Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By Olivia Murphy-Major

The hat man, whom I had seen many times through the window as I walked past, was speaking to another, stouter man, whose bald head, I thought, was certainly in need of a hat. They were looking over the opening of a low display case. Outside, the sun had set and the streetlamps glowed.

“These,” the hat man said, “these are genuine Panama straw hats. Woven entirely by hand. Feel them if you like. Straight from Panama.”

The bald man hummed in excitement as he bent low on his haunches to feel the hats. I scuffed my feet on the rug to wipe the snow from my shoes. Both of the men turned, the bald man losing his balance and using one hand to pull up the back of his pants as he turned and stood.

“Good morning,” I said. 

“Good morning,” both men replied at once. 

The hat man took a step in my direction. 

“Miss,” he said. “What can I help you with today?”

“I’m looking for a hat.”

“Well, you’re in the right place!” the hat man exclaimed, and he and the bald man laughed. The bald man held one of the straw hats in the crook of his arm. He cradled and petted it like it was an animal. 

“A specific hat,” I told him. “I’ll know when I see it.”

The hat man thought for a moment, adjusting the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. He looked at me, then at the wall beside him, and then he turned, extending his neck to look at the aisles of hats nestled in their shelves behind him.  

“Follow me,” the hat man said. 

He turned on his heel and began to walk. I followed him to a tall display case in the back corner of the room. It was filled with top hats. There, in the center of black and navy blue felt hats was a red top hat. It was a rich colour that reminded me of an exotic bird. I knew I had to have it. 

The hat man must have seen me notice it. 

“It’s our only one,” he said, “and just about your size. Let’s see.”

He took a ring of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the case, then carefully took the red hat from its perch. 

“May I?” he asked, turning towards me. 

I nodded, shifting my eyes down. He placed it on my head, his fingers brushing my ears as he tugged it down.

“Great fit,” the hat man said. 

I turned to the display case and saw a glassy trace of my reflection. 

“This sort of hat is for a ringleader,” the hat man said. 

While the hat man counted the bills I gave him, I looked around. The bald man was in the corner, looking at the shelf of ladies’ hats and whistling to himself. I looked back at the hat man and watched his hands as he dressed my hat in wrapping paper. He talked about dusting and caring for the hat. He had a long cut across the back of one hand, and I wondered what it was from. 

Outside, a man and a woman stood smoking in the cold. The woman had black hair which fell softly over her shoulders, and wispy bangs. Occasionally she flicked her head to one side or the other so that they fell into place. She was pale and wore red lipstick, which stood out even in the faint evening light and the smudged window glass I watched them through. She looked up at the man, who took long, frequent drags of his cigarette. He blew the smoke over her head. He turned his foot in the dirty snow where they stood, moving the slush around with the toe of his boot. 

“Now,” the hat man said, “for something like a Persian cat’s fur, you’d need an entirely different lint brush.”

He fitted the lid onto the box and slid it across the counter toward me. He smiled.

“Well luckily,” I said, “I haven’t got a Persian cat!”

I laughed loudly, and the hat man seemed startled. Before either of us could say another word, I turned and pushed the door open, walking down the steps and out onto the sidewalk.