Mad About You

You're just a little down on your luck is all. Is anything broken?"
    After a few seconds of silence in which the man tried to take in his surroundings, he croaked, "Yes, the spell—the spell is broken."
    Senile, Ladden surmised. "Sir, are you hurt?"
    "N-no," the man said, offering Ladden a weak smile. "I've been set free."
    "Everyone in California finds religion sooner or later," Ladden agreed wryly, looking the man over. He appeared to be all right, at least physically. Ladden reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and extended a ten-dollar bill. "Here you go, pal. Get yourself something to eat, okay?"
    The man accepted the money, holding it in his long-fingernailed hands as if he'd never seen anything like it. "But you have given me my life."
    Ladden waved off his gratitude. "My store was the one you just happened to be walking by, that's all."
    "What do you want?" the man asked, grasping Ladden's shirt in his bony fists.
    "Hey," Ladden said crossly, trying to pull away. "No need to get defensive—I don't want anything from you."
    The man refused to relinquish his hold. "Gold? Jewels? Power? Anything you want, simply wish for it, and I shall grant you three of your heart's desires."
    Ladden covered the man's icy hands with his own and gently pried loose the gnarled fingers.
    "Look, mister, you need to get back on your medication. There's a shelter two blocks over on Hargrove. I'm sure they can help you, so move along, okay?"
    The sounds of the street floated in, reminding Ladden the double doors stood open. He straightened his shirt, then gently guided the man toward the door, dreading the certain melee out in the street. But instead of smashed cars, sagging utility lines, and buckled sidewalks, Pacific Street lay as calm as a deep lake. Pedestrians strolled by, engrossed in reaching their destinations, unconcerned by the recent disturbance. Ladden glanced back to find the homeless man had slipped away. Remembering Mrs. Pickney, he hurried next door and burst into her shop.
    Mrs. Pickney stood at her counter watching a black-and-white portable television and drinking a cup of coffee. She smiled broadly. "Oh, good morning, Ladden. Would you like some coffee?"
    "The quake—didn't you feel it?"
    She set down her cup with a frown. "What quake? When?"
    "Just now!"
    "No," Mrs. Pickney said, shaking her head slowly. "I didn't feel a thing—it must have been a very minor tremor."
    "My place is in a shambles," he said, glancing at her undisturbed glass cases and wall displays.
    She squinted. "Are you sure, dear?"
    "Yes!"
    "There has to be an explanation—" she began, then glanced up as a customer walked in. She smiled at Ladden. "I'll be over in a few minutes."
    "Sure thing, Mrs. Pickney." He stopped the young man who had entered her shop. "Did you feel an earthquake about five minutes ago?"
    "No," the man said, his brow creased. "Did you?"
    "Uh... no," Ladden said with a small laugh. "I... I guess not." He waved to his neighbor. "Forget it, Mrs. Pickney—I'll see you later."
    Apprehension descended over him as he returned to the quiet sidewalk. He poked his head into a handful of retail stores neighboring his and asked the retailers if they'd felt any ground disturbances, but each responded with an emphatic no, including the upholstery shop on the other side of him. He had almost convinced himself it hadn't happened at all until he stepped back into the bedlam in his showroom.
    How was it possible that, other than the homeless man, he was the only person who had felt the earthquake? The only business on the street that had suffered any damage? He sighed.
    Days—it would take him days to get things back in order. Ladden mentally ticked off the things he'd have to do: call a building inspector, call his insurance agent, file a claim... He yanked off his cap, then ran his fingers through his hair. And he'd have to close down for a while. No one could conduct business in this mess.
    He suddenly noticed the copper teapot in the middle of the floor, and squatted to pick it up. The lid was missing, undoubtedly dislodged when he dropped it. The homeless man's rantings echoed in his mind, and Ladden smiled. Three wishes. If only life were that easy.
    Turning his sign back to Closed, he stopped in mid-motion. Across the street, Jasmine Crowne alighted from her luxury sports sedan, flipped her dark ponytail over her shoulder, and walked toward his demolished store.
    "Damn," he muttered, his mind racing for a sane