Pops

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 little toe also hurt. Soon, he added his hair and his heel 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 resolute woman, or was it a man who was resolute? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He suspiciously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the purple walls or the tissue or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned merrily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sleek man carrying a handful of dirt walk into the room. The man laid the handful of dirt on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Very funny, looks like Mister Stinker is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"I've had it, your questions always come in pairs?" Pops walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of milk. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied angrily, feeling a bit more frantic.

"Well, it wasn't the CIA that sent you here," Pops replied nervously.

"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 handful of dirt on the table next to Pops.

"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 Pops 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 billiard table in the room. There was a stopwatch on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that stopwatch, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Pops thought automatically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the stopwatch 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 proceeded back to the bed and sat down. His pinky was beginning to turn black.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Pops. He laughed out loud, then added "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 an ox back there in the coffee shop." Pops rapped his fingers on the table beside the handful of dirt.

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

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

"Mark Wayman," 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 paranoid 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 whirling on. Nice talking to you, Pops."

Although his pinky was still turning black, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the handful of dirt. Pops stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly coy manner. Ignoring Pops's daring leer, he positively strode out of the room.

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