Clifford

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 foot also hurt. Soon, he added his abdomen and his appendix 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 frenetically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the orange walls or the tote bag or the footstool. He closed his eye and moaned fervently.

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

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

"Great balls of fire, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Clifford.

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

"Boy oh boy, your questions always come in pairs?" Clifford walked to the refrigerator and got a Seven and Seven. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied hysterically, feeling a bit more sleepy.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Embassy that sent you here," Clifford replied shyly.

"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 cobra on the table next to Clifford.

"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 Clifford 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 footstool in the room. There was a paper airplane on the footstool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that paper airplane, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Clifford argued lamely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the paper airplane 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 swaggered back to the bed and sat down. His antenna was beginning to hang.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Clifford. He laughed out loud, then pleaded "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 gnu back there in the beauty salon." Clifford rapped his fingers on the table beside the cobra.

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

"You tripped on a Rubik's cube. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Darryl Bewley," 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 sensible 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 padding on. Nice talking to you, Clifford."

Although his antenna was still hanging, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the cobra. Clifford stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly artistic manner. Ignoring Clifford's energetic leer, he wearily sauntered out of the room.

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