The Perfect Homburg 

Be careful what you wish for.

And when you make that wish, speak up and enunciate clearly. Want rapture? You could go home with a rupture. Think about it. I had sold my soul to Apollo, the god of poetry and envelope flap literature, for a writing job. Well, not Apollo, really, but one of his representatives: Prosper Epilegomenes, a mouse demon. Anyway, I got the job.

An easterly ocean gale was cannonading the shores of Willipaq, Maine. It slammed down the chimney and blew my wood stove from bright coals to a full flame. Woo-woo-woo, the chimney whistled like a kid blowing a tune across the lip of a giant soda bottle. Not to worry, I reassured myself. There was a blacktopped town road between me and the fury of the North Atlantic.

“Mother Carey’s chickens,” said a familiar voice. “Watch the north wind rise.” A diminutive green figure stood before my airtight, thrusting his rear end into the heat like a life-long Mainer.

My name is Jim Everhardy, and Prosper had granted my wish: to be read by millions. I now write the advertising blurbs on the envelope flaps of credit card bills. It was unlikely my personal representative from Sminthian Apollo had dropped in out of the storm to blow his nose and keep me company. Prosper opened the glass fire door and stuck his head inside.

A shower of sparks smoldered on the braided rug, my wife’s pride and joy. “Oops. Sorry about that.” He closed the door and ran around stamping out tiny fires. The smoldering continued. “Nice fire, but we have some escapers. Got water?” asked the demon.

“In the kitchen,” I replied. “There’s a bucket under the sink.”

Prosper hustled off.

The mouse demon returned with a bucket of water and doused the rug. I had not moved.

I had learned to keep my expectations under control when dealing with the lesser deities. Minor deities reward at minor levels: cheap T-shirts, herds of cattle, the usual stuff. But when they punish, it’s major. Believe me, I know. From Prosper’s last visit I had gotten the literary equivalent of cheap T-shirts, but the money was good. We thus far had the driveway paved plus a brand new washing machine. I liked things the way they were.

“Ah, but I’m here to change all that,” said the demon. “You’re too good a man to fritter away on envelopes. I’ve got something really big lined up. You are going to be a contender.”

Prosper was taller than a mouse, but not by much. Five years back, during the first visitation, he had strutted on my desktop, pointy gray ears topped off with an upside-down colander which he called the Helmet of Cleptath, a magic hat. According to the mouse, he had wrestled the colander away from Apollo’s sister in a fight over cheese, the cheese of the gods. From the helmet dangled strings of those triangular flags you see at gas station giveaways and pizza joints. Then as now, Prosper wore green tights. Flags fluttered as he spoke.

“And here we are, you and I, nattering away like old school chums at a class reunion.”

I didn’t recall nattering. Typically, he was doing all the talking. He had popped back into my life like those barrages of advertising that regularly clogged my e-mail.

“Spam! Jim Everhardy, really! That makes me sound like one of those pesky telemarketers who plague your dinner hour.”

Prosper was reading my mind. He was here to make me a proposition I couldn't refuse.

“Of course I am, Jim old turnip, reading your mind, that is. And to characterize me as junk mail cuts me to the quick. Account Executive. I like that much better. Consider me your account executive.” He did a quick two-step on a residual smoldering coal and ground his heel into my wife's prized rug. It was ruined.

“I only wanted to be an author,” I whined.

“You wished for success in writing. That is different.” He flicked lint from a lapel and studied his manicure. “Consider the pickle,” said Prosper, “in its progression from a humble garden vegetable to picklehood. Spiced, diced, plucked, peeled, steeped and cooked in a jar, yes? For now, you are a cucumber—not much going on, just waiting.”

I considered the cucumber.