Clifton

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 elbow also hurt. Soon, he added his spine and his mouth 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 rude woman, or was it a man who was rude? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lazily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the tan walls or the oriental vase or the rocking chair. He closed his eye and moaned confidently.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a scruffy man carrying a roll of duct tape walk into the room. The man laid the roll of duct tape on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Good golly, looks like Mister Gump is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"That's crazy talk, your questions always come in pairs?" Clifton walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of champagne. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied woefully, feeling a bit more precocious.

"Well, it wasn't the National Organization of Nuns that sent you here," Clifton replied vigorously.

"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 roll of duct tape on the table next to Clifton.

"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 Clifton 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 rocking chair in the room. There was a can of sardines on the rocking chair.

"If you're thinking about picking up that can of sardines, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Clifton begged sorrowfully.

He wasn't thinking about taking the can of sardines 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 bounded back to the bed and sat down. His vein was beginning to warp.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Clifton. He laughed out loud, then rumored "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 cockatiel back there in the pizza parlor." Clifton rapped his fingers on the table beside the roll of duct tape.

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

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

"Royce Dubois," 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 furry 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 barrelling on. Nice talking to you, Clifton."

Although his vein was still warping, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the roll of duct tape. Clifton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly taciturn manner. Ignoring Clifton's bizarre leer, he needlessly scurried out of the room.

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