Oliver

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 stomach also hurt. Soon, he added his calf and his esophagus 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 big woman, or was it a man who was big? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He positively squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the maroon walls or the brochure or the computer. He closed his eye and moaned viciously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a graceful man carrying a can of Raid walk into the room. The man laid the can of Raid on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Omigosh, looks like Mister Ninnyhammer is coming back to life."

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

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

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?"

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

"What accident?" he replied crossly, feeling a bit more exuberant.

"Well, it wasn't the University of Pennsylvania that sent you here," Oliver replied doubtfully.

"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 can of Raid on the table next to Oliver.

"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 Oliver 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 computer in the room. There was a spinning wheel on the computer.

"If you're thinking about picking up that spinning wheel, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Oliver hinted suddenly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the spinning wheel 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 slid back to the bed and sat down. His esophagus was beginning to feel heavy.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Oliver. He laughed out loud, then spewed "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 lizard back there in the drug store." Oliver rapped his fingers on the table beside the can of Raid.

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

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

"Cynthia Springer," 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 fuzzy 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 rolling on. Nice talking to you, Oliver."

Although his esophagus was still feeling heavy, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can of Raid. Oliver stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly miniscule manner. Ignoring Oliver's gentle leer, he elatedly sashayed out of the room.

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