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 chest also hurt. Soon, he added his jaw and his thigh 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 cowardly woman, or was it a man who was cowardly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He gingerly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chocolate brown walls or the tube of glue or the cash register. He closed his eye and moaned slyly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an unkempt man carrying a Geiger counter walk into the room. The man laid the Geiger counter on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Phooey, looks like Mister Crackpot is coming back to life."

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

"Spiff, 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 mutter. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Far out, man, your questions always come in pairs?" Timothy 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 furiously, feeling a bit more queer.

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

"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 Geiger counter 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 cash register in the room. There was a pumpkin on the cash register.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pumpkin, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Timothy stammered nicely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pumpkin 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 dove back to the bed and sat down. His hangnail was beginning to slide.

"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 spouted "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 gazelle back there in the Hallmark shop." Timothy rapped his fingers on the table beside the Geiger counter.

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

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

"Thomas Portwine," 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 corpulent 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 wading on. Nice talking to you, Timothy."

Although his hangnail was still sliding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Geiger counter. Timothy stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly wicked manner. Ignoring Timothy's fiendish leer, he cleverly pranced out of the room.

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