Illinoir

I found my way into the dining room – it wasn’t so much of a room as the empty space between the kitchen and the living room. I had turned it into a mess of an office: desk, computer, chair, phone, boxes full of stuff I should have thrown away rather than cart halfway across the country. The phone rang again. I checked the caller ID: Paul. I picked up the handset and pressed the talk button.

“What’s up, Paul?” I asked.

“Art,” he said. I could hear exasperation and anger in his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at home, Paul,” I replied. “I don’t want to be a dick, but you did kind of call me on my home number.”

“Ha fucking ha,” he said, unamused. I could hear what sounded like a party coming from his end of the line. “Why aren’t you here?”

“I just woke up. Say, do you know how I got home last night? Shit got kinda weird.”

“Last night? No. Why would I know how you got home last night? We didn’t hang out last night.”

“Sure we did. We went to O’Irish, stayed there late, left around 9:30. I think. I mean I know you drove off without me, but I thought maybe. I don’t know. Something happened to me.”

“Art, that was Friday night.”

“Yeah,” I said, starting to get a little exasperated myself. “I know. Friday night. Last night. Whatever.”

“Today’s Sunday, dude.” I could hear him sigh and shake his head and then silence. He was probably holding the phone away from his face. Exasperated. “What happened to you?”

“It’s Sunday?” I asked. “Hold on a second.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d never lost a day before. I swiped the computer mouse across the desk. The screen lit up. I moved the mouse pointer up to the upper right hand corner of the screen where the system clock lived. I clicked on it, and it displayed the day and date. It said it was Sunday too, but I still wasn’t convinced.

“Art?” I heard Paul say.

“Yeah yeah. Hold on.”

I put the phone down and looked around for my cell phone. It was where I always put it when I get home: on a bookcase just inside the door. Lying next to it, perfectly neatly, were my keys. I picked it up, pressed a button on the side illuminating the display. Sunday. Noon.

“Paul! I’ll be right back,” I called to the phone, not knowing whether he could hear me or not.

I unlocked the front door, pulled it open. Unexpectedly, it only opened six inches, snapped to a halt by the chain which I must have fastened last night. Two nights ago. It was starting to sink in.

I undid the chain, threw the door open and walked swiftly outside, down the stairs, to the sidewalk. It was a pleasant day and the concrete should have been warm under my feet, but I ran so fast towards the newspaper box by the main road, that I didn’t register it. I skidded to a stop at the box, and peered inside. It was the Sunday fucking paper.

Breathing heavily, I jogged back to my apartment.

“Hell, Paul,” I said, gasping for air. “You were right.”

“You were checking to see if I was right?” Paul asked. “Jesus, Art. Did you actually think I might fuck up what day it was?”

“What? No, Paul, of course not. I don’t think you’re that incompetent. I just…. I dunno. I don’t remember coming home last – Friday night. And either I slept all day and night yesterday, which seems unlikely, or I completely lost Saturday.”

“Weird,” Paul said, not sounding particularly concerned or sympathetic.

“It’s more than weird, Paul,” I complained. “It totally sucks. You know how much I love Saturdays!”

“You do love your Saturdays,” Paul agreed.