Tom

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 brain also hurt. Soon, he added his Adam's apple and his midriff 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 stubborn woman, or was it a man who was stubborn? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He quietly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the periwinkle walls or the cigar or the cash register. He closed his eye and moaned fearlessly.

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

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

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

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?"

"Can you dig it?, your questions always come in pairs?" Tom walked to the refrigerator and got a cosmopolitan. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied surreptitiously, feeling a bit more jolly.

"Well, it wasn't the Arbor Day Foundation that sent you here," Tom replied delicately.

"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 disarming smile on the table next to Tom.

"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 Tom 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 cash register in the room. There was a coloring book on the cash register.

"If you're thinking about picking up that coloring book, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Tom swore warmly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the coloring book 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 loped back to the bed and sat down. His thorax was beginning to falter.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Tom. He laughed out loud, then giggled "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 ghost back there in the music store." Tom rapped his fingers on the table beside the disarming smile.

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

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

"Lillie Sledge," 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 polite 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 zooming on. Nice talking to you, Tom."

Although his thorax was still faltering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the disarming smile. Tom stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly maniacal manner. Ignoring Tom's dismal leer, he sourly cantered out of the room.

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