thursday misfires

So Thursday shows up, once again, at what he’s told will be a great party, invited, though kind of as an afterthought, along with his friend, who won’t be arriving till later. The place, of course, is dead, as dull as last week’s news. People are milling around aimlessly, as if waiting for some reason, some excuse, to let loose.

Into this lifeless scene Thursday steels himself to enter, knowing everyone inside is about to look up expectantly, and then, realizing he’s actually all alone, frown a little, as a group, and be like, “Dude, um, so when’s your cool-ass buddy s’posed to get here?”

His hand on the door, Thursday sighs; why is it always like this? It’s as if he really only exists in relation to his friend. Who isn’t much of a friend, come to think of it. More of a close acquaintance, really.

“Twenty-four hours,” he grumbles as the inevitable question hits him. “Twenty-four hours from now he’ll get here.”

“Dude,” comes the disappointed response, “that’s a long freakin’ time!”

But soon after, someone always pipes up to rally the flagging troops. “I guess we’re just gonna have to wait till then, and find something to keep us occupied, aren’t we, guys? Cuz then we can really get this party started!”

The impromptu cheerleader invariably then turns back to Thursday, adding, kind of half-heartedly: “But you can, um, hang out here with us, if you want. You seem, y’know, OK.”

From then on, no one really seems to notice him, and all Thursday hears as he stands there in a corner, once or twice mistaken for a coat-rack or a hatstand, is how great his friend is, how much fun he always seems to create, how everyone can’t wait till he arrives. The later it gets, the louder grows their chatter.

Then at midnight, on the dot, his friend arrives. He looks, as always, just fabulous. Men and women alike seem to exhale, as a group, as if they’ve been holding their collective breath for days, as Thursday’s long-anticipated companion waltzes through the door like he owns the place. And with every passing moment he’s there, the crowd grows a little more excited.

Thursday, though, is already hiding in the bathroom, preparing to put a gun in his mouth. He feels drained, utterly exhausted, and is not thinking at all clearly. When he pulls the trigger, he misses his mark by a fair bit, managing merely to disfigure himself a little, the loud bang lost amid the raucous sounds from the other room, of music cranking up, of champagne corks and cheering.

“Friday is here!” people are yelling. “Thank God, it’s Friday!”

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