“Oh, yes,” the man said.

“Like with magic words that let you do things?”

“Certainly, among the other sorts,” the man said.

“Like, I could fly or make a million pounds of gold appear?” the boy asked.

“Is that what you’re interested in?”

“Yeah, sure,” the boy said.

“Well, then,” the old man said, ducking beneath the counter and rifling through the things stored behind it, “perhaps you are ready for something like this.”

He rose, holding a leather bound book with words pressed into the cover. The old man set the book down facing the boy, who read them aloud.

“Words of Power: The Magic Words To Accomplish Anything,” the boy said. He looked up at the old man. “Is this for real?”

“Go ahead, open it and see for yourself.”

The boy lifted the cover and flipped pages until he came to the first substantial text, which he again read aloud.

“The only words you must know and use to unlock all the power of the universe and have your fondest wishes are ‘please’ and ‘thank you’,” he recited. With a snort, he shoved the book away with so much force that it fell down behind the counter. “Load of bullshit, just like I thought. Later, weirdo.”

“Wait!” the old man cried as he scrambled to recover the fallen tome. The boy was already out the door.

The old man put the book back up on the counter, this time facing himself, and did his best to smooth the bent pages. They were quite brittle with age, though, and more than one of them had been damaged by the fall.

“Please show me the words I must use to repair a damaged book,” the old man said, and the book flipped to a different page, where certain words enlarged and rearranged themselves while others vanished. He recited the resulting formula, then waited while the book restored itself to a better condition than it had been when he’d first pulled it out. “Hmm, I don’t know why I never thought of that before. Thank you.”

The book closed with a snap, and the old man put it away.

“You told me this was a magic can opener,” he said to the shopkeeper, who wasn’t at all flustered by this display.

“So I did,” the shopkeeper said.

“It doesn’t work!” the boy said.

“How very strange,” the shopkeeper said. “What exactly was the problem?”

“It doesn’t even open cans!” the boy said. “I can’t believe I fell for your lies, after you sold me that stupid magic feather that didn’t do anything…”

“The bird from whom I got it assured me that it had enabled her to fly,” the shopkeeper said. “She even showed me.”

“…and that stupid magic mirror I exchanged it for…”

“I’ll admit that the enchanter who made that particular item had a remarkably straightforward idea of what ’showing things as they truly are’ entails.”

“…and the hat you said I could pull rabbits from that I traded that for.”

“You could have when the hat was made, but myxomatosis is a pernicious disease, sadly,” the shopkeeper said. “Wipes out a warren just like that. Still, I stand by my merchandise, which is why I let you return the hat… despite my very liberal return policy not covering headwear for reasons of safety and sanitation. The customer is always right, you know.”

“Well, this time you’re not talking me into taking any more of your junk,” the boy said. “I want my money back.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course,” the shopkeeper said. “But after allowing you to return three items in the course of a week, I’m afraid I can’t take this back unless it’s demonstrably defective.”

“I already told you, it doesn’t work,” the boy said.

“You’ll have to demonstrate that.”

“Do you got a can?”

“Not on the premises, no,” the shopkeeper said. “Bottles and vials and urns are more in my line, I’m afraid.”

“Fine, then I guess I’ll go get one,” the boy said.

“Very good,” the shopkeeper said. “Just make sure that it’s a magic one.”

“What?”

“The can,” the shopkeeper said. “Make sure it’s magic. It won’t be a proper demonstration otherwise.”

“Where am I supposed to get a magic can from?”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you bought a magic can opener.”

“Got you!” the boy cried, leaping from his hiding place in the bushes. The little man yelped and jumped, but the boy’s hands closed around him. “I caught you!”

“Alright, alright!” the little man cried. “You did. You got me.”

“Now you have to tell me where your gold is,” the boy said.

“Oh, no, that’s leprechauns,” the little man said. “I’m a gnome. I don’t have gold and I don’t grant wishes. But you can ask me one question and I have to answer it truthfully.”

“How can I get rich?” the boy asked.

“That’s not the question,” the gnome said.

“What?”

“I told you, you can ask one question and I have to answer it truthfully,” the gnome said. “That is not the one question you can ask.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “Um, what is the name of my one true love?”

“That’s not it, either.”

“How will I die?”

“Neither is that,” the gnome said.

“Meaning of life?”

“Nope.”

“Secret of life?”

“Sorry.”

“Grand unified field theory?”

“Never heard of it,” the gnome said.

“Well… what is the question, then?” the boy asked.

“That one,” the gnome said smugly, and vanished.

It was with him through each humiliating defeat on the pitcher’s mound. It was with him for every lost kite and every missed kick. It was with him every holiday when he suffered through the loneliness of being the only one in his class to receive no seasonal cheer: no valentines, no Christmas cards, nothing but a sack full of rocks on Halloween. It was with him when his dog shunned him for the entertainment of its own inner life, barely noticing him at all until it was time for supper. It was with him when he paid his meager allowance to a neighborhood bully for advice that was invariably insulting.

It was there every time the little red-headed girl saw him make a fool of himself, every time she didn’t see him at all.

It was there, eating it all up… drinking down every last drop of depression and despair that suburban life could inflict upon an unfortunate child outcast.

“Good grief!” the child said.

Unseen, the imp nodded.

It was very good grief, indeed.