Bert

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 liver also hurt. Soon, he added his little finger and his lip 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 thoughtful woman, or was it a man who was thoughtful? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He languidly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the jet black walls or the pencil sharpener or the ping-pong table. He closed his eye and moaned testily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a fair man carrying a bad breath walk into the room. The man laid the bad breath on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Not so fast, looks like Mister Stumblebum is coming back to life."

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

"I don't think so, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Bert.

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

"What in tarnation, your questions always come in pairs?" Bert walked to the refrigerator and got a shot of bourbon. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied smoothly, feeling a bit more fearless.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Pianists that sent you here," Bert replied fearlessly.

"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 bad breath on the table next to Bert.

"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 Bert 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 ping-pong table in the room. There was a microphone on the ping-pong table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that microphone, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bert maintained tearfully.

He wasn't thinking about taking the microphone 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 made a beeline back to the bed and sat down. His big toe was beginning to look strange.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bert. He laughed out loud, then warbled "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 fish back there in the electronics store." Bert rapped his fingers on the table beside the bad breath.

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

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

"Leah Vanderbilt," 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 careful 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 galumphing on. Nice talking to you, Bert."

Although his big toe was still looking strange, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the bad breath. Bert stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly muddled manner. Ignoring Bert's disagreeable leer, he fearlessly slunk out of the room.

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