Wednesday

"Well of course," Hugh muttered under his breath. "Bloody Wednesdays."

It was indeed Wednesday, and Hugh was a firm believer, after years of compelling evidence, that most of life's unfortunate events happened on Wednesdays. This particular Wednesday was no exception. It began with a typical onslaught of inconveniences: a stubbed toe as he was getting out of bed, a raw egg splattered on the floor as he fumbled his way through breakfast, a tie tied with such an unexpected burst of enthusiasm that he nearly choked himself to death. It was, in short, exactly what Hugh had come to expect of Wednesdays. It was for this reason that the appearance of, and subsequent fall caused by, a strange box on the landing outside his front door did not come as a surprise to Hugh. "Bloody Wednesdays," he repeated, picking himself up from the gravel driveway. "Not even eight o'clock. Could've been killed." Hugh slowly climbed back up the three stairs to his front door, grunting with pain at each step, his hand on his low back. "Bloody postman has it out for me," he grumbled, stooping over the small box that had nearly added 'broken neck' to Hugh's list of Wednesday-morning tragedies.

It was a small box, perhaps the size of an apple, and Hugh was annoyed further by the absence of any legible address, return or otherwise, on the brown paper wrapping. "Honestly," he growled, "postal service is going to the dogs." He picked up the package, keenly aware that this whole ruddy endeavor was going to make him late for work ("Typical," he thought). He hoped the box contained his monthly shipment of multivitamins, as it was already a week overdue; but his hope was weak, this being an entirely different sort of box than usual.

Hugh ripped the brown paper off rapidly, with about as much delicacy as a baboon. He was in no mood for surprises. It was therefore especially annoying when, upon finally disclosing the white cardboard box and tearing it open, Hugh was met with something truly surprising indeed.

At work, Hugh was distracted. Even his colleague, Dave, the notoriously oblivious, noticed. "You seem distracted," said Dave. This further perplexed Hugh, since Dave had once failed to realize he had stapled his own thumb. If even Dave could tell something was up, then Hugh was having a truly bad day indeed. "Bloody Wednesdays," was Hugh's only reply. This seemed to satisfy Dave, who nodded briefly, as though he knew all about Wednesdays, and continued on his way to the photocopier.

Hugh turned back to his computer, but try as he might, he could not keep his thoughts on the financial report before him. What in the name of heaven was going on here? Why him? It probably wasn't meant to be sent to his home at all, what with there being no address to speak of. Yes, it must be that. But then, how could you explain the photograph?

"Hello," Hugh said shortly, picking up the phone on his desk. It had rung four times before Hugh was jolted far enough out of his wandering thoughts to answer. The voice on the other end was a man's, presumably, but thin and reedy, as though he was whispering through a tin can.

"Did you get my message?" asked the voice.

"Message? What message?" barked Hugh. "Who is this?"

"I'll take that as a yes," answered the voice, with what Hugh couldn't help noticing seemed like a sinister tone. "Just do what it says and everything will be fine," said the voice, and this time the sinister tone was unmistakable.

"Do what it says?" Hugh blustered. "What what bloody says? You have the wrong number, sir, no mistake, and I -"

"Goodbye, Hugh," the voice interrupted. "Don't let me down." Click.

Hugh's nerves were frayed. This was bad, even for a Wednesday. He slid his hand into his breast pocket, where the photograph had been sitting all morning. He looked at it. He looked away. He looked at it again. He turned it over. He hadn't noticed before, but there on the back, near the bottom, was tiny, scratchy writing. Hugh had to squint over his glasses to make it out. "Put 100 dollers in birdhouse by 5 or pic goes on internet,'' was all it said. Hugh continued squinting, his nose scrunched up, staring at the words. ''What in blazes,'' he whispered, turning the photograph back over.

It was a picture of him, Hugh. More to the point, it was a picture of Hugh from the community barbecue last summer, taken at the exact moment a stubborn bottle of ketchup had exploded all over Hugh and his flamboyant flowered shirt (the shirt he swore to his wife was perfectly tasteful for a community barbecue, despite her ardent protestations). His face was contorted in a grotesque expression of horror, his bare stomach protruded from the open flaps of the Hawaiian shirt, and the ketchup bottle, still poised in Hugh's right hand over the hotdog in his left, was captured by a cheap Polaroid knock-off at the moment of eruption. Hugh was splattered red as though the recent victim of a violent assault.

It was a mortifying image. Hugh remembered the moment all too well. The laughter, the humiliation; his favourite Hawaiian shirt stained beyond repair (much to his wife's relief). The question was, who in the world could have taken this picture? Surely not Dave, Dave with the reflexes of stale toast. His wife? No, she didn't have a camera like this. Maybe Doreen, down the street, or Phillip from next door, or... wait. Wait! Come to think of it...

Back at home, Hugh scrambled out of the car as fast as he could (and hit his head quite hard on the door-frame as a result, in keeping with it being Wednesday). It was nearly five o'clock. He walked briskly (Hugh did not believe in running) across the lawn to the little red birdhouse perched atop the fence. It was the birdhouse he had built with his son, Gill, last month, the day Gill turned eight. They had given Gill a camera for his birthday. A camera much like, but not quite as good as, a Polaroid.

Hugh looked around. He saw no one, but knew instinctively that he was being watched. He took his wallet out of his back pocket and made a great display of pulling bills out of it and stuffing them into the hole of the birdhouse. He paused, looked around again, then calmly and steadily walked toward the front door of his house (tripping only once over a tree root on his way - ''Bloody Wednesdays.''). There was a large cedar bush by the front door. Hugh opened the door, then closed it with force, ensuring anyone in the vicinity could hear it. Then, he crouched behind the cedar bush, peering at the birdhouse through a small gap, and waited.

Two, perhaps three minutes went by before anything happened; but then, just as Hugh had suspected, a small figure wearing a grey hoodie appeared from the direction of the tree-house and made its way stealthily along the fence. It paused every few steps to glance around, keeping always the bent posture of a criminal evading security cameras. Hugh shook his head in disbelief, and stood up.

Creeping up behind the figure just as it began pulling something out of the birdhouse, Hugh said calmly, "Gill. What are you doing?''

Gill jumped. ''Dad!'' he said, turning around. His expression was some pitiful combination of embarrassment and frustration. ''You're not supposed to be here! I mean, nothing. What? I'm just checking if there are birds in the birdhouse, obviously. That's all. Is that a crime?'' He tried to shrug casually, but it looked painfully forced.

''Just checking for birds, is it?" said Hugh. ''Well then it won't matter to you that you're holding old bank receipts in your hand. Not that you were expecting anything else, of course.''

Gill's eyes went wide. He looked down at the hand holding the roll of paper he'd extracted from the birdhouse a moment ago, and was shocked to find a five-dollar bill surrounding, sure enough, a wad of old receipts. ''What! Oh man, oh man. Please don't call the police on me. Wait, no, I mean, whatever. Receipts? Who cares? I don't care. I-"

''Spare yourself,'' Hugh interrupted. ''I know what you're up to, but I might not call the police if you tell me the truth.'' Hugh's eyes shone, but Gill could see nothing past his impending life-sentence. He cracked.

''I was blackmailing you,'' Gill said quietly, head hung low, ''to get a bike like Sam's. It was Sam's idea.''

''I see,'' said Hugh, trying not to laugh. ''And this is the best way you could think of, is it? Really, Gilly. Have we taught you nothing?''

''I'm sorry,'' Gill mumbled, barely audible.

''Was that you on the phone?'' Hugh asked.

"Sam," replied Gill, still sheepish. ''He said he knew how to do it from a movie.''

''Ah. That boy watches far too much television, in my humble opinion. And the box on the doorstep? Was that Sam's idea too?''

Gill nodded. ''We dropped it off with his dad's drone, 'cause Sam said that's always how they do it in movies.'' He paused. ''Were you scared, Dad?''

Hugh tried his best to maintain an attitude of stern disapproval, though the impulse to laugh was increasingly difficult to fight. "Well, yes, a little at first. But then I saw the instructions on the back of the picture. I'd recognize your writing anywhere, Gilly. 'Dollars' has an A in it, by the way."

''Oh,'' said Gill.

''I'm very disappointed that you'd do such a thing, Gilly. And Sam, too. I will be informing his parents of this little episode, including what I am sure was the unsanctioned use of his father's photography drone. Am I right?''

Gill nodded again. Hugh held out his hand. ''My money back, if you please.''

Gill handed over the roll of paper. ''Not hardly any money though,'' he said, still looking down.

''Gill.''

''Sorry.''

Later that evening, after the whole event had been related to Hugh's wife and the pair had decided on suitable discipline for Gill (including a forced break from Sam's company for a while), Hugh pulled his journal out of the top drawer of his night stand. He dated a new page, paused for a moment, then wrote, simply, ''Strangest Wednesday so far.''