I don’t even remember rubbing the lamp. It’s wild how we never see the most impactful moment in our life as it happens.

I stumbled out of a hookah bar into the sultry streets of the Marrakesh night markets. I stopped briefly to blearily take in the bright lights, mélange of exotic smells, and bustle of humanity. The heat of the day had evaporated while I was in the hookah bar and transformed into a vibrant scene. Despite my compromised state, I was conscious enough to know I needed to get back to my hostel. My feet took off without conscious thought, only vaguely pointed towards my place of rest.

Hawkers shouted their wares as I staggered through the souks. More to the point, I staggered from shop to shop, my shoulders brushing their wares, and I was fortunate not to bruise their goods. It may be the newest millennium, but punishments were still harsh to the unwary foreigner. Minutes or hours passed as I navigated the massive market and I could feel my mental clarity slowly surfacing once again.

Even in my somewhat altered state of mind, I realized I must have turned down the wrong narrow alleyway. The shopkeepers here were odd and vaguely unhuman in a way that was too close to reality. Ears and noses only slightly too pointed. Eyes slitted vertically, not round human pupils. Every so often a shopkeeper was a slight shade of green or blue, nothing that screamed mystical, but not human either.

I staggered to a stop, my hand resting on the stone wall that framed the alley. I blinked hard to see if I could clear my vision and the lingering hookah haze. The shopkeeper of the stall beside me rose to approach me. With one blink, I could see a diminutive man, barely chest high to me outlined against the riotous colors of his dangling mosaic lights. With another blink, his skin took on a greenish hue, his features sharpening, and his expression avid. At other stalls, more small, sharp face shopkeepers turned towards me, expressions showing they were keen to make a deal.

I had just enough sense left in my head to turn and flee before I could be ensnared.

Given my mental state, I suppose it isn’t surprising that my shoulder must have brushed the lamp as I staggered out of the unhuman souk. It was equally unsurprising that I didn’t notice the djinn that followed me for several city blocks back to my hostel. Or that the djinn stalked my every movement, even after I had staggered drunk and high into bed.

But when I awoke with a pounding head and sour taste in my mouth he loomed over my bed. The djinn was big, blue, and lacking the friendliness a certain early 90s cartoon would have lead me to expect. The djinn loomed in my tiny hostel room as I slowly sat up.

“Bro, what the actual?”

“Salam.” The words were a deep rumble that seemed to shake my chest and the walls around me.

“Uhm, yeah peace, bro,” I mumbled out as I clutched the worn sheets, so unlike my set at home. “But seriously, what are you doing in my room?” My head throbbed in time to my stomach’s roiling from too many unfamiliar beverages last night.

“You summoned me,” he stated plainly. No hint of expression on his face. And yet, somehow, I felt like I was being insulted for being so dense.

“Dude, what are you even? Why are you blue?”

“I am a djinn. Djinn are blue.”

I looked at him, waiting for further information or explanation, but he only stared at me with a suspiciously bland expression. Frustrated, I groaned and flopped back on the hostel’s thin mattress.

“How did I summon you?” I asked as I pressing my aching head into the pillow and longing for my luxurious bed at home.

“You rubbed my lamp as you crossed the market.”

“Wait, hold up,” I said and sat up fast. “Are you saying I rubbed a magic lamp and now I’ve summoned a genie?”

“Djinn.”

“Whatever. So, I can make wishes?”

“Wish. One. Use it wisely.”

“Holy fuck.” I bolted upright in excitement. “I mean, shit man. I can make a wish? Damn. Yes. It needs to be good.” Just then my stomach lurched and grumbled. “Fuck. How long do I have to make the wish? Like, is there a time limit?” I rubbed my stomach. “I need food. I would love a piece of bacon for breakfast,” I said to myself.

“As you wish,” the djinn told me and gave me an elaborate bow before disappearing.

“Fuck! Damn it, I wasted it.”

In the djinn’s place, a man appeared. He was short, but definitely human. He was dressed in an immaculate black suit with a black tie was elegantly knotted and tucked into a perfectly pressed vest. Equally perfect black trousers ended over highly polished black wing tip shoes. In his white gloved hand perched a domed silver tray.

“You bacon, sir,” he said as he whisked the domed lid off the tray.

“This better be the best damn bacon in the world,” I told him as I snatched the piece from its tiny white plate in the center of the silver tray. I took a bite and smiled. It was the perfect balance of chewy and crunchy.

“Hey, how did you get pork bacon in a Muslim country anyway?” I asked around the last bite I stuffed in my mouth.

The butler merely bowed his head briefly and disappeared.

“Damn. Bacon for breakfast. It was good, but kind of a waste of my wish,” I said to the empty hostel room.

I explored the city after a hasty shower in the hostel’s communal restrooms and a moment to secure my watch. My vintage steel Rolex wasn’t as flashy as several of the watches in my apartment’s walk in closet, but it was expensive enough for me not to risk leaving it in the hostel. The loose linen shirt to threw over my clothes covered it well enough and lent and aura of “shabby world traveler” to my look, allowing me to slip more easily from bar to bar, party to party.

My feet led me through the streets of Marrakesh and I pondered the absolute absurdity of my encounter with the djinn. Had the encounter occurred the night before, I could have easily brushed it off as booze or bad green. But his appearance in the morning, when I was fully sober, led me to the conclusion that it had really happened. And I, an idiot, pissed away a shot at a real wish my thinking with my stomach.

Eventually my feet found their way to the strange night market where I must have rubbed the lamp. The stalls were the same as I had seen before, a narrow stone alley lined with wooden stalls, bursting with sights, sounds, and smells to ensnare the senses. In the day’s light, the assortment of non-human vendors had been replaced by very normal looking men hawking their wares.

Maybe I could chalk some of this experience up to an altered state of mind. I swallowed down my disappointment and turned to head back to my hostel. The merchant in the strange little souk gave me a knowing nod and little wink. When he then smiled, I could see the same vertically slitted pupils I’d spotted the night before.

I choked down a laugh. I guess I wasn’t so addled.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of street food, enticing smells, the scent of spices heaped in heavy canvas bags, and catching up with fellow travelers I had met in the hostel. I politely excused myself from joining their night of revelry after a humorous retelling of my stagger back the night before. I carefully left out any mentions of the strange inhuman souk vendors, the djinn, or my curious little butler as I was already starting to doubt I’d really seen him.

My evening passed as quietly as one can in a hostel filled to the brim with travelers and by the time my head it the thin pillow, I had fully convinced myself that the morning’s strange interaction was nothing more than an extended dream and longed to return to my daily grind.

The scuff of a wingtip shoe on carpet woke me in the middle of the next morning. I groggily cracked open on eye to see the immaculately pressed trousers of the bacon butler at the edge of my bed.

I bolted upright in the bed with a shout of alarm and clutching the sheet to my bare chest as if it would shield me from the diminutive butler.

“Your bacon, sir,” the butler said, completely unphased by my startled reaction. He leaned towards me slightly and doffed the silver domed lid from the tray. Once again, a single perfectly cooked slice of bacon sat atop a single white plate.

“I thought my wish was done? Spent?”

The bacon butler merely looked at me, holding his tray at my eye level. I took the slice and he recovered the tray.

“So, like, are you going to come every morning now?” I asked, stuffing the slice in my mouth.

“Yes.” He watched me chew and swallow the slice then disappeared.

“The heck?” I asked the empty air.

A single phone call garnered me an earlier return home, away from this stuffy little butler and his bacon, but not soon enough. Despite having one of the highest priced travel agencies at my beck and call, I lacked the liquid assets to secure a private flight home and all the first class flights today were booked. Poor planning on my part once again, but that was the story of my life.

I spent my last day in Morocco going from souk to souk, looking for the inhuman market. No matter where I went or how I turned, it eluded me. With increasing desperation I queried vendors, trying to get my questions across in a mix of English and Arabic but with each attempt, either our lack of common language was too great a barrier or, as I strongly suspected, they were unwilling to tell me about the odd little marketspace. Frustrated, I returned to my hostel to pack and idly wondered if a djinn’s wish granting abilities could follow me home to America.

I laid awake that night pondering what would happen tomorrow as I flew home. I laid awake possibly too long, getting only a few hours’ sleep before having to be up for the trek from the hostel to the Marrakesh airport. The beautiful white and gold airport stood gently illuminated at the ungodly pre-dawn hour. I wanted a full night’s rest upon returning which forced me into a horrible early morning flight from Morocco to France.

The early morning departure had afforded me the opportunity to drop my humble traveler persona, ditching my cargo shorts and sandals for well-tailored slacks and a polo shirt. I had learned the trick from friends of “dressing down” during foreign travel to make myself less of a target for thieves. I was able to leave the dingy hostel with none of my new travel friends seeing me and questioning the sudden change.

My first-class seat to Paris sadly lacked the fully reclining seat and suite my flight from Paris to Washington DC had, but it was only three hours flying time. I had sunk gracelessly into my seat, accepting a quick glass of champagne from the flight attendant, before dropping back into a deep sleep.

I awoke a few hours later to my elbow being jostled. I expected to see some inconsiderate fellow passenger and was shocked to see my bacon butler. Still dressed in his immaculate uniform holding his domed silver tray, he stood in the aisle beside me.

I stared, mouth agape, wondering how on Earth he had gotten on a moving aircraft. I quickly looked around at my fellow passengers to see if they had noticed a man suddenly appear in the aisle. To my very great relief, it seemed most had followed my lead and were asleep.

“Your bacon, sir.” His voice barely carried over the noise of the flight, but it was as crisp and polite as ever.

I snatched the bacon from its plate as soon as he doffed the silver dome. I stuffed the piece in my mouth, chewing and swallowing faster than was safe. He gave a polite nod and disappeared once more. I scanned the cabin again, looking to see if anyone had seen the brief bacon drop off but it seemed that it had transpired with none the wiser.

The rest of my flight to France was easy but after the bacon butler scared me awake, I couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind whirred as I jetted across the Atlantic. Was this my life now? To be woken up every single day by the mysterious bacon butler? I had no wife or even a girlfriend, but how would a one night stand handle this strange little man appearing in my bedroom to feed me a single slice of bacon?

I laughed then at that thought. I was wealthy. Very wealthy. The kind of wealth that allowed for certain eccentricities and appearance of little butler bearing bacon might be brushed off. As long as the butler afforded me my privacy, I supposed he wouldn’t impact my life too much.

My last flight landed in Washington, DC in the late afternoon and I stumbled through my door, exhausted from travel and jet lag, only two hours later. Customs had been delay after delay and then my driver had been caught in the last of evening rush hour. I dropped my bags in the foyer, assuring myself I would unpack later, snagged a bottle of water and a sleep aid and fell into a deep sleep.

“Sir.”

I felt a gentle push on my shoulder but ignored it.

“Sir?” The voice was more insistent this time.

Another gentle push was ignored.

“Sir.” The voice held a hint of annoyance under its professional calm.

The hand shoved my shoulder and I slapped at it, annoyed. Annoyance shifted to fear when I found my wrist caught in a vice like grip and yelped in pain.

“Hey man, what the fu-”

“Your bacon, sir.” He cut me off mid swear, his hand still locked on my wrist.

There was a steely glint in his eyes that told me his professionalism only went so far.

“Jesus man, give me a break, I’m not even awake yet.”

“Your bacon, sir.” This time it was said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

I twisted my wrist, trying to escape his grip, but he remained locked onto me.

“What time is it?”

“It is nearly nine o’clock in the morning for this location and the time for breakfast is nearly gone. Your bacon, sir.” On the last repetition of his offer he dropped my wrist, flung the domed top off of his tray and all but shoved the tray under my nose. The scent of orange, cloves and star anise wafted off his perfect black coat sleeve.

I locked glares with him but took the bacon. Satisfied, he pulled the tray back from my face and replaced the dome.

“What happens if I don’t eat this?” I asked, waving the slice.

“You will eat it, sir.”

Feeling petulant and jet lagged I responded, “I don’t wanna.”

His free hand shot out and grabbed my chin. The fingers of his white gloved hand curled just so and pried my jaw open.

“You will eat it, sir.”

Horrified, I shoved the piece in my mouth and chewed. The bacon butler straightened as I chewed and the hand that had pried my unwilling jaw open smoothed his uniform.

“Every day?” I mumbled through the last crumbles.

“Yes, sir.”

“No matter what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Crap,” I said and swallowed the last of the bacon.

He nodded politely, any hints of violence gone from his demeanor, and disappeared.

“Holy hell. Every day?” I asked my empty bedroom. I pondered my circumstances again. While no one would bat an eye at my assumed eccentricity, the little bacon butler had proven he was willing to use force to accomplish his daily duty. I worried what implications that had for my daily life.