First Person Peculiar Read online

  He smiles a wistfully sad smile, closes his eyes, and slowly shakes his head. “I asked a foolish question.”

  “What question?”

  “Better you should remain ignorant,” he says.

  The wind starts blowing harder.

  “You hungry?” he asks suddenly.

  I think about it for a moment. “I could eat.”

  We enter the coffee shop and sit down at a table.

  “Where are the menus?” I ask, looking around for one.

  “Have a burger,” he says. “That’s all they make until evening.”

  “Then why don’t we go to a joint with a better selection?”

  “This one suits me fine,” he says.

  I see we’re not going to leave, so I order a cheeseburger with grilled onions and a beer. He doesn’t even order; the waitress just says she’s bringing him the usual and he smiles and nods at her.

  “So how’s the world treating you, Jake?” he says.

  “I’d tell you, but you already know,” I answer.

  He smiles. “Just making conversation.”

  “It makes more sense for me to ask you the questions,” I say.

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “And none of these non-answers that don’t tell me a thing,” I add.

  “I’ll answer as best as I can,” he tells me. “And I never lie.”

  “How long have you been the Wiz?” I ask. “Surely you weren’t born this way, or everyone would know about you.”

  “A long time,” he says with a bittersweet smile.

  “Ten years?” I persist. “Twenty?”

  “Seventeen years, six months, and eleven days,” he says, and then adds: “But who’s counting?”

  “How did you become the Wiz?” I ask. “Is there some wizard’s school you went to?”

  “It just happened one day,” he says.

  I snap my fingers. “Just like that?”

  “Almost.”

  “Why aren’t you working for the government?” I ask. “I’ll bet the Defense Department would pay a pretty penny for your skills.”

  “I’ve already got more pretty pennies than I need,” he answers. “And I help people, not things.”

  “Does it make you happy—helping people?”

  “It did once.”

  “Not any more?”

  He sighs. “Nothing ever changes. No matter how many people I help, there are always more—and even with the ones I help, like Milton, the fixes are almost always temporary, not permanent.”

  Our sandwiches and beers arrive. I take a bite of my cheeseburger. It’s not bad at all.

  “So who do you like in tonight’s game?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Like’s got nothing to do with it,” he replies. “The Bulls are gonna make the Knicks look bad.”

  I stare at him. “You know,” I say, “it occurs to me that knowing everything isn’t exactly the blessing it seems to be. When was the last time something surprised you?”

  “A long, long time ago,” he says.

  “And it’s not just knowing the races and the market, is it?” I continue. “If some woman agrees to go to bed with you, you knew she would before you asked her. Maybe you didn’t have to ask at all.” I look across the table at him. “You never feel surprised or lucky, do you?”

  “Or loved,” he adds. “Just … inevitable.”

  “I’m sorry for you, Wiz,” I say sincerely.

  “There are compensations,” he says. “I get to help people.”

  “A lot of them would get through the day without your help,” I point out. “Maybe most of them.”

  He grimaces and his shoulders seem to sag. “Probably,” he agrees.

  “Is everything predetermined?” I ask.

  “Hardly anything is,” he says.

  “But—”

  “You have free will, Jake,” he says. “I could warn you about Rosario’s and the elevator, but it was up to you whether or not to take my advice. When you get right down to it, what’s the difference between that and choosing to stop at a corner when there’s heavy traffic and you see a red light?”

  “There are two differences,” I answer. “One is that you knew I’d take your advice. You could look ahead and see it. And the other is that the red light’s always there for everybody, and you aren’t.”

  “Now you’re going to make me feel guilty,” he says, though he manages a smile.

  “I don’t mean to,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “I’m just starting to realize what your life must be like,” I continue. “I wouldn’t have it on a bet.”

  “You don’t bet once you’re the Wiz,” he says gently. “In fact, you can’t bet, because betting involves the element of chance.”

  “You should never have volunteered to be a wizard.”

  “I didn’t volunteer.” He stares at me. “You have qualities, Jake,” he says. “You ask a few questions, and in five minutes you’ve figured out that the wizard business isn’t quite exactly what it appears to be from the outside. I’m curious to know what you’ll ask next.”

  “How about ‘What’s for dessert?’” I say.

  He laughs, and suddenly his melancholy vanishes.

  We order vanilla ice cream—it’s the only sweet they serve until dinnertime—and then we walk out into the street.

  “You didn’t pay,” I note.

  “I did them a favor last week,” he replies. “The meal’s a quid pro quo.”

  I check my watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” I say.

  “Thanks for eating with me,” he says, shaking my hand. “And for being my friend.”

  “One of thousands,” I suggest.

  He shakes his head. “The rest are supplicants.”

  “Surely you have some friends, too,” I say.

  “Real friends?” A wistful expression crosses his face. “I had one about eighteen years ago.” A pause. “Maybe a little less.”

  “Just about the time you became the Wiz,” I say. “What happened to him?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he answers.

  “Didn’t work out, huh?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  I think about the Wiz and his one friend all the way back to the office and most of the afternoon.

  * * *

  We meet for lunch a couple of times a week for the next month. He lets a few supplicants interrupt us, and he also refuses to talk to some others, and I can never tell by looking at them what the determining factors are. He talks to some bums and sends others on their way … but he also talks to some guys who have their chauffeurs drive them up and sends some of them packing too.

  “How do you decide who to talk to?” I ask him.

  “I thought I told you,” says the Wiz.

  “There’s got to be some gray areas,” I say. “The good ones can’t all be trying to save their families from ruin, and the bad ones can’t all be junkies.”

  “Mostly it’s instinct and intuition. Usually I can see what they’re going to do with the help I give them, but even that can be misleading.”

  “So you can make mistakes?”

  He nods his head. “Yes, from time to time.” He smiles. “After all, I’m only human.”

  I stare at him. “Are you human?”

  “I’m as human as you are, Jake,” he says earnestly.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  “Oh?” he replies, arching an eyebrow.

  “It’s human to take care of yourself. But you dress like a bum, and you eat all your meals in delis and dives, and if you’ve squirreled away any money you sure as hell don’t use it. Where do you live?”

  “Nearby.”

  “Why don’t I think you live in one of these brownstones?” I say.

  “Because you’re a reasonable man, Jake,” he answers. “All I need is a place to sleep.”

  “When’s the last time you showered?”

  “Seriously?�
�� he says. A guilty smile crosses his face. “The last time it rained after midnight.”

  “How can you live like that?” I say in exasperation.

  “I used to live in a penthouse,” he replies. “Brooks Brothers wasn’t upscale enough for my wardrobe. I had a maid and a butler, as well as a valet.”

  “Why did you change?”

  “The people who need me the most couldn’t find me there,” he says.

  I shrug and turn my palms up. “How can I answer that?”

  He smiles. “You’d feel damned foolish trying, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I like you,” he says. “Not everyone is that perceptive.” He pauses thoughtfully. “In fact, hardly anyone is. I just had a feeling you could be my friend.”

  “Your feelings have a way of coming true,” I acknowledge. “But you know something interesting?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never asked me if you could be my friend.”

  “That’s not as important,” he says.

  I just stare at him. “Why not?” I say at last.

  “You have lots of friends already.”

  Somehow I get the feeling that that’s as close as he’s come to a bullshit answer since I’ve met him,

  * * *

  We keep meeting, and we keep talking, and he seems open and friendly, but I can’t get over the feeling that he’s got some agenda I know nothing about. I still don’t know why a reasonably pleasant guy like the Wiz hasn’t had a friend in seventeen years, or why he’s chosen me out all the millions who live on this damned island.

  We don’t do anything but meet and talk, occasionally in delis and coffee shops, now and then in bars, once in a while when the weather’s nice just out on a bench where anyone who’s looking for him can find him (though everyone who needs him seems to have no trouble finding him wherever we are).

  We never go to the Garden for basketball or hockey, we never see a movie or a play, in truth we never get much more than half a block off 34th Street. He just wants to visit, to talk about almost anything, and he’s always straightforward—or at least I think he is—when we talk about what he calls the Wiz Biz.

  “What do you do if someone won’t pay you after you’ve given them a winner, or told them how to avoid a mad dog gunman, or whatever?” I ask him one day as we’re walking down 34th Street.

  “I’m the Wiz,” he says. “I know before I help them if they’re deadbeats.”

  “That’s a pretty useful thing to know,” I say. “Man’s a deadbeat, you send him away.”

  “Not always.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Maybe his wife or kid is growing a tumor, and he’s not insured and hasn’t got enough to pay for a doctor. It becomes an ethical question: should they suffer because he’s a loser?”

  “I see,” I say. “It’s not as simple as it seems at first.”

  “Nothing ever is,” he says.

  “Why don’t you quit?” I say. “Just walk away from it all?”

  “Who’d be here to help them?”

  “You’ve seen enough suffering,” I continue. “You’ve done your share. It’s their problem.”

  “Just let them all suffer in pain and poverty when I can prevent it?” he says. “Is that what you’d do?”

  I think about it for a long moment. “No,” I admit. “That’s not what I’d do. It’s just what I’d want to do.”

  “I know,” he says, and I get the feeling he does know.

  “When we first met,” I say, “I kind of envied you. I really did. I thought you had the greatest gift in the world. But the more we talk about it, the more I hate the choices you have to make day in and day out.”

  “You learn to live with it,” he says.

  “I don’t know how,” I say. “There’s so much pain, so much misery in the world. Most people just see a tiny part of it, but you—you see it all.” I shake my head. “What must it be like?”

  He comes to a stop and grabs my shoulder.

  “Say that again!” he says, and there’s a hint of excitement in

  his voice as his fingers dig in.

  I stare curiously at him. “What’s it like to see the future?”

  “And you really want to know?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Thank you, my friend,” he says with such an air of relief you’d swear he’s just run a marathon. “I have been waiting seventeen years for someone to ask me that.”

  And suddenly his fingers feel like they’re dissolving on my shoulder. He seems to grow, not thinner exactly, but somehow less substantial, then translucent, and finally transparent, until there’s nothing left of him but a pile of grubby clothes on the ground and the butt of his still-burning cigarette,

  All this happens seven years ago. Sometimes it feels like seven centuries.

  * * *

  I am the Wizard of West 34th Street. If you’ve got a problem, or a need, or just a question, come by and tell me about it. There is no situation too dire or too hopeless, nothing so complex that it’s beyond my ability to solve. There will be a fee, of course, but you’ll be happy to pay it, and I will never ask for it before you are pleased with the results.

  I’m always around. If you don’t see me on the street, just ask one of the locals, or peek into a restaurant or a bar. There aren’t that many of them, and I’ll be in one. Don’t let my appearance fool you. I’ve got a Master’s degree, I have enough money that I’m not going to con you out of yours, and I guarantee that you won’t catch any diseases from me. How I look just isn’t important to me any more.

  I’m here to answer your questions, so ask me anything you like.

  Anything at all.

  Please.

  ***

  Back in 1996, Kris Rusch, who was editing F&SF, brought back an old custom, that of writing a cover story around a painting. But in this case, the painting was a cartoonish one of a deep-sea diver and a mermaid, and Kris assigned it to three of us

  —horror by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, fantasy by

  Esther Friesner, and science fiction by me.

  The Gifilte Fish Girl

  So I walk up to her and say, “Ma, we gotta talk.”

  And she never looks up from the TV, and she says, “Not during Homemakers’ Jamboree, Marvin.”

  And I say, “Ma, I’m Milton. Marvin is your goniff brother who is serving 6 to 10 for passing bogus bills.” (Which he is. He’s a great artist, even the judge admitted that, but he just doesn't do his homework, and printing a bunch of twenties with Andrew Johnson’s picture on them is probably not the brightest move he ever made.)

  Anyway, she says “Marvin, Milton, what’s the difference, and did you know that Liz Taylor is getting married again? What is it for her now—the 34th time?”

  And I say, “You know, Ma, it’s funny you should bring that up.”

  And she says, “Funny? Okay, Mister Big Shot, tell me what’s so funny. Are you the one she’s marrying? Go ahead, make my day.”

  And I say, “Lots of people get married, Ma. Some of them even get married to women who aren’t Liz Taylor, hard as that may be for you to believe.”

  And she says, “Lots of mature people, Melvin.”

  And I say, “Melvin is my cousin who ran off with the gay lion tamer from the circus. I’m Milton, and speaking of mature, I’m 34 years old.”

  And she says, “You’d think someone who’s 34 years old would know to change his socks without being told.” Suddenly she curses and says, “See? You made me miss today’s health tip. Here I sit, waiting to go to the hospital for a nerve transplant from all the tsouris you cause me, and I can’t even watch my television in peace.”

  So I say, “You’re in great shape, Ma. Every artery’s as hard as a rock.”

  “Feh!” she says. “God has reserved a special place in hell for ungrateful sons.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s probably right next to where He puts all the henpeck
ed husbands.”

  “Don’t you go making fun of my dear departed Erwin,” she says.

  “I wasn’t,” I say. “And besides, all we know is that he departed in one hell of a hurry. We don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”

  “If he isn’t, he should be, that momser!” she says.

  Well, I can see the thought that he may be alive and God forbid enjoying himself is about to drive her wild, so I try to mollify her.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, hoping the Lord is otherwise occupied and does not hear what I am about to say. “May God Himself strike me dead if he’s not your late husband.”

  “Well, he was late for most things,” she agrees, leaning back in her chair. “Except in the bedroom. There he was always early.”

  I try to change the subject again.

  “We were talking about marriage,” I say.

  “Someday, when you’re old enough, ” she says, “you’ll get married and ruin some poor Jewish girl’s happiness, just the way your dear departed father ruined mine, and the only good thing that will come of it will be a grandson who, knock wood, won’t take after his father and his grandfather but will show me a little respect and compassion.”

  I begin to see that this is going to be even more difficult than I thought, and I try to come up with a subtle way to break the news to her. So I think, and I think, and I think some more, and finally I say, as subtly as I can, “Ma, I’m engaged.”

  And she looks away from the television set and takes her feet off the hassock and plants them on the floor, and stares at me for maybe 30 seconds, and finally she says, “Engaged to do what?”

  “To get married,” I say.

  She digs into her sewing kit, which is on the floor next to her, and pulls out a scissors.

  “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “Why waste all afternoon rushing me to the hospital’s cardiac unit? Just stab me now and be done with it.”

  “Jugular or varicose?” I ask.

  “Schmendrick!” she says. “How can the fruit of my looms talk to me like this?”

  “I’m the fruit of your loins, Ma,” I tell her. “Fruit of the Loom is what I’m wearing beneath my pants.”

  “All right,” she says. “Just stand there and watch me breathe my last.”

  “Your last what?” I ask.

  She glares at me and finally says, “Before I die, at least tell me the name of this female person you’re engaged to do whatever with.”