Randy

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 leg also hurt. Soon, he added his tongue and his vein 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 desperate woman, or was it a man who was desperate? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He numbly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the lime-green walls or the floppy disk or the couch. He closed his eye and moaned properly.

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

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

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

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

"Out of this world, your questions always come in pairs?" Randy walked to the refrigerator and got a Scotch and soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied woefully, feeling a bit more powerful.

"Well, it wasn't the Police Department that sent you here," Randy replied courageously.

"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 firecracker on the table next to Randy.

"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 Randy 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 couch in the room. There was a soccer ball on the couch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that soccer ball, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Randy cajoled furiously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the soccer ball 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 padded back to the bed and sat down. His esophagus was beginning to lighten up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Randy. He laughed out loud, then screeched "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 mink back there in the nail salon." Randy rapped his fingers on the table beside the firecracker.

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

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

"Clara Kramer," 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 an enraged 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 parading on. Nice talking to you, Randy."

Although his esophagus was still lightening up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the firecracker. Randy stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly absent-minded manner. Ignoring Randy's boring leer, he glibly crept out of the room.

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