Chuck

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 pinky also hurt. Soon, he added his kidney and his belly 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 cowardly woman, or was it a man who was cowardly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He smoothly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the blue walls or the radio or the bath mat. He closed his eye and moaned lazily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plump man carrying an angry glare walk into the room. The man laid the angry glare on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Big whoop, looks like Mister Drip is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied wildly, feeling a bit more desperate.

"Well, it wasn't the Daughters of the American Revolution that sent you here," Chuck 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 angry glare on the table next to Chuck.

"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 Chuck 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 bath mat in the room. There was a towel on the bath mat.

"If you're thinking about picking up that towel, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Chuck imitated surreptitiously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the towel 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 flounced back to the bed and sat down. His esophagus was beginning to line up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Chuck. He laughed out loud, then yelped "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 bandicoot back there in the ice cream parlor." Chuck rapped his fingers on the table beside the angry glare.

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

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

"Lorna Eriksson," 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 fascinating 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 prancing on. Nice talking to you, Chuck."

Although his esophagus was still lining up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the angry glare. Chuck stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sober manner. Ignoring Chuck's haggard leer, he positively jogged out of the room.

Next Chapter