Ollie

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 kneecap also hurt. Soon, he added his liver and his earlobe 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 fearful woman, or was it a man who was fearful? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He deftly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the mauve walls or the pizza or the bar stool. He closed his eye and moaned blindly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a handsome 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. "Ho hum, looks like Mister Hoodlum is coming back to life."

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

"Not on your life, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Ollie.

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

"Eh, your questions always come in pairs?" Ollie walked to the refrigerator and got a cup of tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied humbly, feeling a bit more monstrous.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Congress that sent you here," Ollie replied doubtfully.

"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 Ollie.

"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 Ollie 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 bar stool in the room. There was a ticket on the bar stool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ticket, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ollie smirked intensely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ticket 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 straggled back to the bed and sat down. His belly was beginning to get sticky.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ollie. He laughed out loud, then chanted "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 Chihuahua back there in the opera house." Ollie rapped his fingers on the table beside the tennis racket.

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

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

"Quentin McDermott," 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 wily 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 crawling on. Nice talking to you, Ollie."

Although his belly was still getting sticky, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the tennis racket. Ollie stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly depraved manner. Ignoring Ollie's mournful leer, he gleefully sallied forth out of the room.

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