by Ryan Fitting
A group becomes one by having what they call "Wednesdays."
| It all happened on a Wednesday. You know: Hump Day. For us, it was literal. We all lead boring lives. Accountants, bankers, office workers; we all hacked away at those white-collar jobs that make you want to kill yourself. It started as a joke.
We happened to show up at the same time every night at the Paper Tiger. It was a neat little bar at the epicenter of all the paper pusher industries. The six of us eventually started sitting together: three men and three women. We got close. After eight hours of silence a day, it was good to open up to others. We were single, so we didn’t have much else to talk about. We focused on our careers, and our careers sucked. Our little meetings were the only glimmer of color in our black and white world.
I don’t remember who first brought it up.
“We are perfectly set up for an orgy.” Everyone laughs.
“That came out of nowhere.”
“It’s true, though.” Everyone stares at each other.
We didn’t talk for the rest of that night. We left in silence at the same time: work, you know. We got together the next night. I don’t know who suggested it.
“So, do you want to?” I knew what that meant, but I asked anyway.
“Want to what?” Someone else piped up.
“Well, it’s not like we have anyone.”
“Personally, I’ve been ogling you for months.”
Wednesdays were perfect, we decided. It was always the most difficult day. When you are a paper pusher, it takes a lot to get over that hill. Not to sound crass, but we decided that we’d do it by humping. I was in charge of booking the hotel room.
We showed up, one by one. I’m not sure who brought what, but we ended up with a sort of sexual potluck: toys, lubricants, a whip, and a stack of condoms. The women agreed to take birth control pills, too. We didn’t want another life to come out of this.
It wasn’t long before we relaxed and got into it. Although we were the quiet, unassuming types, we spent our lives pursuing what we wanted, and we wanted this. That night, we opened ourselves to each other. There was not an ounce of self-consciousness, but we were overwhelmed with passion. That’s the advantage to losing your virginity at such a late age: that teenage awkwardness just gets in the way. That twenty-something awkwardness isn’t so helpful either.
Even after we had finished, we were open; eye contact and everything. We knew that this was special. We continued having Wednesdays, and even though we had our after-work chats, we saved Wednesday for Wednesdays. One time, we discussed it just long enough to make a rule. I’m not sure who brought it up.
“I know we agreed to save everything up for Wednesday, but I had a thought.”
We all got close. “I think we can make an exception. What was your thought?”
“I don’t want this to end.”
“What do you mean? We’re not going anywhere, honey.”
“I know, but someday this will end. I was reading about things like erectile dysfunction and menopause. We’ll change eventually.”
“There’s death, too.” One of us gasped.
“I know what you mean. It wouldn’t be the same without even one of us.”
“I can’t go back to the way it was before Wednesdays.”
One of us smiled. “This will sound crazy.”
“You could never sound crazy, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, what’s your idea?”
“Well, the only solution is suicide.”
We were silent for a while. I’m not sure if we were shocked by the suggestion or just mulling it over. I know what I was thinking.
“It really is the only way. Since we started Wednesdays, I’ve stopped hating my career. I worked too hard to hate it.”
“It’s decided then.”
“How do we want to do it?”
“A revolver would be kind of neat.”
“Six bullets; six of us. What a great idea.”
We had our pact, and Wednesdays continued. I was in charge of the gun.
A lot changed over the years. We got married. Not to each other, of course. We didn’t want to risk the chemistry between us. What we had was special. Although Wednesdays were technically adultery, we had each other first. If anything, we were cheating on each other with our spouses. We understood, of course.
We had children. That was a difficult time. The women wanted children, and we respected that, but going off their pills made things risky for a while. After a little research, we found ways around it. In the end, pregnancy added a whole new excitement to Wednesdays.
There were a lot of moments like that. It was the little changes that made things all the more interesting: every new wrinkle, every new mole, and the extra skin. We made an effort to stay fit for each other, but age caught up with us eventually. It didn’t matter, though.
There were the big changes, too. We grew in our careers. We all became various chiefs: Chief Executive Officers, Chief Financial Officers; one of us was even Commander in Chief. I forget which one. As hotel liaison of our group, I even bought our hotel and renovated our entire floor. It was like something out of Caligula. It was kind of a waste, though: we still preferred our old corner.
It finally happened on a Wednesday.
I was embarrassed, to say the least, but we were very comforting.
“It was bound to happen to one of us.”
“I’ve been prepared for this since the pact.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.”
“Things were getting boring on the outside, anyway.”
“Who’s going to go first?”
We decided to go clockwise. We said our goodbyes before each shot. It wasn’t murder. Not really. It was more like a suicide, but one that took six shots.
I write this note to leave a record of something beautiful. This is the account of six people that became one through an act of spiritual entwinement. We found the answer to all of the suffering and hate in the world. We came together with a simple act that is regarded with disgust when it ought to be revered. The sad thing is that we had to keep it a secret until now.
As I look at the bullet holes in the walls, it seems like all this time, Wednesdays was just a dream. Now, holding the revolver to my head, I wonder if we ever existed at all.