Francisco

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 aorta also hurt. Soon, he added his little toe and his thumb 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 a decisive woman, or was it a man who was decisive? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He nonchalantly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the mauve walls or the tote bag or the dresser. He closed his eye and moaned courteously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a roly-poly man carrying a BB gun walk into the room. The man laid the BB gun on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Hee haw, looks like Mister Bumpkin is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Yep, your questions always come in pairs?" Francisco walked to the refrigerator and got a sarsaparilla. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied tensely, feeling a bit more solitary.

"Well, it wasn't the American Association of Monks that sent you here," Francisco replied openly.

"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 BB gun on the table next to Francisco.

"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 Francisco 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 dresser in the room. There was a toolbox on the dresser.

"If you're thinking about picking up that toolbox, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Francisco queried cunningly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the toolbox 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 trotted back to the bed and sat down. His hip was beginning to bulge.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Francisco. He laughed out loud, then uttered "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 mosquito back there in the deli." Francisco rapped his fingers on the table beside the BB gun.

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

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

"Jimmie Lee Northrum," 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 creepy 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 reeling on. Nice talking to you, Francisco."

Although his hip was still bulging, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the BB gun. Francisco stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly puzzled manner. Ignoring Francisco's garrulous leer, he testily sneaked out of the room.

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