Drunk Driver

I, especially on a March afternoon, don't usually have any problem with hailing a cab however, this particular day, it was just hell. Today was the day set for the rally. It's on the vice-president's visit, and because the whole university is divided on the ordeal, a rally was set up. Supporters, opponents - different sides of the same dirty coin - all came and shouted in unison how one side is dumb and how theirs isn't. This was cool and everything, but each time I called a cab, the same hoard of idiots would try to block its way and force their placards on the poor driver's windshield. 1 cab, 2 cabs, 3 cabs have come to past and I just wonder: why don't they just run 'em over?

An hour later, I figure I would just walk. Michael's is down by to get my hair done. It's not long but it's not short either. It's curtained, much similar to Win Butler's Funeral era, only a tad shorter. I've been going to the same barber for a year now. Michael has a way with scissors and by the look in his works, you could tell he's a gift from the heavens - a godly artisan.

I push the door open and a light bell rings from the inside. I was greeted by a curious amalgam of talc, hair products and coffee. You ever smell the scent from an old book, or an empty library, or a gasoline tank right after you refuel? It's the same thing. It sucks you in. Or rather, you suck it in. Michael was nowhere in sight so I sat on a chair, waiting for him to appear. As the air-conditioner swings past, the smell returns and I could only flinch in return. God, I just love it. I know it's supposed to be irrelevant, but I come here each time and each time I do, I smell the heck out of the room.

"Cut?" a blonde guy with a face mask asks, as he materialize from the toilet. He walks to the air-conditioner and adjusts the thermostat.

"Ugh, is Michael around?"

"Michael's in the hospital. He had a stroke last night."

"Oh. Is he going to be alright?"

"Don't know. Michael's old. Maybe he needs to rest for a while."

"Ok. I'll come back."