He better be ready, I thought.  I was already running late as I speed-walked down the hallway of the third floor of this apartment building.  But he's never ready.  So why was I developing a brain tumor the size of a walnut hoping he would be?

I came up to Jim's door, 308, I assume, where the "0" should have been was just nothing.  I knocked and waited for him to answer.  Of course he didn't.  Maybe he didn't hear me.  But how couldn't he?  His apartment is smaller than our dorm was.  Instead of hearing Jim's footsteps coming towards the door I heard a loud buzzing sound.  Should I just walk in?  Catching him boning a 12-volt sex doll would have given the evening a great start.

I checked the door and it was unlocked.  I eased the door open and it creaked, but still not loud enough to overcome the buzzing.  As I went into the small studio apartment I looked behind me as I shut the door and yelled, "Are you ready to go?" so I could give him a chance to cover his shame if indeed he had shame that needed to be covered.  He did.  But this was a completely different kind of shame.

Jim was sitting in the middle of the room on a dining room chair wearing a yellow-flowered apron.  The buzzing was coming from a set of hair clippers he was using to totally go to town on his noggin.  He wasn't even going in straight rows, just criss-cross all over the place.  Patches of missing hair were scattered all over his scalp.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting rich."

"By cutting your own hair?  But you don't know how to cut hair.  Is it worth saving a couple bucks if you look like you fell in a nuclear reactor?"

"I'm just doing the prep work. If I do a shitty job here, then I can go to the salon and they'll 'fix' it and not charge me full price because I already did like half the work for them."

"Or because they feel sorry for you for being sad and retarded."

"Whatever.  It's just one step on the train to financial independence."

"Are you ready?  We're gonna be late for the party."

Jim got up, took his apron off and threw it on the floor and brushed the loose hair out of his head with his hands.  He looked like a three-dimensional soccer ball, or a brown bunny on chemotherapy.

We walked outside the apartment and Jim said, "I just gotta stop by Fiesta."

I looked at him for a second before I told him the fact that he had missed, but I had realized the second he explained his plan to me.

"It's ten o'clock at night, Fiesta isn't open, nor is any other hair cutting place."

Jim had a look on his face like he just discovered what herpes was first hand.

"I'm guessing there aren't any tailors open either then?"

As he said that I looked down and noticed the entire ass of his pants were ripped, with a threaded needle sewn just three times through the bottom of the tear.