Bobby

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 toupee also hurt. Soon, he added his head and his thyroid gland 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 happy woman, or was it a man who was happy? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He openly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the khaki walls or the stuffed owl or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned joyously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an elegant man carrying a candlestick walk into the room. The man laid the candlestick on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "I'm outta here, looks like Mister Old biddy is coming back to life."

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

"Bless my britches, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Bobby.

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

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

"What accident?" he replied hopefully, feeling a bit more passionate.

"Well, it wasn't the University of New Jersey that sent you here," Bobby replied frenetically.

"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 candlestick on the table next to Bobby.

"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 Bobby 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 floppy disk on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that floppy disk, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bobby railed jokingly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the floppy disk 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 darted back to the bed and sat down. His tummy was beginning to droop.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bobby. He laughed out loud, then disputed "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 mole back there in the bowling alley." Bobby rapped his fingers on the table beside the candlestick.

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

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

"Hilda Schecter," 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 funny 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 barrelling on. Nice talking to you, Bobby."

Although his tummy was still drooping, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the candlestick. Bobby stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly unselfish manner. Ignoring Bobby's fuzzy leer, he sorrowfully zipped out of the room.

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