Charlie

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 hair also hurt. Soon, he added his thigh and his eye 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 direct woman, or was it a man who was direct? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sympathetically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brown walls or the clock or the water bed. He closed his eye and moaned needlessly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plain man carrying a stethoscope walk into the room. The man laid the stethoscope on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Ay chihuahua, looks like Mister So-and-so is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Bravo, your questions always come in pairs?" Charlie walked to the refrigerator and got a shot of tequila. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied thoughtfully, feeling a bit more prissy.

"Well, it wasn't the CIA that sent you here," Charlie replied intensely.

"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 stethoscope on the table next to Charlie.

"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 Charlie 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 water bed in the room. There was a Helmholz resonator on the water bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Helmholz resonator, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Charlie guessed intensely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Helmholz resonator 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 barrelled back to the bed and sat down. His cheek was beginning to crawl.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Charlie. He laughed out loud, then tittered "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 kitty back there in the art gallery." Charlie rapped his fingers on the table beside the stethoscope.

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

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

"Evette Morrissey," 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 dismal 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 tearing on. Nice talking to you, Charlie."

Although his cheek was still crawling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the stethoscope. Charlie stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly phlegmatic manner. Ignoring Charlie's merry leer, he briskly breezed out of the room.

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