Prologue
This is the story of Mark Gerald Williams of East Brunswick, New Jersey—a man whose romantic misadventures were so spectacularly inept that I, an elemental force of the universe, had no choice but to intervene. Mark doesn’t save the world, battle impossible odds, or even have enemies. What he does, however, is far more remarkable: he learns to love himself and others—flaws and all. In doing so, he performs a selfless act that makes the world a little better for those around him. Trust me, for a human, that’s nothing short of legendary.
But here’s the thing: Mark might never have taken those first clumsy steps into the chaos of romance without my intervention. And before I tell you how a man who once spilled coffee on his mother’s cat became my liberator, I should explain who I am, why I was trapped in that ridiculous lamp, and how his love life ended up entangled with a marvelous cosmic being like me.
My name is Eros—at least, that’s the name I’ve been going by lately. I am what you humans might call a Djinn or Genie, though neither term captures the full scope of what I am. Simply put, I am an eternal consciousness as old as time. We—my kind—are the grains of truth behind many of your myths and legends, capable of influencing matter and energy at the atomic level. But don’t get any ideas about all-powerfulness. There are rules about how beings like me interact with corporeal species, and for a good reason. I’m sure you can imagine the chaos semi-omnipotent entities might cause if left unchecked.
Still, I’ve always had a soft spot for your kind—especially regarding matters of the heart. There’s something intoxicating about watching two hearts find each other—or three, as I would later learn.
So no, it wasn’t a great hero or a brilliant philosopher who finally set me free after centuries trapped in that lamp. It was Mark Gerald Williams—a man whose life was about to take a turn more awkward, more enchanting, and far more ridiculous than anything he could have imagined.
Now, hundreds of years later, I reside on the desk of a philosophy professor at Rutgers University. After centuries of silent observation, occasional meddling, and the odd computer crash for my own amusement, I found myself in the hands of Mark Gerald Williams. And through a series of serendipitous events, he became the star of a love story unlike any other tale involving not two but three hearts, cosmic intervention, and a wish that just might change everything.
My name is Mark, and this is my story. Eros will tell it whether or not I like it, so I may as well add my perspective to keep it honest. I wouldn’t humor them if it were not for what they did for me and my family and the promise I made. To be honest, I believe Eros wants to tell this story for themselves. By telling my story, they can pat themselves on the back with a dash of self-aggrandization. I don’t relish this attention, and I don’t think I or my story are special. Except for the unusual companion I had in Eros throughout, which I admit at least makes this an interesting story.
I have no desire to talk about myself; it makes me feel uncomfortable, so I’ll leave that to Eros, who also enjoys talking about themselves. I won’t retread that ground much, only where Eros has taken too much creative license.
You should know that Eros spent a lot of time alone or as an outside observer. The times they were directly involved in the past, they never had to live with the consequences, apart from when they got slapped down and confined to that lamp. Every other time, they could move on or ignore what happened. So, this may be the first time in their existence that they learned how to participate in a relationship, live with consequences, and fix their mistakes. I guess you could say this is how Eros learned to be human.
Chapter 1
I would like to introduce you to Mark Gerald Williams, a mortal of twenty-seven years, my friend, and liberator. When we met, he was neither a warrior nor a poet nor possessed any power to shake the heavens or command the tides. No, Mark is an unassuming man of quiet presence, with tousled hair the color of summer wheat fields after a rain, cropped shorter along the sides, as is apparently fashionable this century. His beard is soft and well-kept, framing a face that is not remarkable yet not forgettable. It is a safe and friendly face that draws you in gently and whispers reassurance that this is a gentle man you can trust. Behind his kind golden-brown eyes, like amber warmed by sunlight, was the depth of character of a man about to embark on a hero’s journey. A strong jawline framed his face that some minor sculptor of the gods could have chiseled, and a nose so unassertive that it could slip into a crowd unnoticed. His skin carries the faint blush of life, that healthy pink hue of one whose lineage hails from lands where sunlight is more a blessing than a daily certainty. I trust you now have a picture of the man in your mind.
Ah, but what does he do, you ask? What is it that drew Mark into my orbit? Mark is what the mortals call an “IT support technician,” which I assume is a dismissive title bestowed upon people like Mark to diminish their power. I believe he is some kind of computer wizard. He is not a real wizard, for he wields neither staff nor spell, and wizards are not real after all; I am, of course, adding a little hyperbolic poetic license. His talent lies in coaxing life back into lifeless machines, the metal boxes, and glowing screens that humans seem so utterly enthralled by. He fixes them when they falter, though how exactly I can’t say; I don’t believe he could explain if I dared to ask him. I suspect he speaks to them, perhaps whispers their true names, for they obey him when they refuse others. To be clear, Mark is clever—but not the kind of clever that shapes empires or challenges the gods. His cleverness is humbler, like a well-sharpened blade: practical, reliable, and capable of cutting through most of life’s more minor problems.
Yet, for all his talents, Mark struggles with the peculiar rituals of his people, those unspoken codes of behavior that guide mortal interactions. He stumbles through them like a child learning to dance, well-meaning but awkward, often treading on toes or knocking antique vases on the floor. It is not malice that causes this, nor ignorance—merely an unavoidable misalignment with the rhythm of others. While he can easily carry on a conversation on any subject, he is hopelessly lost starting that same conversation. Still, his heart is good, even if his actions sometimes miss the mark. Mark is the kind of man who scales a wall to rescue a cat but accidentally knocks over the ladder, only to discover it’s the wrong cat and wall.
He grew up among trees—apple trees, to be precise—in a small orchard in a place called East Brunswick, New Jersey. The orchard has belonged to his family since the days of the revolution, when mortals fought one another once again over their notions of freedom. Mark and his siblings—Jefferson, the eldest, and Lexie, the youngest, spent their childhood amidst rows of these trees, plucking fruit from their boughs and learning the ways of the earth. They chopped wood, carried bushels, all the apple orchard-related activities one would imagine, and they lived a life as honest and rooted as the trees themselves. It was a good life, or so it seems to me, though Mark’s eyes sometimes betray a wistfulness when he speaks of it. Perhaps it was not the work he misses but the simple clarity of it: when a tree needed tending, you tended it; when an apple ripened, you plucked it, and when the simple machinery faltered, Mark mended it. This life shaped Mark’s heart and body to the core, making him shockingly strong.
And now? Mark finds himself caught between the quiet, earthy, honest past of his family’s orchard and the glowing, noisy, digital present of his work at Rutgers. He is a fixer of things, a doer of good, even if the doing doesn’t always go as planned. He is, in short, a man of contradictions: kind but clumsy, clever but not too clever, noble in spirit but prone to mishaps. A mortal, through and through, yet one who seems to carry a spark of something more, a spark I recognized the moment he walked into the office in which I was captive.
I work for Rutgers University IT as one of the staff support technicians. I’m one of the guys who shows up for staff and students when they have computer problems. It’s not glamorous, but I take it seriously because it can have a massive impact. Solving a minor problem quickly can be the difference between a pass or fail for students or a professor’s ability to hold a class. I trust I don’t need to explain that much further. Because these days, who among us hasn’t had to call a help desk occasionally.
The University IT department was dispersed around the campus and its annexes. What is relevant to this story is that I was one of a few technicians who acted as the boots on the ground. The guys that show up in person when necessary or to give the more analog professors someone they could work with face to face. That meant some of us wound up with repeat customers who latched on to one of us or whom we decided to adopt. Because sometimes they are difficult individuals, or we may simply like them. I’m saying this because two of my regulars are relevant to this story. Dr. Jason Newell and Viktoriya, I’ll tell you more about Viktoriya later.
Dr. Newell was one of the philosophy professors here. He was one of those more analog types; he was difficult, and I was one of the few technicians he would cooperate with. I didn’t mind because his problems were usually simple solutions, and he learned to trust me. It wouldn’t matter if one of my trustworthy and competent colleagues tried to help him. He wouldn’t listen until he heard from me. So, we saved everyone some time and heartburn by letting him call me directly for all his computer-related problems and questions. Recently, he started encountering unusual and seemingly unexplainable problems that gradually escalated. The root cause is one that I could not have predicted or imagined in a billion years.
The first time I met Mark, he had been summoned to Dr. Jason Newell’s office after I had caused his computer to shut down spontaneously. Dr. Newell annoyed me with his incessant complaints about his students and his egocentric revision of his textbook-sized syllabus. What I did was reach into his “laptop”—which is yet another ridiculous human name for a device that only sat on his desk with me and never upon his lap—I found the source of its power, and I severed the connection. After which, Dr. Newell picked up his phone and demanded immediate repair because, as he phrased it, he had critical work to complete and could not afford to be delayed by the universities’ unreliable equipment.
A short time later, Mark walked into the office and into my life. He was confident and reassuring, carrying a conversational narration of what he was doing. As Mark sat down without invitation or permission, he got to work. He explained a shutdown like this can have a multitude of causes and casually mentioned that a loss of power is the usual cause. Within moments, he had replaced what he identified as a battery and a power cable, restoring life to the inappropriately named laptop computer. He stood, collected his equipment, shook Dr. Newell’s hand, and left. I was in shock; if it were possible, I would have said I was in love.
Of course, I was not in love; unfortunately, that is a human emotional experience that I am incapable of feeling. I was fascinated and intrigued, and I wanted to get to know a human for the first time in centuries. Fortunately, I knew how and when he was summoned, and to my luck, it relied upon my newfound hobby. And so, over the next several weeks, I found increasingly more convoluted ways to cause Dr. Newell’s computer to cease functioning. Each time, he would call Mark. Mark would arrive, converse about the problem, investigate, and usually quickly resolve the issue, much to my dissatisfaction. But one time, the problem was mysterious enough that Mark seemed stumped, resulting in him taking the doctor’s laptop away.
What I needed was some way to communicate with Mark. I had to figure out some way to get Mark to pick up my lamp. I needed to find a way to get Mark to take my lamp with him without alarming him or Dr. Newell. Luck, it seems, was on my side. Shortly after Mark removed the laptop from the office, Dr. Newell plucked my lamp from his desk and paced in his office. This was a habit he had developed, carrying me around, muttering to himself. This time, he seemed genuinely concerned that all his work would be safe. It seems he had years of philosophical nonsense inside that electronic device. When he asked the universe why this kept happening to him and softly wished this would be the last time, I knew what to do. I whispered an idea into Dr. Newell’s mind for the first time.
Your problems started shortly after you began keeping this lamp on your desk. Aside from what the strange street vendor told you, you know nothing about this lamp. There could be some correlation that is beyond your understanding. You should tell Mark about it and show him the lamp when he returns; he seems clever, and perhaps he can resolve this once and for all. And that is precisely what Dr. Newell did next.
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I returned about an hour after taking Dr. Newell’s laptop to my office, where I tried unsuccessfully diagnosing it. I walked in with two boxes, one under each arm, in addition to my usual bag of tools. I entered the office unceremoniously and was determined to get this mystery off my mind and off my plate. I set the boxes down and unpacked them while Dr. Newell watched, confused, with an old oil lamp in his hands.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage to get your laptop to respond. It’s almost like power and charging circuits had been physically severed. Which should be impossible, and as far as I can tell, they are all still physically intact. Well, I could spend days working out how to fix that problem, but I think the best and quickest solution for you, which I know you prefer, is a replacement. Lucky for you, we have a few spares for just such a case,” I said, removing the protective plastic from the new laptop. “I know you have a lot of work saved, and I was able to connect it to your hard drive and recover your data externally. Once I get your new laptop set up, I will restore the data I have backed up. It shouldn’t take long. Do you have any questions, Dr. Newell?”
I don’t think Dr. Newell understood half of what I just said. The information was far too direct and practical for someone who spent their time asking unanswerable questions. But he responded eventually after shaking out of whatever thought he was lost inside.
“That sounds good, Mike,” Dr. Newell muttered, getting my name entirely wrong. “I was wondering why these problems keep happening. It occurred to me this started shortly after I started keeping this souvenir lamp on my desk. I picked it up in a market in Morocco in May. A humorous trinket, a magic genie lamp. Could you take a look? I doubt there is any correlation, and it’s merely a coincidence, but perhaps it is an idea worth exploring.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. You know what they say? Correlation is not necessarily causation, but that is the sciences, not the humanities. Still, it’s only just September now, so that is only three months. But honestly, I have seen some strange things I can’t always explain. I have your data transfer running now, and it will take a few minutes. Let me take a look at this magic lamp,” I answered with an indulging chuckle, accepting the lamp from him. “Who knows, maybe a mischievous genie inside is causing all this trouble?”
I was sure my casual joke was lost on the professor, who seemed earnestly concerned. Which was absurd; he had no reason to suspect this lamp had anything to do with his problem. I held the lamp; it was a nice antique, but nothing was immediately suspicious about it. But then, a thought that was not my own arose in my mind like a whisper.
This is a very strange lamp in your soft, powerful hands, and it feels like some kind of power is inside. It tingles slightly in your hands. It could do something and be something much more than it appears. Some of those markets sell things like this lamp to tourists, which can disrupt electronics or create static discharge. It’s some kind of low-level petty revenge on the foreign invaders. You should take it with you and tell the professor you will examine and test it. At the very least, taking it away will reassure the professor that a mysterious source of misfortune cannot cause him any more trouble.
“I think I understand what you mean. There is something unusual about this lamp,” I said, half to myself, half to Dr. Newell. “You know, some of those markets sell things to tourists that can disrupt electronics or create odd static discharge. I think it’s some kind of low-level petty revenge on the foreigners or something like that. But that could just be a nasty rumor. Why don’t I take this lamp back to my office when I leave? I can keep an eye on it and see if it causes any trouble, plus it removes it from the equation for you. If you still have any trouble, we will know this little lamp is not the cause, and if I do see any trouble, we will know if this is just a coincidence. I will return this souvenir in a few days if it’s okay. Now, it looks like your files have been transferred, and you should be good as new now. So, I’ll pack up and leave you to your work.”
“That sounds reasonable. I appreciate your help with this, Mike. I hope this means you have finally solved these problems, and I will not need to call you back again.”
I tensed a little at Dr. Newell’s obvious micro-aggression. He knew my name and had to know it was not my fault these problems kept arising. He also, sure as hell, knew that I had helped him countless times before without so much as a thank you. But it was not worth the energy necessary to argue the point or correct him. So, I packed the empty cardboard boxes and plastic packaging and left the office with the old antique lamp tucked away in my bag.
Mark walked quickly out of the building and jogged across the street with my freedom on the horizon. There was a moment in the office where I thought Mark might have sensed my intrusive thought was unnatural. His joke about the lamp hosting a genie was uncomfortably close to the truth. I don’t know if that was his natural perceptive nature or my sloppy work. Either way, I achieved my first objective. Now, I had to wait for the opportunity to talk to Mark.
His building was only half a block away. After tossing the empty cardboard boxes into a blue dumpster, he stepped inside the building. He headed for the elevator down to his office. The elevator announced its arrival, and Mark shuffled inside, pressing the button for the basement, where his office resided. All the while he was fiddling with a rectangular electronic device the like of which I had never seen before.
Meanwhile, I jostled around in his bag, contemplating what would happen next. I had to speak to Mark, but I had to do so cautiously. The last time I spoke directly to a human, their panic resulted in my lamp flying out of a window onto the street below, narrowly missing several confused and angry pedestrians. That must have been seventy or eighty years ago, perhaps even longer; tracking time with my limited access to the outside world was exceedingly difficult.
The elevator door opened, and Mark stepped out into a wide, dimly lit corridor with only half a dozen nondescript doors. Mark stepped through the first door, which stood propped open. Which I have come to understand is their sign that someone was already inside. He walked past shelves filled with mismatched boxes and bins to a small cubicle that hosted two desks. The nameplates outside the cubicles read Mark Williams and Otto. The second desk, which, to my dismay, was occupied by a friendly-looking fellow. I assumed this was Otto, who must be Mark’s coworker. He had unusually blueish-purple hair and wore sunglasses. He looked up as Mark set his bag down.
“Hey there, Mark. Any luck with the professor’s laptop? You seemed pretty frustrated when you left.”
“Hi O.T., Some luck; I took the easy route and just replaced the damn thing with a spare. That should get him back up and running and hopefully keep him going for a while. I thought about trying to diagnose what happened to his old laptop, but only to satisfy my curiosity. I’m sure it’s just a write-off at this point,” Mark said, falling back into a well-used office chair and reclining until he looked up at the ceiling.
“That’s good thinking. I know I would rather not take another call from him for a while. Would you like me to check the University warranty status? If it’s still active, we can ship it back to the supplier for a replacement.”
“Thanks, I’m sorry you had to deal with him. I told him just to call me directly, but you know how he is. You will never guess what the professor suspects might be causing his problems.”
“It’s not his misinterpretation of Emanuel Kant, is it?”
“I think that might still be on the table, but no, it’s a magic genie lamp.”
“Wait. Hold up. Say that again, Fam.”
“This,” Mark said, pulling my lamp out of his bag and holding it out for Otto to behold. “Not really a magic genie lamp, of course. But he said his problems started after he started keeping this on his desk. He seemed quite concerned about it, which is a little unusual; I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was likely just some faulty solder. I told him I would test his theory, and you can’t honestly say you haven’t seen problems with no logical explanation.”
“That is true,” O.T. said, examining the antique bronze oil lamp without removing his sunglasses. “I shudder to think what the public would feel if they knew how much our job depends on elbow-to-the-jukebox fixes that we can’t logically explain. Do me a favor. If you are going to test that theory, do it in your apartment, far from our server racks, just in case. I would rather not explain to the University that their email server went down thanks to a magic genie lamp. They just might believe it. And do me one more favor. Call me if that turns out to be a magical genie lamp, and you end up with three wishes. I have a few ideas that could use a few wishes.”
“This is why people always keep their magic wish granting genies a secret. I will have to call you after Elijah. We have a longstanding agreement to share any genie wishes, and to keep each other from making a classic wish mistake. Now, if you excuse me, it’s been a long day. I’m going to pack it up and head home,” Mark stated, standing up from his chair and exchanging items from his bag to his desk and from his desk to his bag. “Do you need a hand with anything before I take off?”
“That would be negative. I’m just waiting for this backup to finish, and then I’ll head home myself,” O.T. said. Offering a gesture between a salute and a wave, which Mark silently returned.
That was it. I didn’t have to interfere at all. Mark will take me back to his home, where we can have a private conversation. This was working out better than I hoped. As much as I liked Otto, or O.T., as Mark called him, I really should speak to Mark alone for the first time. Not that anyone but Mark would hear me, but humans can panic if they hear a voice no one else around them can if they aren’t expecting it. I watched Mark unpack his bag, file a few papers away into a drawer, put boxes back onto shelves, and then repack his bag, slipping my lamp inside last. With a wave and a polite goodnight, Mark walked out of his office, caught the elevator, and trotted out of the building, heading home.
My apartment was only a few buildings away from the office. It was in a block of old student dormitories that the University reserved for staff to use as needed. It was a perk of the job, a big perk for me. The downside was that it was small and came with the condition that I was on-call 24-7. It was an arrangement I could live with because it meant I didn’t have to overpay for an apartment in New Brunswick or commute from my family home in East Brunswick. Not only did it mean I had zero commute, but I was also two blocks away from The Queen’s Head Club, the bar, and Drag club where my best friend in the world, Elijah, worked and performed.
As soon as I stepped out of my office building, I pulled out my phone to call Elijah. It was still early enough that the club wasn’t really open. I tapped the photo of him I had saved on my phone’s home screen as a shortcut to call him. It rang twice before he answered.
“Mark, why do you insist on calling like an elder millennial instead of just texting like a normal boyfriend?” Elijah said in a practiced tone that sounded like a scripted and often repeated greeting. “What’s going on? Are you coming in?”
“Elijah, how many times do I have to tell you that you only wish I was your boyfriend. I just don’t go for beards, and I call because it drives you crazy,” I said back to him, laughing. He always knew how to make me laugh. “I’m not going to make it tonight; I got my hands on a magic genie lamp and will spend my night making questionable decisions without you.”
“Oh, you bitch. Well, I’m stuck here, so I can’t stop you. But I promise, if you come here tomorrow night with a 12-inch pianist, I will never give you a free drink again.”
“You know me better than that, I’d shoot for eight or nine inches max.”
“Dammit, Mark, I have to go. Customers. Text me next time, I love you,” Elijah said, sounding a little frustrated but very amused.
“You know I won’t. Love you too. Goodnight,” I replied, feeling equally amused and a little pleased. I flustered him a little in our brief conversation that lasted about as long as it took me to cross the street and arrive at my building.
Once inside, I put my bag on the kitchen table, which was also the kitchen counter. I dashed to the bathroom; I didn’t know what it was about coming home, which made it a biologically urgent necessity the instant you walked through the door. I finished addressing the inconvenience of biology and washed the accumulated work grime from my hands. Walking back to the kitchen, I picked up a towel hanging next to the kitchen sink and dried my hands before tossing the towel aside. Then I opened my bag on the kitchen counter and pulled out Dr. Newell’s antique lamp.
Hello Mark! I am delighted to meet you! An unnatural voice nearly shouted directly into my mind. I reflexively yelped and dropped the lamp on the floor.
“Is someone here? What was that?” I stammered and looked around in a panic.
When I heard no response, and after I had taken a few calming breaths, I reached down to pick up the lamp from the floor, where I dropped it.
I’m sorry I startled you. Please don’t panic. I’m in this lamp. I assure you, I am quite real, and you are not imagining this. I am not proud of how I just handled myself. I apologize. I was beyond excited, and the moment you pulled the lamp out, the carefully crafted moment of communication I had been planning slipped away from me. The unnatural voice in my head said, but much softer this time.
“What? Hello? Is this some kind of joke? O.T., is this you?” I pleaded. I was not amused and did not enjoy this joke.
Mark, it is not a joke. Stay calm. I can explain. My name is Eros. I am what you mortals might call a genie. Now, can we talk?
“Genie? You have got to be shitting me. Okay, Eros,” I laughed, submitting to the lunacy. “Sure. Let’s talk about how I have lost my mind.”
