin shimmied through the hedges, traversed the scraggly front lawn, and set out on the sidewalk heading due west. There weren’t any street lights on account of the ordinance — something to do with the lights from town confusing all the sea turtles and making them bonk into each other.
“We live in a very delicate ecosystem,” Kelvin’s dad used to say, back before he was killed by the very turtles he’d sworn to protect.
It would have been dead quiet if not for the coyotes hooting and hollering as if they were having some sort of crazed coyote orgy up in the mountains. Or maybe they were speaking in tongues. Kelvin didn’t know anything about coyote religion. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to know.
About a quarter mile into his journey, Kelvin stopped at the Plankton family’s lawn and sat on a dried-out birdbath for a quick breather. He was extremely unathletic, rivaled only by the diminutive sophomore boy with Type 1 diabetes for Least Valuable Player in any and all sports they were forced to endure during first period gym class.
Whoever decided gym should be held first thing in the morning must have been some kind of psychopath. Everyone was too self-conscious to take advantage of the open-air showers in the locker room. Well, everyone except for Allen. He seemed to relish getting nude and sudsy in front of all his classmates while singing reggaeton in perfect Spanish, despite not knowing how to actually speak Spanish. The other boys would change right back into their school clothes without washing up, even if they were drenched in sweat. Then, they’d go their separate ways and spend the rest of the day spreading that distinctive scent of teenage B.O. to every corner of the school. Kelvin had always thought it smelled like Steak 'n Shake chili.
Feeling peckish as he perched on the bird bath, Kelvin flipped on the flashlight and rummaged through his knapsack, emerging with a fun-sized Three Musketeers. Probably the saddest of all candy bars, he lamented. No crispies, no crunchies, no caramel... just a small, dense brick of nougat. It was gone in a single bite.
Kelvin exhaled and prepared to lift his young, aching bones off the makeshift chair. The sounds of coyote sex had faded, but a deep, booming voice broke the silence.
“STOP RIGHT THERE.”
Blatantly disobeying the command, Kelvin jolted forward and tumbled onto the ground. He brought the bird bath down with him, kicking up a dusty cloud of dirt, limestone, and dry bird feces.
“What the frick, man?!” the voice growled. Kelvin squinted and recognized little Stevie Plankton clutching a neon-yellow Nerf gun. He pulled the trigger, and a foam dart struck Kelvin in the eyeball.
“YOU what the frick, man!” Kelvin growled back.
Stevie was the youngest of the Plankton kids, maybe ten or eleven. Despite the low light, Kelvin could recognize his stocky build, spiky hair, and splendidly rosy cheeks. It was his voice that was unmistakable, though. You don’t come across many ten-year-olds who sound almost exactly like Morgan Freeman. Those golden pipes had even landed Stevie the starring role in a commercial for the all-new Kia Telluride.
“What the heck are you doing here, SMELLVIN? You busted our bird bath!” No one had ever called Kelvin “Smellvin” before. He felt seen. Or... smelled, perhaps.
“We are SO gonna sue you,” Stevie sneered like a bratty child version of Academy Award-winning thespian Morgan Freeman.
“Come on, dude. Just help me pick it up,” Kelvin responded wearily. Little Stevie squinted as the little gears in his little head turned. He smirked.
“Wait a second. I know why you’re out here...”
Kelvin felt a wave of panic, like when he and the diabetes kid were the last two picks available for gym class volleyball. All his preparation — the flashlight, the knapsack, the final drops of 2% milk... ruined by this little twerp with the voice of God?
“You’re going to one of those crazed high school orgies! My brother told me all about ‘em. I’ve heard you guys up in the mountains, you know. Perverts.”
Kelvin was flummoxed. “Listen, Stevie. I-”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Stevie offered. “I won’t tell anyone... if you give me one of those candy bars from your sack there,” he said, pointing to Kelvin’s bag. It must have come uncinched; his compass, a couple of batteries, some loose change, and several candies were scattered on the lawn.
Kelvin took a moment to gather himself, picked up a chocolate, and held out the peace offering.
“Aw, Three Musketeers. Score!” Stevie whispered, licking his lips off-puttingly. He gobbled the nougat brick in one bite and motioned to the bird bath. “Now help me fix this.”
They both crouched down, and Kelvin steeled himself for the physical challenge ahead. The last thing he wanted to do was pull a feeble, underdeveloped muscle this early into his quest.
“Three...” Stevie counted down. Before he could reach “two,” his entire body crumpled onto the ground.
Kelvin stared at the youngest Plankton’s unmoving figure and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He picked up a nearby stick and poked Stevie in the eyeball. A sense of relief set in as the little guy mumbled something unintelligible and began snoring. Kelvin had completely forgotten Stevie suffered from severe narcolepsy.
The random nap attack offered a tiny window of opportunity. Kelvin frantically gathered his supplies and scurried off into the night, leaving Stevie fast asleep beside the dusty, poop-stained bird bath.
The next several blocks of his journey proved uneventful, save for a brief run-in with a family of opossums. The marina was so close, yet so far. Or not; Kelvin had a truly awful sense of direction.
He felt like one of those wayward sea turtles, discombobulated and enraged by the blinding lights of an unsympathetic coastal town. Just for a moment, Kelvin swore he could hear his father calling out for help as the turtles tore into his delicious flesh. But no, it was only the mournful howls of the coyotes. Maybe they had lost someone too — in tonight’s raucous orgies or pagan rituals or whatever those wild and free creatures were doing up there in the lush foothills and craggy scarps.
Kelvin cursed himself for not learning how to use the rusty, old compass he’d found near the Battle of San Pasqual burial grounds. It was all but useless without some basic knowledge of navigation and cardinal directions.
“Think, Kelvin,” he whispered to himself. His mind flashed back to last year’s Thanksgiving dinner.
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Kelvin had been relegated to the kids’ table, where all of the cousins promptly ignored his very existence. One benefit of being invisible, though, was that people didn’t pay attention to what they would say — or what secrets they might spill — in front of him. That’s exactly how Kelvin learned about the Wish Giver.
Ziggy, the eldest cousin, was supremely cool. Like Kelvin, he was quite pale but also tall and muscular, with deeply expressive eyes that would draw you in to whatever yarn he might be spinning. A well-traveled raconteur, Ziggy had spent time in Hawaii, Idaho, and even Canada. His nineteenth birthday was coming up, and Ziggy’s dad had recently helped him get a motorcycle license. He was tantalizingly close to saving enough money to buy a sweet, nasty hog. Ziggy even had a badass tattoo: two warring wizards, one good and one evil, battling on his upper arm. It was perfectly positioned to cover his bizarre, greyish birthmark — Ziggy’s greatest source of shame.
Kelvin hung on every word as Ziggy told the rest of the cousins the legend of the Wish Giver. Some claimed he was a powerful and benevolent being visiting from the spirit world. Others insisted he was simply a mortal man, gifted (or perhaps cursed) with magical abilities. Most agreed that he arrived in town about two years ago for reasons unknown. Since then, local townspeople and scores of travelers, from as far as Japan and Idaho, would visit him in hopes of attaining their deepest, most forbidden desires.
After polishing off a hearty portion of green bean casserole, Ziggy explained to his spellbound audience how it all worked. Wish-seekers would make their pilgrimage to the Salty Walrus Marina on the north side of town. The entrance, tucked away on the same block as Cranston’s and Small Tony’s House of Infinite Pizza, was usually locked — but those spry enough could crawl in through a small hole on the left side of the chainlink fence. From there, they’d have to navigate the thick fog and maze of worn-out docks before reaching a mystical houseboat. (“You’ll know it when you see it,” Ziggy said.) Those who were granted entrance would stand before the Wish Giver and plead their case. The “what” was often less important than the “why” behind the wish. After listening intently, the Wish Giver would ponder his response — often for days. Of course, he wasn’t one to hand out wishes all willy nilly. Usually, he would negotiate, lay out a counter-offer, or request something in return. In rare cases, he’d flat-out reject someone’s request. When cooler heads prevailed, the guest would simply thank the Wish Giver for his time and show themselves out. However, some of the more temperamental visitors would make the unwise decision to protest or even lash out at the Wish Giver.
Ziggy paused, stonefaced. No one at the table had taken a single bite of their Thanksgiving dinner since the story began, fearing they might miss a moment to the sounds of their own chewing. Sally, likely the bravest of the cousins, seized the fleeting moment of silence and shoveled some mashed potatoes and gravy down her gullet. It was room temperature by now, but still pretty tasty. Aunt Pam knew her way around a potato.
The Wish Giver was patient, but just like anyone else, he had his limits. Ziggy recounted the story of a young woman named Simone, who had traveled all the way from Paris. She wished for limitless wealth — diamonds, rubies, glorious gold doubloons. Simone had always dreamt of driving the fanciest cars, wearing the finest furs, and attending the craziest orgies alongside other rich and famous elites. The Wish Giver responded with a single word: “Nah.” Shocked and simmering with rage, Simone demanded a reason for his refusal, but he declined to provide one. This sent her over the edge, and she exploded — screaming, stomping, and hurling exotic, French insults at the Wish Giver. Some say she even threw a small alarm clock at him. Once the tantrum had finally sapped all of Simone’s energy and she’d run out of breath, the Wish Giver stepped forward and agreed to grant her a wish. It would not be the one she’d requested, however.
“From now until the end of your days,” he said, “You will remain penniless. Or... whatever the French equivalent is, I guess.”
Sally leaned in, transfixed by the story. “What happened? Did it work?” she asked excitedly. Ziggy looked her in the eyeballs.
“Have you ever been to the Dollar Barn on Fitzhenry Lane?” She shook her head “no.”
“Well, if you ever do... you’ll find out,” Ziggy explained. All of the cousins groaned and begged for more. He groaned back dramatically. Ziggy was absolutely loving this.
“Okay, okay. So, after she left, Simone checked her wallet. All of her cash was gone. And what’s worse, she pulled out her phone and checked her bank accounts. They were completely empty.”
Kelvin gasped!
“She couldn’t afford a plane ticket back to France, obviously. So, she’s still here — in town. And every day, she sets up in the Dollar Barn parking lot and puts on a puppet show, asking all the people walking by if they can spare any change. She built a little stage out of cardboard and made some puppets using fishing line and random scraps of garbage. And they, like, dance around and sing songs in French. It’s pretty much impossible to tell what’s going on with the foreign lyrics and the weird-shaped trash puppets.”
Craigers, the youngest cousin who had only started talking a few months ago, shook his head in disbelief from up on his highchair. “Dude. That’s messed up,” he said. It’s safe to say Craigers spoke for all of them in that moment.
“The thing is...” Ziggy went on. “She’s never earned a single dollar. Or penny. Or anything else. All these people going to the Dollar Barn and walking past her weird puppet show? They can’t really explain why, but they just don’t wanna give her anything. Or there’s even a feeling, like, they shouldn't give her anything.”
“How does she survive?” Sally wondered aloud.
“Yeah, there’s a Ben’s Bagels next to that dollar store. So, she lives off the old baked goods they toss out. And rainwater.”
Ziggy frowned.
“I think she sleeps in the dumpster behind the shop, too. On the bagels. Like some sorta lumpy bread bed.”
“Wild...” Craigers murmured. The cousins sat in a moment of shared, contemplative silence.
“Pumpkin pie, hot out the oven!” Uncle Scoot announced from the kitchen.
Kelvin simply couldn’t take it; he had to know more.
“But what about you? What’d YOU wish for?!” he blurted out.
Ziggy twirled a piece of tofurkey with his fork.
“But what about you? What’d YOU wish for?!” Sally asked.
“Oh!” Ziggy grinned. “300 dollars for my motorcycle fund.”
Sally looked puzzled. “Wait. Why didn’t you just ask for a motorcycle?” she pressed. Ziggy thought about it for a moment.
“Because I’m not a greedy asshole like Simone.”
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The sound of screeching tires snapped Kelvin back to the present moment.
He saw a muddy Kia SUV with an Alabama license plate approaching. It slowed to a crawl, and the driver poked his head out the window, staring directly at Kelvin with a toothy grin.
“Well damn — look at how pale this kid is, guys!” he shouted in a thick, southern accent. Sitting in the passenger seat, the man’s wife glanced at Kelvin and smiled politely. A little girl in the back seat, glued to her Kindle tablet, showed no interest in the pallid boy on the sidewalk.
“Good GOD, he looks like a raw chicken!” the driver exclaimed with a chuckle. It wasn’t the first time someone had compared Kelvin to uncooked poultry. The wife waved as they drove past and continued down the street.
Thrown by the southern man’s strange and rude behavior, Kelvin needed to regain his focus. He rubbed the top of his noggin vigorously in an attempt to warm up his thinking parts. The head rubs felt pretty nice, but they didn’t seem to work as intended.
What detail had he missed from that fateful Thanksgiving feast? Beginning to feel dejected and even a little desperate, Kelvin scanned his surroundings for anything that might help him figure out how to proceed. He strained to read the street sign above his head — Pinkerton Place.
Pinkerton... like Pink, the Grammy-winning pop star. “Pop” is slang for soda in the Midwest... and “mid” is slang for average. Average can refer to something that’s plain. Pilots fly planes! But Pilot’s also a brand of pen... and Penn is a brand of tennis ball. In tennis, a score of zero is called “love” — and love, obviously, is a battlefield. A battlefield is where you’ll find military forces, and one of the most prestigious military academies is West Point. West... like Western. Actor John Wayne appeared in over 80 Western films. John Wayne Gacy, on the other hand, was a prolific serial killer. Serial is a homonym for cereal. And the third best-selling cereal in America is Frosted Flakes, known for its longstanding mascot — a tiger named...
Kelvin’s eyes widened. Tony.
“Like Small Tony’s House of Infinite Pizza!” he shouted to himself. The Salty Walrus Marina was on the same block!
But now what? Kelvin didn’t know the way to Small Tony’s, either. He balled his fists and stomped his feet in frustration.
“Take it easy, little water buffalo,” Kelvin’s mom would say whenever he got a little too stompy. “Deep breaths; in through your nose, out through your mouth.”
He closed his eyes and inhaled. That’s when it hit him. Fresh garlic, cured meats, oregano, bargain-basement marijuana — real ditch weed. The unmistakable scent of Small Tony’s House of Infinite Pizza.
Kelvin had a remarkably keen sense of smell, but still — it couldn’t be far! All he needed to do was follow his nose.
Invigorated by the breakthrough, Kelvin quickened his pace from a sluggish lurch to a lively shuffle. That lasted around a block. Sore, winded, and downright bushed, his brisk shuffle devolved into a sad, legitimately concerning hobble. Still, he pressed on — sniffing and huffing and hobbling his tiny heart out.
On the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, he rounded a corner and laid his eyes on the glorious, fast-casual pizza establishment. Anthony Pringle, a junior from Kelvin’s high school with no known relation to Small Tony, emerged from a Ford Fiesta parked nearby and walked into the restaurant carrying a large water bong. Brazen!
Kelvin’s tummy growled like a confrontational bobcat. All he’d eaten for dinner was a fun-sized Three Musketeers bar. There was no time for pizza or Tony’s signature Twisted Breaksticks Bindle, however.
A young gentleman dressed in a raggedy fur coat, black mesh tanktop, and skin-tight jean shorts sauntered up to Kelvin and asked for a dollar, but he politely declined. No time for man prostitutes, either. Kelvin was on a mission.
He surveyed the mostly deserted block. Cranston’s was open, as always. Cal Cranston wouldn’t even close shop for Jesus’ birthday — or his own. Just past the store’s lone, inoperable gas pump, Kelvin spied a tall chainlink fence. He could barely make out the rusty sign affixed to a fencepost... it was a cheerful walrus sporting a captain’s hat and smoking a pipe.
Kelvin soldiered on, and soon he was standing face-to-face with the eponymous Salty Walrus, keeper of the marina. The gate was secured by an impenetrable combination lock, but he quickly located the small hole in the fence. This was it; the point of no return.
Kelvin crouched down like an Olympic sprinter. On your marks, get set...
“WHO GOES THERE?” someone squawked in his direction.
Kelvin froze. It had to be Cal Cranston. He was not the type to take the criminal act of trespassing lightly. The old man flipped on a dim flashlight and scanned the marina’s entrance. After what felt like several months, its faint beam landed on Kelvin’s crouching figure. It was over.
Or perhaps... it wasn’t. The light bounced off Kelvin’s pearlescent skin and produced a brilliant, blinding glow. Cal Cranston screamed and dropped the flashlight to shield his eyes.
...GO! Driven by a potent mix of fear, courage, and sheer desperation, Kelvin hurtled forward, dove through the small opening in the fence, executed a perfect somersault, and sprinted into the dense fog ahead. He didn’t slow his pace until the horrible sounds of Cranston wailing had fully faded.
Gasping for air, Kelvin trudged deeper into the oppressive fog, but his muscles suddenly seized. Cramps! They were truly agonizing. He moaned, nearly unable to move. Delectably salty tears streamed down his face. But Kelvin didn’t stop, even for a second. He couldn’t.
Moments later, the fog cleared. His cramps subsided. The angry bobcat in his tummy faded into nothingness.
Kelvin gazed upon a ramshackle houseboat, adorned in dim Christmas lights, gently bobbing in the water at the edge of the dock ahead.
“You’ll know it when you see it...” Ziggy whispered from some corner of Kelvin’s mind.
The Wish Giver’s lair.
“Also don’t forget to pick up some milk on the way home...” his cousin added faintly.
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To be continued in The Wish Giver’s Song - Part 2: "A Wish"