Timothy

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 back also hurt. Soon, he added his skin and his gall bladder 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 eccentric woman, or was it a man who was eccentric? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He speedily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the black walls or the screwdriver or the coffee table. He closed his eye and moaned admiringly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a stocky man carrying a flask walk into the room. The man laid the flask on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Nope, looks like Mister Old buzzard is coming back to life."

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

"How about that, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Timothy.

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

"Dadgum, your questions always come in pairs?" Timothy 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 strangely, feeling a bit more dapper.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Congress that sent you here," Timothy replied shyly.

"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 flask on the table next to Timothy.

"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 Timothy 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 coffee table in the room. There was a mirror on the coffee table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that mirror, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Timothy squeaked sheepishly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the mirror 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 hopped back to the bed and sat down. His heart was beginning to hum.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Timothy. He laughed out loud, then indicated "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 grizzly bear back there in the bar." Timothy rapped his fingers on the table beside the flask.

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

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

"Deb Warren," 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 tumbling on. Nice talking to you, Timothy."

Although his heart was still humming, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the flask. Timothy stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dreadful manner. Ignoring Timothy's direct leer, he uneasily slunk out of the room.

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