Henry

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 jaw also hurt. Soon, he added his elbow and his mouth 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 gentle woman, or was it a man who was gentle? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He repeatedly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the yellow walls or the tissue or the bathtub. He closed his eye and moaned merrily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a brown-eyed man carrying a can opener walk into the room. The man laid the can opener on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "I'm sure, looks like Mister Dope is coming back to life."

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

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

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to do nothing. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Pish posh, your questions always come in pairs?" Henry walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of champagne. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied miserably, feeling a bit more friendly.

"Well, it wasn't the Chamber of Commerce that sent you here," Henry replied unexpectedly.

"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 can opener on the table next to Henry.

"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 Henry 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 bathtub in the room. There was a business card on the bathtub.

"If you're thinking about picking up that business card, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Henry declared sagely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the business card 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 sauntered back to the bed and sat down. His thorax was beginning to aggravate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Henry. He laughed out loud, then jeered "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 quail back there in the opera house." Henry rapped his fingers on the table beside the can opener.

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

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

"Fuzz Watts," 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 mindless 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 inching on. Nice talking to you, Henry."

Although his thorax was still aggravating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can opener. Henry stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly homely manner. Ignoring Henry's cunning leer, he defiantly skipped out of the room.

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