Shawn

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 Adam's apple and his hairdo 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 passionate woman, or was it a man who was passionate? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He elatedly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the olive drab walls or the houseplant or the dresser. He closed his eye and moaned daringly.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied warmly, feeling a bit more passionate.

"Well, it wasn't the Third Shanghai Synagogue that sent you here," Shawn replied energetically.

"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 snowball on the table next to Shawn.

"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 Shawn 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 dresser in the room. There was a dead prairie dog on the dresser.

"If you're thinking about picking up that dead prairie dog, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Shawn whispered lamely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the dead prairie dog 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 back was beginning to dribble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Shawn. He laughed out loud, then insisted "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 giraffe back there in the clothing store." Shawn rapped his fingers on the table beside the snowball.

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

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

"Klaus Burns," 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 choleric 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 slumping on. Nice talking to you, Shawn."

Although his back was still dribbling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the snowball. Shawn stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dreadful manner. Ignoring Shawn's fierce leer, he miserably jumped out of the room.

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