Wednesday

Wednesday

Tariq stood at the edge of the pool, the cool tiles with spiral blue ink design under his feet grounded him in the present moment. At 6 '3", with broad shoulders and a lean, olive muscular frame, he was every bit the champion swimmer his reputation suggested. An All-American athlete, his only Achilles’ heel was Wednesday. 

For the past 18 years, he had observed that the stars, sun, and moon must be in weird syzygy, the constellations in disarray, and Mercury in retrograde. His superstition… - although he did not believe in it - had grown to such a proportion that it rendered him unable to carry out many tasks, let alone have a race coincide on that day.

Tariq came from Tunisia when he was two and grew up in Northern California. His family moved around a lot; his father was a doctor, while his mother's case was left unsaid. But Tariq knew she had committed suicide right after his birth. His father remarried and he was ‘cool’ with his ‘step bros’ and ‘sister’. Sylvia was a bioengineering major and Idris and Asef in communications and humanities respectively. His sister moved away earlier before 18 and he hardly ever saw her and his brothers although close were very distant in nature lost in their own world. 

He lived a relatively fast and easy life, but never took his position for granted. He never engaged in politics. Kept a simple, clean life mostly revolving around athleticism and pool, which was his inner sanctum. 

Living in California and one of the world’s most well-adjusted places, he sought to put his genetics to good use and every sport he touched responded with a Midas’ one earning him gold.

With hard work, he received a scholarship to Stanford, especially for his swimming genius. He shot through life and just when he thought his meteoric rise would be unchecked… he noticed a pattern.

Wednesdays. For Tariq, Wednesdays were a series of minor catastrophes: his mail always seemed to get misplaced, his stapler jammed just when he needed it, and his computer often decided that Wednesday was the perfect day to malfunction. It was as if the universe conspired to throw him off balance every midweek. But these irritations paled in comparison to the cosmic joke life had saved for him: his final championship swim was scheduled for a Wednesday.

Every athlete has superstitions; for instance, many follow specific pregame or pre-race routines. Michael Jordan wore his University of North Carolina shorts under his Chicago Bulls uniform for good luck. Nadal is known for his meticulous routines and always carries specific water bottles with him. Maddux was meticulous about his pre-game routine and rituals, avoiding stepping on the foul lines when walking on and off the field between innings. Wearing specific articles of clothing or gear during competitions was also common as many hockey players did not wash their gears during a good streak. 

However, despite fate being wryly against him every week, Tariq had always looked up to Michael Phelps. His visualization techniques were a key part of his domination. Tariq spent hours in his dorm room, eyes closed, picturing every stroke, turn, and breath. He believed in mastering every sinew of his body, ensuring that he left nothing to chance. Yet, deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Wednesdays held a special kind of curse for him.

Four hours earlier as the dawn broke and the dreaded day approached, Tariq's anxiety grew. For a second he thought of taking some pills. He was a senior at Stanford vying for a spot in the NCAA Division I Swimming and Diving Championship, where top scouts would be hanging around for the next raw talent. This race could define his future, and it just had to be on a Wednesday, huh? 

Tariq dawdled in the Shell gas station for a quick grab of some granola bars, yogurt, fruit bowls, and almond milk. The Honda Pilot was idling, and he wanted to keep his diet light and time it perfectly to release the needed mitochondrial energy at the precise moment of the gun shot.

“Anything else?” Clara, the new blonde cashier from South Carolina, smiled.

“Nope.” Tariq smiled back. She was always friendly, and Tariq always felt his mood refreshed due to the exceedingly cool A/C in the gas station store.

“Big day today?” She asked.

“Yup.”

“Race day?” Clara nudged.

“Yeah…” he forced a friendly chuckle.

“Well, good luck!”

“Yeah, thanks…” Tariq tried to hide his Cheshire scoff.

He got into his Pilot and drove up 405 South. He needed to take a different freeway and a detour before reaching the Stanford Parking Lot.

Clouds were gray and wretched, mirroring the bane of this Wednesday. Yet,Tariq felt relaxed. He was in his Crocs, wearing shorts, and carrying a towel. His kitbag wasn’t heavy and was minimal. He whipped out the Oakleys from his glove compartment that had a psychedelic plasma tint and put them on.

He walked past the fountain and a Rodin statue, crossing the Parking Lot near section D of Ross T. Moor Building. As he made his way up the staircase above the gym, he felt a sudden unease creep in.

He changed, which basically meant taking off his t-shirt and shorts, putting on his speedos, goggles, and cap. After some chatter with his college buddies, he made his way to the starting block.

Then the gunshot was fired as time drew near. 

As Tariq pushed through the water, he felt an unfamiliar ‘syncope’, his vision narrowing into a dark tunnel. He fought to maintain his rhythm, but the world around him started to blur. Suddenly, he was no longer in the pool but in a swirling vortex, a tunnel leading to a different realm. Colors and shapes melded into one another, and he felt as though he was being pulled through time.

In this altered state, Tariq found himself in a warm, enclosed space. He recognized the sensation: he was in the womb, floating in amniotic fluid, feeling a profound sense of asphyxiation. Panic set in as he struggled to breathe, the feeling all too real. His mind raced, and fragments of memories flashed before him.

He saw his mother—her face contorted in anguish. She gripped him by his tiny neck, stuffing him in the sink. The scene shifted, and he was in a small room. It was lit in an eerie hue of the dying candle. The window was closed and a small Victorian cabinet, a wooden armchair, and a bed were the only furniture. 

The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, and in the corner hung a calendar featuring Bugs Bunny. Tariq’s consciousness then gradually zoomed in on a particular date circled in red with a sticker beside it: his birthday, marked on a Wednesday.

Everything clicked. Her illness stemmed from a space of unimaginable desperation. He found his soul - and he never paid much attention to such a notion- merged with hers and with every fiber of his being he felt her, and her every sensation, with the utmost unbelievable unconditional empathy that only the Divine can perceive.

A wave of love and compassion washed over him, and he forgave her. Tariq in that instant forgave the mom he never had whose bitter resentment he held for so long that never washed ashore. But the asphyxiation feeling intensified bringing him to the brink of consciousness.

Suddenly, as he snapped back to the present, the audio of the crowd increased ever-so-slightly like a Bose Dolby subwoofer with the jade water splashing all around him. He was trailing, seconds behind Sergei. Full of vim and vigor crying from an unknown ethereal source, he summoned every ounce of his muscle and channeled every movement to power a dolphin kick as his arms cut through the water in a final freestyle sprint. The pool seemed to narrow and he focused solely on the finish line.

With one sharp last plunge, he surged forward, fingertips reaching out. The touchpad registered the otherworldly haptic effort, and he looked up at the scoreboard. His time, 1:49.832 seconds, flashed in bright digits for all to see. His heart sank. He just lost by less than 200th of a second.

Then the divine intervened. Or rather the curse was finally withdrawn by the authorities. The first-place athlete had been disqualified due to a technicality – an illegal turn. Tariq's heart pounded as the realization set in. He won. 

Then he saw the coach of the first finisher chastise his opponent. He himself had no coach. Tariq stood there alone, soaking in the moment. Fate, oh so cruel Fate, was defied. 

He looked up at the sky through the glass ceiling of the natatorium and whispered a silent thank you to his mother, feeling a deep sense of peace.The sun shone now and seemed to radiate even more momentarily blinding him.

[Author's note: Full disclosure, I used Chat-GPT to research, polish, and write certain relevant portions. Original idea, topic, dialogue, prompt and adding further filigrees were of course mine. The final portion of NDE and the part on athletes' superstitions rely heavily on Chat-GPT.]