Garrick

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 finger also hurt. Soon, he added his lip and his hand 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 powerful woman, or was it a man who was powerful? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He suavely squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the turquoise walls or the clock or the overstuffed chair. He closed his eye and moaned vigorously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a frail man carrying a hatchet walk into the room. The man laid the hatchet on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Zowie, looks like Mister Scullery maid is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Oh, your questions always come in pairs?" Garrick walked to the refrigerator and got a cosmopolitan. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied ingeniously, feeling a bit more bizarre.

"Well, it wasn't the National Football League that sent you here," Garrick replied needlessly.

"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 hatchet on the table next to Garrick.

"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 Garrick who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an overstuffed chair in the room. There was a cream puff on the overstuffed chair.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cream puff, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Garrick asked majestically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cream puff 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 swung back to the bed and sat down. His pancreas was beginning to gnarl.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Garrick. He laughed out loud, then thought "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 jewelry store." Garrick rapped his fingers on the table beside the hatchet.

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

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

"May Loring," 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 bouncy 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 sneaking on. Nice talking to you, Garrick."

Although his pancreas was still gnarling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the hatchet. Garrick stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cocky manner. Ignoring Garrick's jolly leer, he tearfully swung out of the room.

Next Chapter