orange

WEYBURN, SASKATCHEWAN, SEPTEMBER 2010

Well, the genie was unexpected. I mean, who believes in genies, let alone expects one to pop out of the nose of a Tommy Douglas statue? Less than three percent of Canadians, that’s who, according to polls taken since 1982. And of those three, only .08 “strongly believe”; the rest believe in genies only “slightly”. (And even if they existed, who expected them to be orange? They were supposed to be blue, weren’t they, and talk like Robin Williams? This one didn’t even have the nose ring, it had glasses, and looked…well, like Tommy Douglas.)

Jack wasn’t in either of those categories of belief. He was in the “genies died out in the eighteenth century” camp, as per the accepted wisdom at his alma mater, McGill University.

When he had taken out his handkerchief and rubbed the foot of the Tommy Douglas statue, he had done it not looking for a magical shortcut to fortune, and not even, as you may suspect, out of some vague superstitious hope that it would give him luck in his political career. Sure, he’d wandered back here, alone, hours after the unveiling ceremony, but that was just because he couldn’t sleep. And the statue was pretty, he thought it might look nice and shiny in the moonlight. As for the rubbing, he had merely noticed that there was bird poop on the foot; he was trying to wipe it off.

“I AM THE GENIE OF THE NOSE OF TOMMY DOUGLAS!” shouted the genie. “AND I GRANT YOU THREE WISHES!”

Jack shit his pants. “Oh. Oh! This is gross. I’m…sorry. Ugh.”

“I can fix that for you, if you wish,” said the genie.

“Aw, would ya? That’d be swell.

Shazam. “Thanks a ton.” The genie snicked a little snicker. “Waaait,” said Jack, “When you said ‘If you wish’, you didn’t mean—”

“Of course I did! Jeez, man, have you never watched any cartoons? We get you with that one every time!…Though usually in cartoons it’s not about somebody crapping himself.”

“Dammit,” said Jack. And let me guess, no wishing for—”

“Extra wishes? No. Obviously. Now what’s your sec—”

“Tickets to the U2 concert!”

“Done.”

They appeared instantly in Jack’s hands, two gleaming tickets for U2 at the ACC next July, not right up front, but not bad either, Row K on the side. Olivia would be so pleased. They’d managed to score seats last time and then Bono threw his back out. He was proud he’d thought of this one.

“You do know,” said the genie, “That scalper prices go way down twenty minutes in.”

“What and miss half of Zooropa? Not on your life, bud.”

Now it was time for Jack to think long and hard and honestly. This next wish, the third and final one; the thing he was contemplating wishing for – was he sure he wanted it? Could he do it justice?

Oh hell yes.

And yet…he almost daren’t say it. For years, any time he’d even skirted around this, come close to mentioning it, even with those on his own team, he’d been laughed at.

He beckoned the genie closer, raised his mouth to a big orange ear and whispered.

“Sure thing,” said the genie, “Not a problem. Shazam and all that.”

Jack could not believe it. Couldn’t process what had happened. He pinched himself. He bit his lip. Punched himself in the face. No, apparently he wasn’t dreaming. He threw his arms around the genie in gratitude, squeezed with all the strength of his undying thanks. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” said the genie. “Now I feel bad. I gotta tell you. You just threw away your final wish. Truth is, that one was gonna happen anyway, with or without me.”

“You must be joking!”

“No, seriously, it’s your time. Think of all the karma you’ve built up over the years. Sticking with your party even when most people dismissed it as a joke? Being saddled with orange on all your signs? I mean what a pansy, third-rate colour. And nobody looks good in it – trust me, I know. Plugging away with so little reward? Look, I know unfair: before this I spent nine years stuck inside that god-awful painting of Douglas looking out over a wheat field – at least now I get some fresh air. But you! A Ph.D. from York University, of all places? And teaching at RYERSON, for pity’s sake? The prostate thing? The hip surgery?”

“The what now?”

“Nothing. That time you rode your bike into a newspaper box and had to cancel your honeymoon? Talk about embarrassing. And pictures like this?”

“And this?”

“Okay, that last one is kind of sexy”, admitted the genie, making the photos vanish again. “But what about the topper, the whole inheritance thing? What a cruel joke, for your father to have stipulated in his will that you wouldn’t get a cent until the day you became prime minister, and only then if you wore a ridiculous moustache until then? I mean, come on, longest playoff moustache ever.”

“Yeah, old Dad had a strange sense of humour. I remember when he became a Conservative for thirteen years, just as a joke. What a card! Anyway, I gotta say, I like the moustache now. And maybe Pop knew what he was doing - it helped build character. That’s why my Mike’s middle name is Jennifer. Besides, Olivia thinks the ‘stache is hot.”

“And it will help you with Quebeckers. Boy, they love their moustaches, those frenchies. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t ask me. But hey, I’ll take it.”

They laughed.

“By the way, Genie…how do you know all these things about me?”

“What, you think just because I live up the nose of a statue of a long-dead politician in Weyburn Saskatchewan, I’m out of touch? I have ways of knowing things.”

“Magic?”

“Wireless signals. If it weren’t for that, this indenture thing would be way more of a drag. Seriously, you should read Anne Murray’s personal emails – disgusting!”

“I can imagine. That little minx.”

“You know, I like you Jack. I don’t know what it is. The smile? The tan? Those twinkly baby blues? And you’re right, the moustache does grow on you. Anyway, I feel bad about you getting gypped on your wishes.”

“What are you talking about, Genie? I’m going to the U2 concert!”

“Uhh, about that…they’ll be cancelling again.”

“Oh no. Bono’s back injury?”

“No, the Edge this time. The Big C, I’m afraid.”

“Oh that’s terrible,” said Jack. “The Edge has cancer?”

“Chicken pox, man! Wow, I can never get the hang of human slang. Is ‘bad’ still good?”

“No”, said Jack, “Epic hashtag fail there, I’m afraid.”

“Are you still speaking English?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But seriously, Jack, before I go…one piece of advice. That raid back in ‘96?”

“At my registered massage therapist’s?”

“Yeah. Just stick to that. Now let’s see…what else? Oh- I’ve got these magic beans – you want some?”

Jack smiled, shook the genie’s huge orange hand, and headed out into the Saskatchewan night.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”