Chapter 2: Mark Meet Eros
Chapter 2
***Eros***
Not the best start. Has it really been so long that I forgot how to introduce myself to a human without inspiring panic or causing them to question the soundness of their mortal minds? Did he really ask if I was shitting him? What does that mean? Clearly, I am rusty. Let’s try this again.
Mark, you have not lost your mind. I will explain everything.
“A voice inside my head does not instill confidence in my sanity. Eros, was it? If you are not an artifact of my mind, can you give me one reason not to toss this lamp out the window? And is there any way we can talk without you inside my head?”
Give me a little slack here, Mark. I haven’t actually spoken with a single human for decades, and it’s been much longer since I last held a conversation. I am a little out of practice here. Yes, I can give you a thousand reasons not to launch me out of a window, but how about we agree it would be extremely rude? Now, if it makes you feel more comfortable, I can be audible, but I need a medium. What are those things called that you wear over your ears to listen to cassette tapes? If you can wear those and hold this lamp, I can try to speak through those.
“Okay, even though I am not convinced you’re even real, and I’m not sure you deserve it, I will cut you some slack and not toss this lamp out the window. Let’s see where this goes, but I am going to open the window just in case. You’re talking about headphones? Yes, I have those. I am going to set the lamp down and pull them out of my bag. Hold on a minute, I guess.”
Mark set me down on his kitchen counter while he pulled out a strange-looking “C” shaped bit of wavy plastic, which I can only assume are modern headphones. I was starting to feel desperately out of touch with this modern world. Still, I suppose centuries of isolation will do that. Mark didn’t immediately pick up the lamp after putting the headphones on—or in—his ears. Instead, he pulled a bottle out of a freezing cold cabinet and took a large drink directly from the bottle. I recognized high-proof ethanol, and I believe it was sweetened imitation whisky with artificial cinnamon flavoring. That can’t be good. He set the bottle down on the counter and picked me up again. It took a moment, but I was able to connect with the headphones he was wearing.
***Mark***
This was either the most unusual auditory hallucination ever, or some kind of psychological break. I’ve read that burnout and stress can do some fascinating things to your mind. But I haven’t felt unusually stressed or burned out. There was no known family history of schizophrenia or similar psychological disorders, not that lack of known history ruled it out. What I knew for sure was that the cinnamon-flavored imitation whisky Elijah left in my freezer tasted awful and burned all the way down. So, for now, that would be my grounding to reality as I decided to lean into holding a conversation with a magic lamp.
“I’ve got the headphones on now, Eros,” I said reluctantly to the antique lamp in my hands.
“Mark? Can you hear me now?” Eros responded audibly, sounding slightly mechanical yet ethereal.
“I can, thank you. This is much more comfortable. I have about a thousand questions, but I will let you explain first.”
“Thank you, Mark, that’s gracious of you. Clearly, I made the right choice. First and foremost, I am not actually a genie. Those are myths and fables. Although I am the reason those stories exist. Which is why I am captive in this ridiculous lamp until I find a human who will willingly wish for my freedom.” Eros said matter-of-factly, as if it would make sense to me.
“So, if you are not a genie, and genies are just myth, then what are you? And I guess this means I don’t get three wishes. What was that about being captive? Are you a prisoner? If the wish thing isn’t real, what is wishing for your freedom about?” I asked, looking for the thread that might unravel this hallucination or dream.
“I should start from the beginning. You might want to sit down,” Eros answered with a hint of a patronizing tone. In turn, I shrugged and settled down on my couch, pulling my phone out of my pocket in case I needed to call for help. “I am, in fact, an elemental force of the universe, one of many consciousnesses. We are old as the universe itself.”
“So, you’re saying you are over 13 billion years old?” I asked after quickly searching ‘age of universe’ on my phone.
“I’m surprised; I didn’t realize humans had gained that much understanding. Yes, I’m somewhere between 13 and 30 billion years old. I don’t know exactly how old I am because, after a few billion years, it just stops being important, plus age is a matter of perspective.”
“That is very much dependent on context, Eros,” I interjected, growing more convinced this was not a figment of my imagination. There’s no way my own mind would leave an obvious and inappropriate age-gap joke hanging. “But I understand your meaning. Go on, I’ll try to hold my questions.”
“I appreciate that. But please, ask as they arise. I have almost forgotten how enjoyable a simple conversation could be. I assure you I have many questions for you as well.”
“Fair enough, let’s skip to you confined or imprisoned in this lamp.”
“Right, first you must understand that we are non-corporeal consciousnesses. For all our abilities we can’t exactly move freely around the universe. We need to ‘hitch a ride,’ so to speak. For us to interact, we must inhabit something physical. It could be a Byzantine bronze oil lamp, for example.”
“Strangely enough, that makes sense,” I said. Although I thought it made little sense right now, I did not want to side-track the conversation. “But why the lamp?”
“Why not? At the time, it was an object that was an essential fixture in the lives of many humans. Plus, I found it to be aesthetically pleasing.”
“I get it, like a sports car,” I replied, half-focused. The alcohol burn in my stomach had evolved into hunger, so I texted the pizzeria down the street.
“A sports car? I’ll have to come back to that, but I believe you understand. But now, hold on as I tell you the tale of my unjust imprisonment.”
“Please, continue. I just ordered a pizza.”
“Ordered a what? How? When?” Eros incredulously inquired, clearly oblivious to what I was thinking and doing on my phone. That’s another mark of this being real. “Oh, never mind, I’m clever. I’m sure I’ll figure that out, as I was saying. A few thousand years ago, I found myself on this planet as you humans were learning the basics of civilization and forming your first societies. You were peculiar, and I was fascinated. Your mating rituals were messy, irrational, inconsistent—and yet strangely beautiful. Something about your relentless need to connect, to create meaning in the chaos, drew me in. Every few decades, you’d change the rules in entirely arbitrary ways. As you became more mobile, I saw how wildly your rituals varied across the world.”
Eros wasn’t wrong about us being messy, irrational, and inconsistent. I’ve got to hand them that. I glanced at my phone. The pizza was on its way, so I settled in listening to Eros’ story.
“For a while, I was content to watch. But the more I observed, the more I yearned to be part of the chaos. I couldn’t help myself. To help you hopeless fools—and, if I’m being honest, to entertain myself—I decided to meddle. I truly didn’t think anyone would notice. But meddling, as it turns out, is what got me locked in that lamp.
Taking the leap from voyeur to participant was exhilarating. I used my powers to nudge a few of you in the right direction. A little gust of wind pushes two strangers together. A touch of engineered luck alters futures. I whispered ideas into your heads and tweaked the threads of fate—minor adjustments that felt harmless at the time. Then, before I knew it, I started planting stories.
And oh, what fun those stories were. But one led to my captivity. The tale of the magic lamp: if you find a Djinn trapped inside, they’ll grant you three wishes. I thought it was harmless, amusing even—until humans twisted the story. They added offensive little details: that I was bound to a ‘master,’ that I was deceitful, or worse, malicious. My existence became known—misunderstood but known—and that’s where I crossed the line.
My punishment? I was imprisoned in a bronze oil lamp until a human ‘wished’ to set me free…” Eros was saying. When they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“I’m sorry to cut you off, Eros; it sounded like you were on a roll. But the pizza is here, and I have to answer the door.” I said nonchalantly, feeling less than nonchalant as I walked to the door, tucking an antique bronze oil lamp under my arm. I answered the door and greeted the familiar 19-year-old delivery boy whose name I can never remember. We made the customary exchange of cash for pizza with minimal communication and then wished each other goodnight, to which we both replied ‘you too’ before I closed the door.
“That was unusual,” Eros commented in my ear, sounding genuinely perplexed. “I can’t say I have ever witnessed human interaction like that. Now, I realize I was not paying attention to the time, but that was quick, was it not?”
“The pizza shop is about a block away, and this is a University town,” I said, setting the pizza box down on the counter/table and flipping open the lid. Reaching the dish rack beside my sink, I picked up a plate. I slid two slices of pizza onto it, setting the plate down for the pizza to cool before it would be a temperature safe for consumption. “That probably doesn’t mean much to you, but trust me, it’s not unusual. But go on, I’m going to eat something. You were just saying you were imprisoned by your counsel of universal consciousness for meddling in the affairs of humanity. So how did you end up here?”
“That is a massive over-simplification, Mark, but it is essentially accurate. The lamp that was now my prison traveled the world for centuries, passing from hand to hand. As a quiet observer, I witnessed the best and worst of humanity, enduring my confinement with only fleeting moments of amusement when I chose to intervene.
Fortunately, I was never subservient to the holder of my lamp and could ignore their banal or repulsive wishes. On rare occasions, I would step from silent observer to willing participant if the request was worthy—or entertaining enough,” Eros answered long-windedly before arriving at their point. “I arrived here after Dr. Jason Newell bought my lamp as a souvenir from a trip to Morocco.”
“Right,” I said, between bites of my pizza dinner. “I remember he mentioned that, but how did you end up on sale as a souvenir?”
“I ended up in that antique bazaar because my lamp was traded as a novelty among merchants for decades. Until I sat, overpriced—according to some that couldn’t imagine my true pricelessness—but nevertheless attractive to tourists like Dr. Newell, he became unusually excited at the idea of finding a genuine genie lamp, even rambling a half-conceived dissertation at the unfortunate shopkeeper about the ethical dilemmas of granting three wishes.”
“That sounds like Dr. Newell, alright,” I agreed while awkwardly eating over my kitchen sink with the lamp tucked under one arm.
“Just wait, that’s not the half of it,” Eros replied. “At first, I found this amusing. He would hold my lamp in his office and talk to me—well, to himself, really. He had no idea I was there. He asked whether he had an ethical or moral obligation to use hypothetical wishes to better the world. I would have said yes, obviously, had he made any worthwhile wishes, I might have granted them. Twice, he came close. The first was when he wished for just one student who understood Descartes. It was ludicrous because I read those papers—they all understood René Descartes better than he did. The second was when he wished to solve the Trolley Problem. I deleted his Amtrak ticket for that one and started regularly crashing his computer. Which is where you entered the story.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
I paced in my kitchen, contemplatively chewing on mozzarella. I could practically feel the gears turning in my mind as the puzzle pieces of Eros’ story fell into place. I was relatively confident now that this was not a dream, hallucination, or psychological phantom. My apprehension and anxiety were easing, giving way to curiosity. I’m far from an expert on supernatural versus natural but unexplained phenomena, but at this point, I doubt the distinction matters. Temporarily abandoning the pizza on the counter, I returned to the bottle of cinnamon-flavored whisky. I picked up the bottle and poured an eyeballed double serving into a faded novelty glass I retrieved from a cabinet. I took a sip and let the sensation linger momentarily as one last reminder I was conscious and coherent. This may be real, but the question is whether Eros is what he claims to be.
“I have questions, Eros.”
“Please, Mark, ask. I am, as you might say, an open book.”
“How does it work? You say you are no genie and imply you don’t or can’t grant wishes. But then you talked about doing just that, at will.”
“Fair enough, I can understand the incongruity and how that might be confusing. I can interact with the world and influence matter and energy. And as you experienced, I can plant ideas into your minds – but I cannot force you or anyone to do anything against your will. For example, when you held my lamp for the first time, I suggested that you take the lamp with you. So, In that way, with a little creativity, I could “grant a wish” within reason. But it’s entirely my choice.”
“Then where did the three wishes idea come from? Or, why three wishes?”
“That was my idea, a little poetic bit of storytelling. Because one wish causes panic and decision paralysis, leading to disastrous decisions. Or no decision at all. Two are really all most people would need, but three wishes do exciting things. The importance placed on the last wish causes people to think. If you accidentally waste your first wish, it’s okay because you have two more, which avoids decision paralysis. The second wish is almost always where vital choices are made. But the final wish is nearly torture.”
I finished the small glass of whisky. As the last sip passed over my tongue and burned its way down my throat, I had an idea. I needed evidence that Eros was more than a voice in my headphones. I didn’t need empirical evidence, just enough for myself.
“I think I understand. Let me ask you this. Can you make my heartburn go away? That cinnamon whisky is going to burn a hole in my guts.”
“Are you joking? That may be the worst first wish I have ever heard.”
“Think of it as proof. A simple way to convince me that this is not a complex hallucination or psychological break and a small way to demonstrate to me that if you are real, you are not full of shit. It should be easy if you are what you say. It’s low stakes. Plus, if you can’t, I can solve it myself. The only other option is to call Elijah or O.T., as promised, and you can talk to him, and then we compare notes.”
“Proof? I don’t know if I should be insulted or impressed. No one in history has ever asked me for proof. Mark Williams, you are something else. I don’t know what it is, but you’re it. I’ve done it; your heartburn should be gone, but the sudden change may cause gas.”
Without warning, an eye-watering, window-rattling expulsion of demons belch erupted from my body. My face was tingling, and my sinuses were on fire. The relief was as intense as the shock. I could faintly hear distant laughter in my ears, which were ringing a little. My heartburn was gone, leaving me with the lingering realization that this was real. It honestly should have frightened me a little. Instead, I was fascinated and excited by this not-quite-supernatural encounter.
“Wow. Did you do that on purpose? Never mind, don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. Consider me convinced,” I said, pulling the lamp from under my arm to speak directly to it. I was convinced they were at least not entirely dishonest. But the last thing I also needed to know was if they were benevolent or malicious. I had to employ the joke test. “Eros, I’m going to make a wish. I know you don’t really ‘grant wishes,’ so stick with me. But before I do, I have one more question that should finally tell me how much I can trust you.”
“Well, gee Mark, if I had known an earth-shaking belch was all it would take to convince you, I would have done that hours ago. But please, go ahead and ask your question.”
“Have you heard the 12-inch pianist joke?”
“Have I heard the what? Mark. Are you shitting me now? I wrote that joke. But that’s not the best part. Go on. Ask me what the best part is.”
“You’ve got me; what is the best part?”
“It is based on a true story! Oh, Mark, do you have any idea how long I have wanted to tell this story? There were artistic variations, of course. But the true story is that this guy, who was already a musician, wished for the “world’s largest penis.” So, I—get this—made HIM the world’s largest pianist. Did he appreciate the clever artistic twist? No. No, he did not. Oh, and let me tell you, Mark, Franz Liszt was NOT amused.”
I dropped the lamp on the floor.
***Eros***
Mark froze. In an instant, everything about him changed. The skepticism, apprehension, and tension vanished. For a brief moment, he simply relaxed, and then he melted. His grip on the lamp faltered and his knees buckled.
“Mark?”
Mark couldn’t respond. He couldn’t hear me right now. He had dropped the lamp and was lying on the floor. Tears poured from his eyes, laughing so hard that it evolved into a coughing fit that sounded like a flock of angry geese trying to say, “Franz Liszt?!” That sound will haunt me for the rest of time. When the universe is collapsing around me, I will hear it. “Franz—HONK—Lis—HONK—zt! —HONK!” and I am not mad about that.
So, there I was, lying on the floor of Mark’s small apartment, contemplating the carpet. Is this shade of brown the original color or the patina of time and countless residents? Meanwhile, Mark was slowly regaining his composure. I watched as he pushed himself onto his knees, took three deep breaths, and rose. He walked to the kitchen, wiped his face, and filled a glass with water from his sink. He drank the entire glass of water as though he resented it. He walked back over to me, and I got a good look at his practical, unassuming, comfortably stylish shoes. He seemed to contemplate deeply before reaching down and picking up my lamp.
“Mark? Are you all right?”
“Eros, I don’t know if there is a right or wrong way to say this. I wish for your freedom.”
“Mark? What did you just say?”
“I wished for your freedom. Isn’t that what you want? Did it work?”
“Yes, that’s what I want; of course, that’s what I want. But why? Why did you just do that?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do. Did I do it right? It doesn’t seem like anything changed.”
“I don’t know. You caught me a little bit off guard. I don’t feel any different. Hold on, let me try to leave this lamp.”
“Okay, I’ll just wait here.”
There I was, inhabiting this bronze oil lamp that had been my prison for centuries. I have been trapped for so long that I can’t remember the last time I even tried to press against my bonds. But now, the door was open, and I simply had to slip through. Honestly, I was nervous. I guess it was like standing up after you sat for far too long, and your weird human legs go to sleep. I gently pushed in the only direction I could go, into Mark.
It was all so abrupt that I didn’t consider discussing this with Mark first. I wouldn’t normally inhabit another sentient being without their consent, or at least a warning. But it worked, and I’m almost positive he couldn’t feel it. I was no longer inside the lamp; I was inside Mark. I didn’t want to stay here; it felt rude, so I went for Mark’s headphones.
“Mark, can you still hear me?”
“Yeah. Did it work?” Mark replied, turning the lamp over in his hands.
“I think it did. I should be in your headphones now. Try to put down the lamp.”
“Okay, if you say so.” Mark set the ordinary bronze oil lamp down on his kitchen counter and stepped back.
“Can you hear me?” I said.
“Yes, I can.”
“Mark. You set me free. I can go anywhere. I can do anything I want now. I don’t even know what to do now. Why did you do that?”
“It just felt like the right thing to do. I mean, once I knew you were real. No sentient being should be held captive like that unless you’re dangerous. But I don’t think you are a danger to anyone but a pianist.”
That was Mark. Once, he thought something was the right thing to do, and that is what he did. He didn’t hesitate or consider the consequences. He didn’t ask for anything in return, and he didn’t expect praise or thanks. He held me in his hands, with all the potential windfalls I could offer, and he could imagine. I was captive and powerful, and not once did I even ask him to free me from that lamp. My only aim was to get out of that office. I would have been content with Mark as a captive in that lamp; I was accustomed to my circumstances. But now, I was free to go where I wished and do anything I wanted whenever I felt like it. That is when I decided Mark would be my first and best friend, and I would do anything to repay his magnanimous act of selflessness.
“Mark, I don’t know what to say. I guess thank you is a start. I know I said I can go anywhere now, but I will stay with you as long as you like. I promise I will repay you,” I said as Mark wandered around his small apartment, putting various things away and casually tidying his space. “Make all the wishes you like. If I can do it, I will. I just can’t believe it. The last and only time I ever asked a human to consider making that wish, they refused. They likened it to tossing the most valuable treasure in the world into the sea like I was a mindless, subservient object.”
“Maybe I was a little hasty, and we should have discussed it first. But honestly, I didn’t do it for favors. You don’t owe me anything,” Mark said while placing my old lamp on a shelf. “I’m happy to have you around as long as you like, but now I have so many more questions.”
“I have just as many questions about you and what I have missed.”
“Please don’t ask me to summarize world history; I am far from an expert.”
“Don’t worry; I won’t ask you to recount centuries of history; just get me to a library and give me a few hours. But now, settle in. We have a lot to discuss. Start by telling me everything about you.”
“You’ll figure me out as we go. Instead, I’ll tell you about my friends and family,” Mark said, pulling a notebook and pen out of his bag and sitting down at his kitchen counter. “We also need some ground rules if you’re going to stick around.”
“Good, I’m glad I don’t sleep.”
“You don’t what?”
I won’t bore you with all the details of that discussion that went on extremely late into the night or early in the morning, depending on how you track time. Until Mark could no longer keep his eyes open. Mark and I talked throughout the evening and into the very early morning. I explained the finer points of how I can move around from object to object. And how I perceive and interact with the world now that I’m back to my full, glorious strength. I have never had to explain some things before, so it was a bit difficult. For your sake, basically, I can pass into and through any physical object through a direct physical connection. But the more extensive the object, the harder it is to find my way, especially being out of practice. I can see through the interactions of photons in my general vicinity, much like you, but without your limitations on visible light and line-of-sight. Interaction is much more difficult to explain unless you are a leading quantum and atomic physics expert with a dash of relativity. Mark was satisfied with the explanation that my creativity and time primarily limit me.
He and I worked out ways to communicate more comfortably for him. After a few trials, we decided that his telephone was the most convenient place I could stay. That was his clever idea. This way, if he needs to talk to me, he can just “answer his phone.” I also get to read all his messages once I learn the finer points about interacting with this technology. As for our ground rules, I agreed to only interject directly into his mind if necessary. Also, I promised not to interfere without Mark asking, or at least without a discussion first, unless it was absolutely necessary. It will become apparent later that he and I have different definitions of what is necessary.
For his part, Mark filled me in roughly on the broad strokes of the bits of history I missed, such as what and where New Jersey is. What is modern technology, and how does it work? Both he and I are curious to discover how much, if anything, I can do with the intangible elements. I had to promise not to experiment with his phone, which was a significant concession on my part. Do you have any idea how tempting it is?
This is where Mark’s story reached its inflection point and when I realized how desperately he needed my help. Mark had some problems, some of which he couldn’t even see at this point, but I could. His family home and legacy are under siege. Meanwhile, Mark’s life was a tangle of treads in a Shakespearean love triangle, and I couldn’t wait to unravel them. I was impressed with his nonchalance. Some humans I have known would fall into pieces, experiencing even a fraction of what Mark saw as inconvenient annoyances. If I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed Mark was an oblivious idiot instead of a heroic icon. I will have my work cut out for me, and we are going to have so much fun.