You are the best archeologist the Speedwagon Foundation has ever hired. But you know that your intelligence and capacity are not the attributes that keep you in this very important position in the company. And your salary? It's not enough to pay to...
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You rolled over on the bathroom floor and mumbled something like ''Aaaaargh!''. You chewed on some dry air and spit it out; opened one eye to see if it really would open; then you opened the other and closed the first; closed the second one, straightened up, opened your eyes again, and stretched. It was a daily practice and this time the only notable thing was that you had a hangover and that it had happened on a Wednesday morning and...
Yesterday was Monday.
Well, you knew it was Wednesday. But there was a problem: even though you had no doubt that yesterday was Monday, there was a gap between Monday and now, a gap that should have been filled by Tuesday. If a person falls asleep and lies there all night without dreaming, he is aware, when he wakes up, that time has passed. The person has not done anything that he can remember; he thought of nothing; he has no means of calculating time, and yet he knows that some hours have elapsed. The same happened to you. Tuesday was gone for five hours of last night's sleep.
But you didn't sleep on Tuesday. No, no. You were pretty sure you were drinking, judging by the bottles of wine strewn about in the hallway. In fact, you never slept more than five hours at a time, and there was no particular reason why you should now. Monday was the day before yesterday; you had gone to bed and slept at your usual hours, then you woke up – and it was Wednesday.
It felt like Wednesday. It was a Wednesday feeling that hung in the air.
You put on your coat and got up. You weren't mistaken. You knew what day it was.
''What happened to yesterday?'' You mumbled. ''Oh... Yesterday was Monday.''
That was enough until you changed your clothes and showered.
''Monday.'' You mused, picking up your lab coat. If you were restless enough, you would think about it more. But you weren't. You were comfortable with that, for some reason.
In general, you were a very conformed person, who got into a routine and only got out of it by force. You work as a researcher and archaeologist for an oil company called Speedwagon Foundation, earning $4 an hour; that's why you had been practicing your profession for two years and would continue to practice it if you could find a Tuesday to go back to the laboratory.
Guided by reflexes, as usual, and without making any mental effort, you ate breakfast and got into your Cadillac Seville. Your father bought this car just after its launch year, but he soon gave it to you as he found public transport and taxis too dangerous.
In less than fifteen minutes you arrived at the Speedwagon Foundation building. That was one of the dozens that were scattered across the United States. But that particular building, located in a quiet industrial neighborhood in Washington, had a special air on that Wednesday.
You parked your car, locked it, and pocketed the keys, walking on the cracked cement of the floor while trying not to overbalance in your heels. Though the hangover destroyed you, you still had to maintain the professional, seductive air that seemed to be the only thing keeping your job in this place, according to your boss.
