Rico

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 face also hurt. Soon, he added his lip and his ego 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 innocently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the emerald green walls or the candy cane or the chest of drawers. He closed his eye and moaned sympathetically.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plain man carrying a street sweeper walk into the room. The man laid the street sweeper on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "For the love of Pete, looks like Mister Lamebrain is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Fudge, your questions always come in pairs?" Rico walked to the refrigerator and got a sarsaparilla. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied majestically, feeling a bit more sensible.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Meteorologists that sent you here," Rico replied busily.

"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 street sweeper on the table next to Rico.

"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 Rico 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 chest of drawers in the room. There was a coffee pot on the chest of drawers.

"If you're thinking about picking up that coffee pot, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Rico uttered sleepily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the coffee pot 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 sallied forth back to the bed and sat down. His arm was beginning to crackle.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Rico. He laughed out loud, then yammered "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 salamander back there in the movie theater." Rico rapped his fingers on the table beside the street sweeper.

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

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

"Rebecca Burtle," 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 wizened 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 skidding on. Nice talking to you, Rico."

Although his arm was still crackling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the street sweeper. Rico stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly prissy manner. Ignoring Rico's eccentric leer, he quietly set out out of the room.

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