Hotspot

I've never really had any issues with taxi drivers, until last night.

So I was inching out of a minor road when a taxi violently swerves in without a turning signal. He sees that I want to talk and pulls down his window with these choice words:

"Ni na booo. You cannot see I'm turning, ah? Ey, I big road. I big road. You small road. Wa lau, abang!"

At this point, instead of educating him on using that little lever next to his steering wheel, I say:

"Unker, I not abang. My name K Muthusamy."

His face makes a U Turn, and he drives away without another word... while the nurse inside his cab, laughs her ass off. If you're that nurse, please reply. You cute as hell, and I hear the gates are open this time of the year.

***

I posted that on Thursday, the first day of the ghost month. Not to Facebook. Not to Instagram. I posted that. Via the post office. To whom, you ask?

It's a funny story. Get your reading glasses. The font size doesn't get any bigger than this.

On the way, I met a street vendor. She asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted peace. I wanted freedom. I wanted purpose! She had an answer: "Okay, you come next time. Thank you."

It wasn't the answer I was looking for. So I kept walking. I wasn't getting anywhere, so I decided to hail a taxi in the hope of getting there faster.

Maybe I'll get to meet her in the cab. Maybe she'll drive. But no, maybes are for the lucky. I'm not lucky. When I have an apple, it doesn't keep the doctor away. I'd more likely let my tongue slip, end up biting my lip and need multiple stitches and local anaesthesia.

Post-surgery, I met a taxi driver uncle and our conversation went down like this.

Me: Is there traffic now?
Driver: How I know?

I check to make sure he's a real taxi driver. The license certification sticker with his yellowed passport photo on the windshield looks legit. Now I know his name.

Me: I don't know where I'm going.
Soon Huat: You better go somewhere.

Me: We are.

Soon Huat: Where?

Me: Somewhere.

He curses. But he doesn't know I'm curse-proof. And waterproof, but that's a mostly irrelevant fact. I wish I was sweatproof, however. A little more relevant a fact given what came next.

Soon Huat: You Hindu ah?
Me: ...Ya?

A long pause as he processes.

Soon Huat: Okay, I bring you go temple. Ceylon Road got one.

Me: Okay.

Another long pause. (He's planning this conversation like a game of void deck chess. He must somehow know I suck at chess.)

Soon Huat: You Hindu got sermon or what?
Me: Um. Not exactly like Church. But there are variations of that, ya. It's not compulsory though.
Soon Huat: Then how you learn about your religion?
Me: Uncle Soon, I think I'm just going to eat laksa next door.
Soon Huat: How soon?

Me: Depends on the traffic.

I got off, eventually. It's a bit of a blur how long I was in there. Might have been the Paracetamols. Might have been the fog of existential angst.

The legendary laksa stall was a hot spot for local hipsters, cheaply hatted tourists and food delivery outriders in neon shades.

I accidentally find myself next to the least appealing of the lot: an influen(redacted) --- the kind of person who needs antibiotics, but for the ego. She was taking a picture of her chunky watch, with a hot bowl of umami goodness in the background.

"Is that a new watch?" I ask.

She looks at me like a stranger has never spoken to her, ever. Offline, at least. She freezes, and doesn't thaw with a reply. So I continue the conversation elsewhere: my imagination.

"Is that a new watch?" I asked again.

My imaginary avatar of her replies enthusiastically.

"Yes, I have a new watch!"

She sounds like a character on local television, but speaking a more refined English than appearances initially suggest. My imagination is filled with more stunted dialogue that'll make Mediaco(redacted) proud.

"Wow. What does it do?"

"It tells time."

"Mindblasting. What else does it do?"

"It compensates for my deep-seated insecurities of being perceived as insufficiently successful, undoubtedly unattractive and subtly disliked by most of my peers behind my back."

"Does that mean you're not going to finish your laksa?"

She actually didn't. If you're wondering whether I took it... I'm self-employed. This means I usually eat economic rice. Come to your own conclusions. But, that's not what this story is about.

In case you got lost (with me), this story is about me looking for a cute girl in a taxi. But I do not do this in any organized, rational way. Because as I'm beginning to recall now, I had one too many Paracetomols.

For example, I went to the mall looking for leads. But instead, I got distracted by babies. Here's the thing. Every time babies on escalators or trolleys stare at me, I make sure I scare them silly with all sorts of fearsome faces. This makes it easier for parents down the road to sell stories about evil apu neh nehs who kidnap kids for not eating fibrous vegetables. Caring for your child's colon is another public service brought to you by your friendly neighbourhood ally. Still, no good karma came of this. I had no clue where she was.

Plus, I sorely needed a coffee. So I went to the nearest acne-ridden kid with an apron and asked for one.

"Hi, can I have a black coffee?"
"Yah, um.. you can try the café below. This is a pet shop."

I didn't understand why pets had to have a different kind of coffee than humans. At the café below, I repeat:

"Hi, can I have a black coffee?"

"With milk, or without milk?"

I breathe in deep and take a few steps back, before the café becomes a crime scene.

Last night, I even dreamed her dying. Then I woke up and laughed it off, because none of my dreams ever come true.

Truth is, the painkillers still haven't worn off. I went to the post office to look for internet. So, if you're reading this and have internet, please reply. I could use a hotspot.

No, wait. That's not it. Why do I keep saying hot and spot? I look down. It's a spot on my leg. It's on fire. There's a girl asking me if I'm alright. It's her. It's the girl. The girl we've all been waiting for to appear. I wonder if this is really hell. Is this why I've been taking Paracetomols?

"Morphine, it's morphine." she says. "Open your eyes, you're in a hospital. You've been in an accident. You never made it to the junction."

"Did I die?"

"Yes."

"Wait -- what?"

"For approximately 5 minutes, you were."

"I could have rambled through an entire short story in that time."

"You did."

"Was it any good?"

***