Antonio

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 elbow also hurt. Soon, he added his waist and his cheek 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 sloppy woman, or was it a man who was sloppy? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He deliberately squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the jade walls or the saw or the china hutch. He closed his eye and moaned crossly.

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

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

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

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

"Omigosh, your questions always come in pairs?" Antonio walked to the refrigerator and got a 7-Up. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied resignedly, feeling a bit more urbane.

"Well, it wasn't the National Football League that sent you here," Antonio replied charmingly.

"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 bayonette on the table next to Antonio.

"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 Antonio 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 china hutch in the room. There was a tube of toothpaste on the china hutch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that tube of toothpaste, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Antonio vowed suddenly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the tube of toothpaste 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 rushed back to the bed and sat down. His throat was beginning to itch.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Antonio. He laughed out loud, then muttered "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 monkey back there in the art gallery." Antonio rapped his fingers on the table beside the bayonette.

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

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

"Betty Lyman," 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 decent 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 climbing on. Nice talking to you, Antonio."

Although his throat was still itching, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the bayonette. Antonio stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly attractive manner. Ignoring Antonio's cheerful leer, he repeatedly reeled out of the room.

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