The man with the toupee

...

He came to us, the excited man with the toupee. He came with his schemes and we snickered, he turned the other way and walked off like he'd heard nothing. He hung around for sometime, telling other people about his business plans. They laughed at him and he laughed with them. As it grew dark, he picked up his umbrella and slowly walked towards the nearest bus stop. After an hour of waiting he finally boarded bus no. 33 which took him to his tiny apartment. He climbed the stairs slowly, his legs protesting. He pushed open his apartment door to find that some water had seeped in through the cracked window and had soaked his couch which was right under it. He shuffled to the wet couch and sat down. It was the only form of bedding he could afford. His stomach growled but all the fridge had was a three month old apple. His walls were bare, like the hollow promises of visits. The paint peeling, like the withered dry skin of his hands holding the eviction notice. 

He got up, shuffled to the drawer, took out a revolver and pointed it to his head. He closed his eyes, his fingers shaking. He stood there for an hour willing his fingers to press the trigger, but they wouldn't. A tear rolled down his face as he lowered the gun. He tore off the toupee in disgust, his bald patch shining with sweat. The toupee lay there in despair, illuminated by the moonlight from the crack in the window. What had he done! He rushed to it and cradled it lovingly, apologising, to his only best friend.

Maybe tomorrow, somebody would listen to him and his brilliant plans.

Listen to the man with the toupee....