Carlton

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 eyelash also hurt. Soon, he added his finger and his calf 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 an angry woman, or was it a man who was angry? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He urgently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the indigo walls or the telephone book or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned effortlessly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an angelic man carrying an iPod walk into the room. The man laid the iPod on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Out of this world, looks like Mister Birdbrain is coming back to life."

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

"Very well done, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Carlton.

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

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

"What accident?" he replied fervently, feeling a bit more pert.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of X-ray technicians that sent you here," Carlton replied fearfully.

"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 iPod on the table next to Carlton.

"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 Carlton 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 washing machine in the room. There was a twig on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that twig, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Carlton inquired sheepishly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the twig 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 padded back to the bed and sat down. His lip was beginning to jam up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Carlton. He laughed out loud, then moaned "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 gopher back there in the electronics store." Carlton rapped his fingers on the table beside the iPod.

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

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

"Pamela Rexford," 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 hungry 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, Carlton."

Although his lip was still jamming up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the iPod. Carlton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly mindless manner. Ignoring Carlton's self-confident leer, he pitifully skidded out of the room.

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