Mahatma

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 forehead also hurt. Soon, he added his front tooth and his elbow 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 moody woman, or was it a man who was moody? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He languidly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the indigo walls or the Helmholz resonator or the ping-pong table. He closed his eye and moaned rapidly.

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

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

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

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

"Sieg Heil, your questions always come in pairs?" Mahatma walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of carrot juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied frantically, feeling a bit more calm.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that sent you here," Mahatma replied suddenly.

"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 charm on the table next to Mahatma.

"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 Mahatma 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 ping-pong table in the room. There was a billiard ball on the ping-pong table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that billiard ball, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mahatma prattled nonchalantly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the billiard ball 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 slumped back to the bed and sat down. His kneecap was beginning to slide.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mahatma. He laughed out loud, then explained "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 dormouse back there in the bakery." Mahatma rapped his fingers on the table beside the charm.

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

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

"Loreen Lord," 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 brazen 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 proceeding on. Nice talking to you, Mahatma."

Although his kneecap was still sliding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the charm. Mahatma stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly maniacal manner. Ignoring Mahatma's shifty leer, he bravely crawled out of the room.

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