For whatever reason the alarm on Orson’s phone didn’t go off and so when he finally awoke he had to hop straight into the shower, grab a granola bar instead of his usual English muffin, and head off for work without performing a single sun salutation. Traffic was light, he assumed because the morning rush was already over, but when he arrived at the office he wondered if maybe something else was going on, because the parking lot in front of the building was empty, and when he tried the front door it was locked. He took out his phone to see if maybe there was a holiday he wasn’t aware of, but before he’d managed to swipe his way in it rang. It was his buddy, Steve.
“Hey, what’s up?” Orson said.
“That’s what I’m calling you about, douche bag,” replied Steve in his typically cantankerous tone. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, why?”
“You missed the game last night.”
“No, I didn’t. Vikings won, 13-7.”
“Not the football game, peanut head. The poker game.”
“What do you mean? The poker game’s not till tonight.”
“What do you mean? The poker game was last night.”
“Wait? Did we move it?”
“No, usual time. Friday at seven.”
“But that’s tonight.”
“No, that was yesterday.”
“I think I know what day it is.”
“You’d think you would, but clearly you do not.”
“So you’re telling me it’s Saturday.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, yes.”
Orson looked around at the empty parking lot, at the locked door in front of him. “Nuh-uh, no way.”
“Check your phone, moron.”
Now he checked his phone: it said it was Saturday. “Holy crap.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“I don’t understand. How can it be Saturday? Yesterday was Thursday.”
“No, yesterday was Friday. During a normal week it goes Thursday, Friday, Saturday.”
“But the last thing I remember was watching the game.”
“What are you saying? You blanked out an entire day?”
“C’mon, man. You did something to my phone, right? Like this is some kind of joke.”
“I didn’t do shit, alright. Call somewhere, do whatever you have to do to prove to yourself today is Saturday.”
“Okay, just, let me call you back.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
Orson hung up and took a moment to gather himself. He looked around, but there was nothing in the vicinity that proved what day it was, just a digital bank sign in the distance giving him the time and temperature. He considered doing a search for when all the college football games were beginning, but figured if his tech-savvy friend could hack his phone to change the date he might also be able to alter search results, so instead he checked his messages. The first one was from his boss, wondering why he hadn’t shown up for work yet, but that didn’t prove a whole lot, because his phone had said that the message was from nine a.m., and according to the bank sign, it was 9:38. In the second message, however, his boss specifically stated that the time was 11:42, which so unnerved Orson that he didn’t even bother listening to the final message, from Steve, who had no doubt called him Friday night to tell him to get his ass over to the poker game.
“Holy crap,” Orson said when he called Steve back. “Today’s Saturday.”
“Yeah, no shit. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“But how can that be? I was sure it was Friday.”
“How much did you have to drink anyway?”
“This has nothing to do with alcohol.”
“Are you sure, bitch, because even now you don’t sound so good?”
“Well how would you feel if you just found out you’d lost a whole day?”
“Depends which day it was. If I could go back and not be there for my wedding day—”
“Crap, what time is it?”
“What? Now you don’t know the time either?”
“No, I, I have to go. I’m meeting Megan at ten. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Let’s hope so.”
* * *
He and Megan went on a bike ride together, then got a bite to eat, went back to her place, and made love; they spent the rest of the afternoon cuddled in each other’s arms watching hacky romantic movies on Lifetime. A couple times he considered telling her about what had happened to him, once after she’d asked him why he seemed so distracted, and another time by way of apology for having snapped at her because she’d asked him the date (“Why are you asking me that?” he’d responded), but in the end he decided that, at least for the present, he would keep it to himself. Their relationship was still in the early stages—they hadn’t even slept over at each other’s apartments yet—and he didn’t want to cause her any alarm by mentioning that an entire day was missing from his memory. Also, he knew she would ask him if he’d been drinking Thursday night, and he didn’t want to have to hear again about the time her alcoholic mother spatchcocked her favorite unicorn doll with a serrated knife in order to prove a point about leaving toys out on the living room floor. On their third date, Orson had promised Megan that, should their relationship turn serious, he would happily give up drinking altogether, though at the time it was just to get her into bed. Now he decided that it might not be such a bad idea to start immediately, regardless of their relationship status, because he certainly didn’t want to lose another day.
* * *
On Monday when Orson got to work he went straight to his boss’s office and apologized. He said that he’d been incredibly sick, delirious even, and had lost all sense of time, and that it wasn’t until Saturday evening that he realized he’d failed to call in and report his absence. Thankfully, his boss, Terry, was understanding, and better yet, a germaphobe, and was just glad that he’d made the prudent decision to remain at home rather than risk coming into work and infecting his co-workers.
“Next time, however,” Terry made it clear, “you need to call in.”
Tuesday and Wednesday went by without a hitch, as did Thursday, though when evening arrived he became conscious of the time, and decided to stay up until midnight, just to watch the Kiss clock above his TV turn over. When he awoke early the next morning, however, he wished he’d also made sure to check what day the clock had turned over to, because as soon as he reached for his phone, he saw that it was Saturday. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and called his buddy.
“This better be good, dip wad,” Steve answered groggily. “I was dreaming I was fucking Margot Robbie.”
“It happened again.”
“Yeah, I know. We’re thinking of kicking you out of the game.”
“No, that’s not—I missed Friday again.”
“No shit, lamebrain, that’s why we’re thinking of kicking you out.”
“I’m not talking about the stupid poker game, okay? I mean I missed Friday the day again.”
“Wait, seriously? I thought you said you weren’t drinking anymore.”
“I’m not.”
“You toking? You snorting? You shooting up?”
“No, I’m not doing anything. I mean, I recently switched from white bread to whole wheat, but that’s supposed to be better for you, not cause you to lose time.”
“Well I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for what’s going on.”
“I’m listening.”
“I didn’t mean I know what it is, I’m just saying there has to be one.”
“Wonderful. Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“Speaking of which, if you think this is gonna happen again next Friday, could give me a head’s up so I can get someone else to fill in for you?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Good, ‘cause I want to go back to bed.”
* * *
At noon he called Terry’s cell phone and told him that he’d been sick again, nearly as bad as before, although he was recovering much more quickly this time around. He blamed it all on the new restaurant which had opened in his neighborhood, saying that he’d ordered takeout from them the last two Thursdays and either they weren’t cooking their chicken very well, or they were using some kind of ingredient that he was allergic to. This of course was all a lie, but when Orson assured his boss that he would make up all the work he’d missed by staying late every day next week, and that on the bright side, at least what he had wasn’t contagious, Terry thanked him for calling as soon as he could and hoped to see him bright and early on Monday.
He spent the rest of Saturday with Megan, much as he had last Saturday, only instead of a bike ride they went to the beach. Again, he considered telling her about what was happening to him, but once more he lost his courage. This time, however, Megan was much more persistent in getting to the bottom of why he was acting so funny.
“Are you not happy with our relationship?” she asked, on the brink of tears. “Do you want to break up with me?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s not that at all. In fact…how do you feel about staying over at my place on Thursday?”
“You mean, the whole night? What about your sleeping issues? I thought you said you couldn’t fall sleep with someone else in bed with you.”
“Sooner or later I’ve got to overcome that, and I’d like to try with you.”
“But what about the game? You know I don’t like football.”
“No one good’s playing this week. We’ll go out instead, maybe catch a movie, or dancing. We could go dancing.”
“And you won’t be drinking?”
“I’ve already given that up.”
“You have?”
“For you, babe.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Look, do you want this or not?”
“Of course, I want it,” she said, giving him a hug and a kiss. “This is so wonderful!”
It got even better, because on the night of, she came up with the bright idea of staying at her place instead, which besides being cleaner and better smelling, also created an additional change to his routine, and maybe all these changes—going dancing instead of football, spending the night somewhere else, sleeping with someone in the same bed—might be just what he needed to prevent him from missing out on another Friday. And in fact, by the time they were making love, he was no longer worried about it, such that afterwards, after he had brushed his teeth and slipped back into bed behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed the back of her head, closed his eyes, and instantly fell asleep.
But sometime in the morning he awoke to a scream. It was Megan. She was falling out of bed and taking all the covers with her. Then she jumped up and looked like she was about to run out of the room, but two steps in she stopped and turned around, bracing the comforter against her otherwise naked chest.
“You asshole,” she said, flicking on the light.
Orson sat up and placed a pillow over his crotch. “What’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“What do you mean? I slept over, remember? Our first night together.”
“Our first night together was Thursday—and then you walked out on me during the night and haven’t returned any of my calls or texts. And now you break into my apartment and climb into bed with me like nothing happened? What are you? Some kind of psycho?”
He rubbed his face. He figured now was as a good time as any to confess.
“Look, what I’m about to tell you, it’s gonna sound crazy, but it’s the truth, I swear.”
Frowning, she looked behind her, then leaned against the wall. “I’m listening.”
* * *
His boss didn’t want to hear another excuse over the phone. He told him to come in on Monday and they would discuss it then, and that he should also bring a box with him, just in case. This time Orson knew that lying about chicken wasn’t going to cut it, and so as soon as he’d closed the door to Terry’s office he confessed everything, just as he had with Megan—only, unlike Megan, who didn’t believe a word of it and kicked him out of her apartment before he’d even had a chance to get dressed, Orson’s boss was captivated, and clung to every word like oxygen; and when Orson had finished, Terry leaned in surreptitiously and whispered, even though no one else was in the room to hear, “You know, I’ve never told anyone this before, but once I…I had an encounter with a UFO.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” Terry responded, nodding affirmatively. “And they, they did things to me. The aliens.”
“You mean…?”
“Yes, they probed me. Up the butt.”
“Jesus.”
“So I completely understand what you’re going through. The universe is far more complex than we think it to be.”
Now Orson was leaning in as well. “So assuming this keeps happening, are you okay with me coming in on Saturdays instead?”
“I’ll arrange everything. Whatever you need. I’m curious though, have you talked to any specialists about this?”
“You mean like a doctor? I don’t think they have any tests for something like this.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. This, why it, it’s cosmological. What I had in mind was, have you considered speaking to a physicist? I know it really helped me out, after my, well….”
* * *
Professor Adams worked at the local university, and like most physicists, he was a bit quirky, or, as he liked to put it, quarky. He sounded intrigued by Orson’s story over the phone, and asked him to stop by during office hours, which Orson did, only to have to repeat everything from scratch, all the while Dr. Adams shuffled around him, observing him from different angles.
“And have you performed any experiments with regard to your—what shall we call it?—condition?” the professor asked, kneeling down and getting between Orson’s legs.
“Well I don’t know if this qualifies, but last Thursday, I went over to my buddy’s and he got the bright idea of tying me up to a chair. When I disappeared, the chair stayed but the rope went with me.”
Dr. Adams got up and rubbed his chest. “Interesting,”
“Yeah, and while I was gone he put a balloon on the chair, to see what would happen when I returned.”
“And what did happen?”
“It popped.”
The professor frowned. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected.”
“So have you ever heard of anything like this before?”
Finally, Dr. Adams went and sat behind his desk. “On the subatomic level it happens all the time—particles pop in and out of existence. But to have it happen to a bunch of particles in the same location, and to have it occur at the identical time each week, now that’s a new one—believe me, I’ve checked the literature. The closest I’ve come across is on a physics message board where for the past month and a half an MIT postdoc has been complaining that his olive loaf keeps disappearing, but I happen to know there’s an associate in that department with an obsession for odd meats. I suspect he has something to do with it.”
“So what should I do?”
The professor shrugged. “What can you do?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“No, what you’re really asking is, what’s the point of it all, why is this happening to me, what’s the reasoning behind it?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“And it’s a fair question. It’s a question we scientists ask ourselves all the time, especially when we’re young. But as we age, we begin to realize that maybe finding the answer’s not all that important.”
“But isn’t that what you do? You try and make sense of the universe?”
“We make sense of what can be made sense of. The rest we leave up to God.”
“God?”
“God. Allah. The flying spaghetti monster. Take your pick. The point is, some things may be inexplicable, and the best we can do is accept that and move on. I’ll make some more calls, and I’d love to witness this phenomenon in person, but I’m fairly certain physics has little to offer you.”
Orson slumped. “But my life. Now I have to work five days out of six. And think of how much I’m going to miss out on. What if I have a child, and he’s born on a Friday, or when his birthday falls on one? I won’t be able to be there for it.”
“Just be glad you can have kids. I’ve got a sperm count so low I can count it on a single hand—which is where they all wind up, now that my wife’s left me for an agronomist.”
“So you’re saying we all have our problems.”
“Some people get cancer, others develop backaches.”
“And some people get probed by aliens.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“The point is, we keep at it. We endure. It’s all we can do.”
“Except on Fridays.”
“Yes, for you, except on Fridays.”
* * *
It was evening, and though Steve had offered to come over and watch the games with him—it was basketball season now, so there were two of them—Orson had declined, saying that he’d rather be alone. Actually, he just didn’t want Steve to be there, because for a laugh his friend had taken to moving objects around in his apartment after he disappeared, and once removed the stool he’d been sitting on, such that, when he returned, he fell flat on his ass—but as he presently had no one else in his life, being alone was his only other option. Not that it didn’t turn out to be an entertaining evening, because the games were excellent, especially the second one, although when it went into double overtime, Orson’s interest waned, for he knew that, in all likelihood, he wouldn’t be around to see the ending. He got up and grabbed his glass of wine—he was drinking again, because why not, he never really had a problem to begin with—and walked out onto the balcony. It was a cool night, but clear, and he was able to see the stars. Once more, he considered the strangeness of his predicament, and how powerless he was in the face of it. Finally, he checked his phone and saw that he’d missed a text from his boss, who’d sent him some notes regarding a file he’d been working on. He texted Terry back, saying that he’d look at them first thing in the morning, then sighed and glanced at the time. It was 11:59 p.m. on a Thursday. In another minute, it would be Saturday.
About the Author
Wolfgang Wright is the author of the comic novel Me and Gepe and the forthcoming science fiction novel Being. His short work has appeared in over thirty literary magazines, including Oyster River Pages, Marrow Magazine, and Paris Lit Up. He doesn’t tolerate gluten so well, quite enjoys watching British panel shows, and devotes a little time each day to contemplating the Tao.
About the Artist
Madolyn Miller is a graphic designer and illustrator currently based in Geneva, Illinois. You can find her work at mad01yn and www.mad01yn.com.
