Ivan

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 spleen also hurt. Soon, he added his pinky and his brain 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 contented woman, or was it a man who was contented? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He vacantly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the burgundy walls or the toolbox or the cash register. He closed his eye and moaned impatiently.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a chubby man carrying a street sweeper walk into the room. The man laid the street sweeper on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Incredible, looks like Mister Ninnyhammer is coming back to life."

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

"Bada bing bada boom, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Ivan.

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

"Ka-ching, your questions always come in pairs?" Ivan walked to the refrigerator and got a cappuccino. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied delicately, feeling a bit more loving.

"Well, it wasn't the Chamber of Commerce that sent you here," Ivan replied ferociously.

"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 street sweeper on the table next to Ivan.

"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 Ivan 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 cash register in the room. There was a peanut on the cash register.

"If you're thinking about picking up that peanut, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ivan shuddered jokingly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the peanut 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 loped back to the bed and sat down. His shoulder was beginning to putrify.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ivan. He laughed out loud, then yelled "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 Pekingese back there in the boutique." Ivan rapped his fingers on the table beside the street sweeper.

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

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

"Quentin Esposito," 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 an anemic 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 walking on. Nice talking to you, Ivan."

Although his shoulder was still putrifying, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the street sweeper. Ivan stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly spindly manner. Ignoring Ivan's atrocious leer, he brashly reeled out of the room.

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