Roger

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 jaw also hurt. Soon, he added his beard and his finger 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 calm woman, or was it a man who was calm? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He wildly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the sea green walls or the rose or the coat rack. He closed his eye and moaned stealthily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a scraggly man carrying a supply of courage walk into the room. The man laid the supply of courage on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Criminy, looks like Mister Hothead is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Goodness, your questions always come in pairs?" Roger walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of Kool-Aid. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied offhandedly, feeling a bit more fuzzy.

"Well, it wasn't the Stagehands of the World that sent you here," Roger replied later.

"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 supply of courage on the table next to Roger.

"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 Roger 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 coat rack in the room. There was a box of candy on the coat rack.

"If you're thinking about picking up that box of candy, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Roger smiled craftily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the box of candy 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 pranced back to the bed and sat down. His scalp was beginning to contract.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Roger. He laughed out loud, then quoted "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 duck back there in the butcher shop." Roger rapped his fingers on the table beside the supply of courage.

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

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

"Tiffany Peters," 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 cruel 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 jumping on. Nice talking to you, Roger."

Although his scalp was still contracting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the supply of courage. Roger stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly intrepid manner. Ignoring Roger's stubborn leer, he ferociously scampered out of the room.

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