Casey

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 hip also hurt. Soon, he added his head and his Adam's apple 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 distressed woman, or was it a man who was distressed? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He stupidly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the camouflage walls or the chart or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned sleepily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a homely man carrying a rope walk into the room. The man laid the rope on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "The joke's on you, looks like Mister Crackpot 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 Casey.

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

"Zowie, your questions always come in pairs?" Casey 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 glumly, feeling a bit more queer.

"Well, it wasn't the National Association of Real estate agents that sent you here," Casey replied firmly.

"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 rope on the table next to Casey.

"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 Casey 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 billiard table in the room. There was a box of Kleenex on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that box of Kleenex, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Casey winked sternly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the box of Kleenex 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 galumphed back to the bed and sat down. His big toe was beginning to get sweaty.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Casey. 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 yeti back there in the newsstand." Casey rapped his fingers on the table beside the rope.

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

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

"Vinny Bobble," 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 an ignoble 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 speeding on. Nice talking to you, Casey."

Although his big toe was still getting sweaty, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the rope. Casey stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly frantic manner. Ignoring Casey's impish leer, he flightily made a beeline out of the room.

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