Free Remote Control by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

REMOTE CONTROL
     
    "Be careful what you wish for," they say, but for forty-four-year-old Harold Fielding, who unfortunately isn't one to listen to such good advice, those words will come back to haunt him.
    Harold― Harry ―always rebels against the norm. In fact, he says, "Wishes are like saying grace―something to be said before every meal." So he wishes at least five times a day, while growing exceedingly fat.
    However, good ole Harry has an excuse.
    "If I wish hard enough," he tells his wife Beatrice, "my wishes will eventually come true."
    Harry's a TV fanatic and, surprisingly, fairly intelligent. He spends about ten hours a day parked in front of his ten-year-old Sanyo television with the remote control in hand, while watching shows on just about everything. The next day, he can tell you all about it; his recall is nearly perfect.
    He never once contemplates actually working a forty-hour week and earning money. He's already maxed out the VISA and MasterCard, plus a small bank loan that Beatrice knows nothing about. And now he's waiting for his fortune to fall in his lap. Sadly, there's no room there, so whatever good luck finds him usually ends up in a puddle on the floor.
    Harry's good with puddles. He's a plumber by trade, when he bothers to do a job. The truth is, he's been having trouble maneuvering under kitchen sinks; his stomach keeps getting in the way. Six months ago, he was depressed, which made him eat more. He'd almost lost faith that there is something better for him…somewhere…out there, and then fate stepped in.
    After a chance run-in with an old classmate (Harry nearly knocked him down a flight of stairs when they passed on a landing), who happens to be very wealthy and who recommends one book, Harry's life changes forever.
    The Secret sits on the shelf behind the toilet. Harry reads it while relieving himself of the pounds of food he's eaten each day. Since he's always there a while, he can usually get through five or six pages a visit.
    "I've read it now from beginning to end at least five times," he boasts to his friends.
    Of course, he hasn't quite figured out that one must work towards receiving the good things in life, whether by deed or thought. He just figures that if he wishes for something, he'll attract it. Eventually.
    Be careful what you wish for, Harry.
    * * *
    On this fateful Friday night, Harry is sitting in his favorite recliner, the one with the sagging springs and torn leather footrest. He scowls at the television and balances a bowl of popcorn on his gargantuan stomach. Not an easy task.
    "I wish to be rich and famous," he says, just as he does at least twice a day. A handful of greasy popcorn follows and his stomach rumbles in rebellion.
    Harry wants everything out of life―recognition, an inexhaustible supply of money and the perfect family to share it with.
    He glances over his shoulder at his wife. Beatrice is ironing his work shirt for tomorrow, a pinched expression on her face. He studies her for a moment. She's wearing her regular work outfit―a skirt and jacket in dove gray. It would look great, he thinks, if she was twenty years younger. Beatrice is thirty-nine. And why won't that woman do something with her hair? Beatrice has grown out all the blond hair color he likes. It's now a rusty gray, which she twists into a lump at the back of her head and fastens with one of those clamp thingies.
    "You finished work early," she says without looking at him.
    "It was an easy job."
    Harry lets out a resounding belch in b-minor . The ominous sound is followed by a crescendo of sour pepperoni breath. It reminds him that there's still a half bag of mini pepperoni in the fridge.
    Beatrice looks up. "Why not take on a few jobs a week, Harry? We could use the money."
    She's holding her breath. He knows this because when she says money , it sounds like buddy .
    "You're making enough for us to get by on, Bea," he says. "'Sides, I'm waiting for my lucky streak to kick in." He doesn't