Morris

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 little toe also hurt. Soon, he added his abdomen and his knee 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 selfish woman, or was it a man who was selfish? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He cleverly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the ivory walls or the feather or the counter. He closed his eye and moaned joyously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a bedraggled man carrying a tennis racket walk into the room. The man laid the tennis racket on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Gesundheit, looks like Mister Noodlebrain is coming back to life."

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

"@#%#^@%$@!, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Morris.

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

"Now what?, your questions always come in pairs?" Morris walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of carrot juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied briskly, feeling a bit more jaunty.

"Well, it wasn't the Government of Greece that sent you here," Morris replied blankly.

"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 tennis racket on the table next to Morris.

"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 Morris 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 counter in the room. There was a vase on the counter.

"If you're thinking about picking up that vase, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Morris declaimed patiently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the vase 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 sailed back to the bed and sat down. His arm was beginning to bounce.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Morris. He laughed out loud, then commented "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 duck back there in the pizza parlor." Morris rapped his fingers on the table beside the tennis racket.

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

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

"Fred Papadapolous," 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 princely 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, Morris."

Although his arm was still bouncing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the tennis racket. Morris stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly paranoid manner. Ignoring Morris's comely leer, he sweetly clambered out of the room.

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