Okay, so I’m in a bar called The Raven and it’s late and I’ve already had too much to drink but I want a nightcap and a dusty old bottle on a top shelf next to Louis XIII Cognac is whistling my name so I point it out to the barkeep and ask for a splash.
He is a rather serious factotum in a penguin suit, probably been serving libations from behind a bar—this one—his whole life and, since he looks about ninety, has seen it all.
“Which one?” he feebly asks.
I point. “That oddly-shaped translucent bottle with a bird on it.”
He follows my finger.
“The Raven? No, no, no,” he scoffs, looking away. “That one is just for decoration.”
“But it has liquid in it.”
He looks at me and nods. “I’ve only served it once. And that was very many years ago.” Then he shakes his head sadly. “I vowed never to serve it again.”
This intrigues me for a few seconds. Until I realize I’m being set up for a hefty price tag. “What does it cost?” I ask, setting myself up.
“It’s not for sale,” he says with a smirk. “If I served you from that bottle It would have to be on the house.”
His play for a big tip?
I reach into my pocket and place Andrew Jackson on the bar.
He eyes it. “My point,” he says solemnly, “is that this potion cannot be traded for money.”
I replace Andrew Jackson with U.S. Grant.
He looks at it, chuckles and shakes his head. “Money cannot change hands for this drink. An ironclad rule of the house. You sure you want it? I recommend against.”
“Seems like a great way to cap the night.”
His eyes light up. “As in night-capped?”
Perhaps I said the magic password. Because he slowly pulls a portable step over, stands upon it, steadies himself and reaches for the old glass bottle, causing dust to loosen and cascade to the floor.
He steps down with bottle in hand and plunks it onto the bar. “Here are the rules,” he says slowly and deliberately. “You open the bottle yourself.” He turns around and reaches for a snifter and a jigger and places both in front of me. “You fill the jigger, pour it into the glass. And wait till I leave before drinking. Eventually, I’ll return.”
“Where are you going?”
He gestures around the empty bar. “Everyone’s gone. You are my last customer. We are closed. Except for you and your nightcap. Oh, and Mister Churchill.”
“Huh?”
He points at an alabaster bust of Winston S. Churchill shelved between bottles of booze as he saunters down the bar. He turns, bows and says, “I wish you good luck, sir.”
What a performance!
I twist the cap—part cork—to open the bottle. A new puff of dust rises and scatters.
I fill the jigger and pour it into the snifter, which I raise and sniff. Tuberose with a hint of plums. I take a sip. Same. But accompanied by a tingly warmth that slips down my throat.
And then I feel it rising… albeit as a gas… which eructs as a gargantuan burp, which produces a puff of peppermint green mist.
I watch the mist in awe as it wafts toward the ceiling and swirls around, slow at first then faster and faster… until it takes on the fury of a tornado that… that twists into solid matter: A rubber ball the same color orange as the potion in my glass.
The ball bounces once, twice, three times… then suddenly explodes into a dwarf wearing a green velvet fez-like cap with a golden tassel coming out the top.
The dwarf climbs upon the stool next to mine, looks directly into my flabbergasted eyes and says: “What the fuck do you want?”
“Nothing,” I say. “But I think I’ve had too much to drink.”
“Ya think?” He puts his right hand with small stubby fingers on his waist. “And why do you think that?”
“Because I’m hallucinating Danny DeVito on steroids as a munchkin from Oz wearing Middle Eastern garb.”
“I see.” He puts a stubby finger to his lips and strains to see the tassel hanging to the side. “Ah, maybe it’s my hat. You think it’s a fez, right?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, you fucking moron, it most certainly is not. It’s a smoking cap. You smoked me out—Geddit? So let’s get on with it.”
I tweak to the notion that this must be is a… genie!
“Three wishes?”
“Fuck me.” He crosses his arms. “Where’d you get that screwball idea?”
“Fairy tales?”
“In your dreams, dude. This is reality.”
“This sure doesn’t seem like reality to me.”
“Trust me.” The dwarf winks. “This is your new reality.”
“So what do I get?”
“Aside from a hangover? Let’s see…” The dwarf unfolds his arms, puts a forefinger to his chin and looks up to the sky. “Okay, this is a bar, right? You get to meet a few boozers.”
“What boozers?” I look around and, seeing no one, search his eyes for an explanation.
The dwarf’s smirk is more pronounced than his eyes. “You had a drink. This drink.” He taps the bottle. “Just like you wanted. Now you get to yak for a while.”
“Yak?”
“Getz with the lingo, dude. You pour a drink, my first boozer shows up, you yak. When the drink’s gone, so is my first boozer. You pour a second drink, my second boozer shows up. When the drink’s gone, so’s my second boozer, and so on till we’re done.”
“That’s it?”
“Simple, huh?”
“No wishes?”
The dwarf shakes his head. “I’m not a fucking genie. I’m his little brother. Ready?”
“What if I’m not?”
“Tough shit, you already opened the bottle. And here I am.”
The dwarf begins to turn clockwise. And then to spin, faster and faster… until he abruptly changes direction and twirls counterclockwise… less fast… slower… changing shape… until…
…next Monday.