The Mad Hattee

For my birthday last year, my father brought me a hat from Australia. It was too big so I took it to a shop called The Mad Hatter to be stuffed.

In the store, I gave my hat to a plump, balding oaf that should have been a gangster, not a hatter. This was on a Monday. He said the hat would be ready Wednesday. "Two days?" I wailed. "Two days to put toilet paper in a hat? I'll do it myself." I started to leave.

"Wait, wait," the man said. I looked at his name tag and it said "M.H." "I'll make it Tuesday. Don't want to lose a customer. Tomorrow afternoon."

"What do you have to do?" I asked.

"Well, we don't just go putting toilet tissues in hats like this," said M.H. "It takes care and style. You know these hats, they last years and yearss and yearsss."

"I see."

"So we want the stuffing to last years and yearss and yearsss."

"Mmmmm."

"Yes. I'll do it priority rush for tomorrow. But it'll cost extra."

"How much?"

"Ten dollars."

"Ten dollars," I said, "to put T.P. in a piece of leather!"

"It's not that simple, I told you," said Mad Hatter. "You want quality work, you pay for quality work. It’s a damn good piece of leather."

"Well, better ten bucks now, than to lose the hat in a breeze," I said.

"Yes."

"I'll be back tomorrow noon."

"Yes."

The rest of that Monday and all of Tuesday morning, I forgot about the hat. It's only a piece of leather. I did make a note to go in to The Mad Hatter and get it, and to take a few dollars from the fast cash machine. I wrote it in my date keeper, and also on a little self-adhesive scrap of paper that could be stuck to the refrigerator.

* * *

When I went in Tuesday afternoon at 12:02, M.H. was out to lunch. But the assistant, a thin, balding man who really should have been a watchmaker or a train conductor, was in his place.

"I'm here about a hat," I said.

"Good place for that," said the assistant, his eyes regarding me without blinking.

"It's an Aussie hat. M.H. said it'd be ready this noon."

"Don't know about any Aussie hat," said the assistant.

"A leather hat. Needed to be stuffed."

The man shook his head. "No. Got a receipt?"

"No."

"No receipt?" said the assistant.

"No."

"Well, come back after lunch," said the assistant.

"I will," I said.

I took a walk along Washington Avenue and tried to forget about the hat. It's just a piece of leather.

* * *

"Hi. Remember me?" I asked M.H. at 1:05 P.M. that afternoon.

He didn't say anything.

"I'm here to get my Aussie hat."

"Don't know about that, Mate," said M.H.

"I brought it in yesterday. To be stuffed. Ten bucks, you said. Ready today."

"No Aussie hat here. Sure you got the right place?"

"Positive."

"No such hat here. Don't remember you, either."

"Maybe I can help you remember me."

M.H. said nothing.

"Neither you, nor your assistant, know anything about my hat? You got some kind of memory problem?" I snapped.

"No," said M.H. "But you'll have problems if you don't get out of my store."

I left, but checked the sign on the door for closing time: Six o'clock.

* * *

There was a hotel within sight of the entrance to The Mad Hatter, and from its lobby I could see the door and the lights inside the store at 6:08 P.M. that Tuesday afternoon. I waited for the lights to go out. At 6:23 they were extinguished. I waited for the pudgy form of M.H. to exit the door, but no one came out.

Perhaps he'd seen me waiting for him. He was probably sitting there, concealed by darkness, laughing, invisible to me. When I gave up my vigil, he'd sneak out, the slime, through the darkness to the luxury car he had bought at the expense of fools like me.

I waited till after 10:30 and never saw M.H. come out. So I'd catch him in the morning. I sulked back to my apartment and wrote down the opening time of the store: 10:00 A.M. And with it I scribbled a note: "Meet the enemy, 9:30 or so."

I got no sleep that night. Insomnia over a piece of leather!

* * *

At 9:29 A.M. on the following crisp Wednesday morning I returned to the lobby of the hotel. It was good that there was a different attendant. I had begun to think that the attendant the previous night had been looking at me strangely. This morning's attendant was a plump lady with over-permed hair and coke-bottle-bottom glasses. And prominently on the hotel desk there was a leather hat. Not an Aussie hat, but a hat, a leather hat, an expensive hat, an exotic hat, a hat to taunt me, a hat to torment me, a hat to remind me why I was there.

I checked the store and my watch alternately, over and over and over. It got to be 9:45 ... 9:48 ... 9:50 ... 9:55. I formulated my blitz. When M.H. arrived, I'd rush over, tackle him on the sidewalk, and throw him into traffic to meet his end.

The lights in the store flashed on. No one had gone through the front door.

So there was a back door! Now I'd have to wait till closing again. Another day would be shot, trying to recover a hat. A piece of leather. But it was rightfully mine! A back door! Where would I wait?

As I left the hotel lobby and crossed the street to the alley, I contemplated the geometry of the area, and realized, as I tiptoed among the garbage cans and litter, that this was the perfect setup for an ambush. I began to laugh. There would be no one to see me torture M.H. to death. My laughter echoed off the walls and pavement, off the trash cans, reverberating between the buildings into the sky, up to the clouds, and all the way to heaven, where God was making the thumbs-up sign and saying, "Right on!"

* * *

At 6:07 P.M. that sultry Wednesday evening I sat behind The Mad Hatter, waiting for my quarry like a snake. I've always despised the way people thrash about for material objects, neglecting the spirit. I'm glad I'm not one of them. This war was not being waged over a hat, but on behalf of pride, principle, and Cosmic Justice. The Universe demanded that this miscreant be whipped by the hand of retribution.

A back door opened. Darkness had begun to fall. The form was plump, squat ... a man ... a balding man. And onto his pate, the creature slapped ... a hat. A leather hat. An Aussie hat. My hat!

I rushed from my crevice amid the garbage cans, knocking them over and then slipping on the rubbish, saliva streaming from my mouth. And M.H., Monster from Hell, turned toward me with an expression I will never forget. I thrashed in the slime, straining towards him. Finally I relaxed and stood up, stinking to the stars.

"Now you'll get what you've got coming, you son of a ..." I raised my fist.

I had never in my whole life struck another human being.

We stood looking at each other. A cat meowed and poked around in the trash.

I stepped up to M.H, took the hat from his head, and put it on mine. It had been stuffed, and it fit perfectly.

"That's ten dollars, sir," said M.H.

"Righto," I said, and handed him a pair of fives.

"Want a receipt?" asked M.H.

"No thanks."

"That's a good hat. It'll last years and yearss and yearsss," said M.H.

"It's a damn good piece of leather," I replied.

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 by Francisco Carrera.