The Three Wishes

There was once an oppressed member of the proletariat who’d become so sick of his miserable life that he wanted to die. All week he worked from dawn to dusk to get the money to buy enough food to give him the strength to go to work from dawn to dusk all week. It wasn’t living: it was mere existence. As he constantly complained to his long-suffering wife, it wasn’t just that he had nothing; without money he was a nothing.

Finally, he began cursing God and all His angels for his bad luck, naming them individually – Abdiel, Gabriel, Michael, Raguel, Raphael, Simiel, Uriel, and adding Lucifer for bad measure – as befitted a total non-believer who believed that religion was the opium of the masses but certainly couldn’t afford any such luxury.

One dark and rainy morning, as he trudged to work through the empty streets, chewing over his grievances, a figure eased itself out of the shadows and began to walk beside him. Not only was he a stranger, there was something decidedly unearthly about him. The air seemed to quiver and dance as he moved. A faint scent of newly struck matches lingered. Raindrops hissed and steamed on the pavement around his feet. And when the wind blew aside his coat, instead of glimpsing flesh and blood the impoverished member of the proletariat found himself gazing into the darkness of deep space, a starlit infinity. Thinking that God must, after all, exist and had sent an emissary to strike him down, the now terrified as well as oppressed member of the proletariat cowered against a wall, weeping and begging forgiveness.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ the figure reassured him. ‘You’ve raised strong objections to the status quo. After due consideration, and in order to further anthropological research, it has been decided to grant you three wishes.’

‘Three wishes?’

‘Exactly. The first three things that you wish for will be yours. This is your chance to create the life you’ve always dreamed of.’

‘I want to win the lottery. Yes, that’s my dearest wish. It would solve everything. And can I –?’ But the figure had already disappeared.

The oppressed one pinched himself hard, thinking he must have been dreaming. If this was somebody’s idea of a joke then he certainly wasn’t laughing. Every week for ten years he’d pumped money into lottery tickets and scratchcards – anything that would give him a chance to get the fat cat capitalist lifestyle he deserved. Did he win anything? He did not. He never had. Not a penny.

But this week it was different.

When Saturday came, not only had he correctly predicted every number, he’d selected the bonus ball as well. Unfortunately for him, there were twelve other winners and a smaller than usual jackpot. He fumed at the size of his thirteenth share.

‘It’s an insult. Other people get millions.’

‘There’ll still be enough to buy a nice little house and have a good holiday,’ said his wife. ‘We’ll be a lot better off than most.’

‘And then what? We’ll have a nice little house and I’ll still have to go to work all week to get enough food to keep me alive in order to go to work all week. What sort of life is that? I’ll tell you, it’s not a life –’

‘It’s an existence,’ finished his wife, wearily. ‘You don’t know how sick I am of hearing you say it. I wish you’d try looking on the bright side for once.’

‘And I wish you’d clear off out of my sight,’ he snapped.

She disappeared without a sound. The doubly oppressed member of the proletariat sat and brooded until the silent house and the lack of supper on the table brought him to his senses.

‘What have I done?’ he cried. ‘Now I haven’t even got anyone to share the misery of my declining years. Oh God, I wish I was de –’