Owen

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 head also hurt. Soon, he added his lung and his belly button 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 absent-minded woman, or was it a man who was absent-minded? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He fondly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the maroon walls or the piece of chalk or the settee. He closed his eye and moaned numbly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an olive man carrying a handful of dirt walk into the room. The man laid the handful of dirt on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Totally rad, looks like Mister Fathead is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Alrighty-roo, your questions always come in pairs?" Owen walked to the refrigerator and got a Tom Collins. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied woodenly, feeling a bit more impish.

"Well, it wasn't the National Organization of Boat captains that sent you here," Owen replied nonchalantly.

"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 handful of dirt on the table next to Owen.

"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 Owen 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 settee in the room. There was an acorn on the settee.

"If you're thinking about picking up that acorn, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Owen taunted woodenly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the acorn 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 rushed back to the bed and sat down. His ankle was beginning to look funny.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Owen. He laughed out loud, then hissed "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 nightingale back there in the burger joint." Owen rapped his fingers on the table beside the handful of dirt.

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

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

"Nadine Wayman," 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 passionate 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 sailing on. Nice talking to you, Owen."

Although his ankle was still looking funny, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the handful of dirt. Owen stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly jaunty manner. Ignoring Owen's direct leer, he suavely swaggered out of the room.

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