Melvin

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his scalp also hurt. Soon, he added his intestine and his tongue to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been an irate woman, or was it a man who was irate? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He irritably squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the lime-green walls or the bag or the bath mat. He closed his eye and moaned stealthily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a blushing man carrying a potato masher walk into the room. The man laid the potato masher on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Bless my hide, looks like Mister Curmudgeon is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Totally rad, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Melvin.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to vomit. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Not on your life, your questions always come in pairs?" Melvin walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of papaya juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied courageously, feeling a bit more dismal.

"Well, it wasn't the American Association of Architects that sent you here," Melvin replied languidly.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the potato masher on the table next to Melvin.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Melvin who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a bath mat in the room. There was a coin on the bath mat.

"If you're thinking about picking up that coin, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Melvin groaned sheepishly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the coin at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then stalked back to the bed and sat down. His tail was beginning to flutter.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Melvin. He laughed out loud, then bellowed "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a flea back there in the bookstore." Melvin rapped his fingers on the table beside the potato masher.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a flowerpot. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Flo Byers," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a solitary guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be dashing on. Nice talking to you, Melvin."

Although his tail was still fluttering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the potato masher. Melvin stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly hirsute manner. Ignoring Melvin's amiable leer, he diligently slithered out of the room.

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