The Hat
The Hat
He was at the bus stop, on his way home for lunch, when he realized he’d lost his hat. He would have sworn it was on his head. Indeed, he kept touching his head as if he might suddenly find it there, as if his hat could lag behind him and catch up to him. He had very little hair. This was why he loved the hat, along with the fact that it had belonged to his father. His father hadn’t given it to him or anything like that. A few years ago, years after his father had died, he noticed it hanging on a hook in the hall where it had always hung, and tried it on, and looked at himself in the mirror, and decided he quite liked it. And ever since, he had worn it nearly every day. So often did he wear it that he had friends who cried out in surprise when he took it off. Now it was gone.
He looked around the bus stop, thinking perhaps he’d set it down in a moment of absentmindedness, but it was nowhere to be seen. He’d been several places already that day. He’d left home, walked a half mile, gotten on the bus, got off at the town center, had two cups of coffee at the cafe with his friends, then bought a paper and went to the park, where he sat on the same bench he always sat on and read, shaking his head at the bad news, but feeling himself slightly superior to it, as well, since it wasn’t happening to him, he was reading about it, then went to the bar, a little early, admittedly, and had a morning glass of wine, which, he’d decided, was good for his heart, and talked to the bartender, who either agreed with him about the way things were, or, if he didn’t, remained quiet. It was probably there that he’d left the hat. Maybe on the stool next to him, or hanging from the hook under the bar.
The bus that would take him home stopped for him, but he waved it along impatiently, as if the driver should somehow know his intentions, and crossed the road, and waited a gratingly long time for the bus to come that would take him back towards the city center. It felt strange, going that direction at this hour. He was a man of habit. Bareheaded, he felt naked, exposed, and he shot a cold look at a young man who seemed to be staring at him. It was hot on the bus, and he didn’t want to be out in the sun at midday, his head exposed, but he had to find the hat.
He got off at the town center and, keeping to the reef of shade, he made his way towards the bar. It was raucous with workmen who’d kicked off for lunch. He felt sheepish, entering a place he’d already been to once that day. Of course there were men sitting where he’d sat alone earlier. He managed to convince them to slide aside so he could check the hooks. He sensed that the workmen were laughing at him, an old man who seemed to have lost more than his hat.
He managed to catch the eye of the barman, harried by the busyness of the place. He asked him if he’d left his hat. The barman, a drink in each hand, shook his head in a dismissive way, as if to say, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
It wasn’t far to the cafe. But his hat wasn’t there, either. His friends were gone. It was possible one of them had noticed it sitting there and was holding onto it for him, but he was beginning to wonder whether someone had stolen it. Aside from the sweat-stained brim, it was an awfully nice hat.
There was one last place to look. He walked hopefully towards the park, sweating now, covering his head with a piece of newspaper. And sure enough, sitting on the bench where he’d sat just hours before, a man was sitting, wearing his hat. His relief to have found it was tempered by the awkward fact that a stranger was wearing it, but he strode up to him with confidence, certain he would be able to explain and all would be well.
“Good morning, sir. I see you’ve found the hat I left here this morning.”
“What hat?”
“Why, the hat on your head.”
“This hat?” the man said, taking it off and regarding it, as if he hadn’t realized he was wearing it. “I’ve had this hat for years.”
“That’s not possible. I’ve had that hat for years.”
“I assure you, sir, you’re mistaken.”
“No. I’m not mistaken. I’m missing my hat, which you’ve taken.”
“Would you like to bet?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I bet you this hat that I can prove that this hat is mine.”
“Very well.”
They shook hands. Someone watching from a distance might have assumed they were greeting one another cordially, old friends who’d happened upon one another in the park.
“Tell me, what does this say?” the man said, holding it up to him upside-down. He leaned down and looked at the place the man was indicating with his finger.
“Property of Irvin Baxter. Well, that’s not proof that it’s yours. You could have written that when you found it.”
“I wrote it years ago, when I bought it. And do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I knew one day someone like you would come along and try to steal my hat from me.”
“But you stole my hat from me!”
“Prove it. You can’t.”
“I was sitting right here on this bench this morning. What are the chances that, not two hours later, a man would be sitting here wearing the exact same hat?”
“Quite good, I’d say. I come and sit on this bench most days.”
“So do I and I’ve never seen you.”
“That’s because you come early and I come later.”
“Do you think this is funny, sir?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you find this amusing?”
“I find it annoying, actually. I was quietly reading when you interrupted me. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone, literally.”
“I’m not leaving without my hat.”
Just then a policeman happened by, patrolling the park, where, the man had read in the paper, there’d been a recent uptick in thefts.
“Excuse me, officer, this man here has stolen my hat.”
The policeman looked grateful to have been given something to do. Walking over, he said, “Give this man his hat back.”
“But it’s my hat, officer, not his.”
“Oh?”
“That’s right. My name is on it.”
“Just because his name is on it doesn’t make it his.”
“When did he take it from you?” the officer asked.
“Well, he didn’t take it, exactly. I left the hat on this bench this morning and when I came back to look for it, this man was wearing it.”
“But his name is on it?”
“Yes, but he could have written his name anytime after finding it.”
The officer looked at the two men helplessly, then said, “I’m afraid I can’t get involved in this. It’s a dispute you’ll have to settle yourselves. Peacefully, I hope, or I will have to get involved.”
With this, he began to walk away, only to turn and say, “My advice. Since his name is on the hat, I suggest you, sir, let it be, whether he took it or not. Get yourself a new hat. They’re not hard to come by.”
“But this hat was my father’s!”
“This hat was my father’s!” the man sitting on the bench said, rising to his feet.
“You’ll have to work this out between yourselves,” the officer said. “It’s only a hat.”
They waited until the officer was out of sight and hearing, then lunged at one another. Whoever the hat belonged to, it was old, and made of straw. It would have been smart to set the hat aside and fight for it without damaging it, but in wrestling for it, each man, enraged by what the other was doing to his hat, ruined it in trying to tear it from the other’s hands. By the time the policeman came running back, joined by others, the hat was forgotten, and the men were at one another’s throats. The police managed to separate them. Tickets were issued to each of them and they were sent out of the park in opposite directions.
He walked back to the city center. There was blood on his shirt from a cut over his eye, but he ignored the looks he was given on the bus. He was happy at least that the man who had stolen his hat would never have the pleasure of wearing it. Even then, birds were picking up pieces of its straw in their beaks to fortify their nests.
When he walked into his house, there was his hat, hanging from its hook in the hall. The first thing he did was write his name on it.