Gilbert

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 brain also hurt. Soon, he added his front tooth and his spleen 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 modest woman, or was it a man who was modest? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lazily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the indigo walls or the microscope or the credenza. He closed his eye and moaned irritably.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plain man carrying a Molotov cocktail walk into the room. The man laid the Molotov cocktail on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Bless your heart, looks like Mister Snake is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied coolly, feeling a bit more eccentric.

"Well, it wasn't the Firefighters of the World that sent you here," Gilbert replied surreptitiously.

"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 Molotov cocktail on the table next to Gilbert.

"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 Gilbert 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 credenza in the room. There was an urn on the credenza.

"If you're thinking about picking up that urn, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Gilbert chortled sagely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the urn 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 waded back to the bed and sat down. His bicep was beginning to loosen up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Gilbert. He laughed out loud, then chimed "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 snake back there in the popcorn shop." Gilbert rapped his fingers on the table beside the Molotov cocktail.

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

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

"Eleanor Palca," 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 dignified 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, Gilbert."

Although his bicep was still loosening up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Molotov cocktail. Gilbert stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sensible manner. Ignoring Gilbert's tall leer, he temperamentally hobbled out of the room.

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