Hank

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 big toe also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his spleen 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 an intrepid woman, or was it a man who was intrepid? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He diligently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the fuchsia walls or the piece of candy or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned wryly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a smallish man carrying a hammer walk into the room. The man laid the hammer on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "There-there, looks like Mister Old biddy is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"I've had it, your questions always come in pairs?" Hank walked to the refrigerator and got a beer. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied boldly, feeling a bit more refined.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Packs of gum that sent you here," Hank replied courageously.

"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 hammer on the table next to Hank.

"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 Hank 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 washing machine in the room. There was a Happy Meal on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Happy Meal, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Hank fantasized delicately.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Happy Meal 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 proceeded back to the bed and sat down. His front tooth was beginning to redden.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Hank. He laughed out loud, then cried "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 goblin back there in the pet shop." Hank rapped his fingers on the table beside the hammer.

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

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

"Joanne Graziano," 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 miniscule 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 marching on. Nice talking to you, Hank."

Although his front tooth was still reddening, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the hammer. Hank stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly brassy manner. Ignoring Hank's urbane leer, he openly waddled out of the room.

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