Suspecting that my spartan bedroom would yield no more clues to my identity, I cast my eyes about for a point of egress and detected a closed door about four feet beyond the foot of my bed. I moved toward it with the aid of my cane and, when I finally achieved it, found it to be unlocked.
As I emerged from the bedroom, I found myself in a small hall. Immediately in front of me was a passage through which I could see what appeared to be a standard refrigerator, which appeared to be humming, a valuable indication that it was apparently in good working order. Glancing to my left, the hall appeared to open out into what appeared to be a room somewhat larger than my bedroom. This room contained what appeared to be a stuffed chair, several pairs of stuffed bookshelves, and a computer station, complete with a computer and books of instruction on its intended use.
I stored all these conjectures in an accessible mind-file. Then, glancing immediately to my right, I noted what I surmised to be a door to a bathroom.
I turned the knob, pushed the door open with my cane, and entered the room. My surmise proved correct. I was in a bathroom, which, though it appeared to be fully stocked and clean, I judged to be of inferior quality, being decorated in much the same tasteless fashion as the bedroom from which I had only minutes before emerged.
Continuing my inspection, I noted that the room contained a bathtub; a washbasin above which one could discern a mirror, hidden behind which I guessed was a medicine chest; and an elevated commode of the sort one would expect to grace the bathrooms of the frail elderly.
I sniffed about my person to determine if I should either bathe or shower. I was pleased to find no unpleasant odor, or at least none that could not be remedied by a swipe or two of what I expected to be a stick of Old Spice deodorant.
Next I maneuvered myself into a position to open the medicine chest and get at the Old Spice. The achievement of this goal required the performance of a series of discrete actions: locating a stool; moving the stool, with the end of my cane, from its position adjacent to an empty wastebasket to a position immediately in front of the medicine chest but away from the wash basin; and climbing onto that stool, again with the aid of the cane I had come to regard as indispensable for any locomotion, toward a place that had piqued my cavernous curiosity.
Significance of the stool:
Establishes the fact that the Narrator is short.
Significance of the Old Spice:
Reinforces the suspicion that the self-described “old man” hasn’t lost his vigor.
Reason for referring to the Narrator as “The Narrator”:
He does not know his name.
Will he find out?
Q. Is it Aaron?
Q. Does it begin with an “A”?
A. No. And that’s all I’m going to say.