The Hat - Some More...

The Hat-- (Continued from previous post- a short story full of wind...)

“Just once more before my flight?” she whispered in his ear.

“Where?”

“In the ladies room.”

“Wha?”

“Oh come on! You have a purse…”

As the wind cheered loudly across the top of Mike’s little truck, Mike’s own humor warmed as he recalled the way she clenched her lips to keep from making any noise. Her lips made a type of purse, actually, held round and very tight- distorted by the capping of energetic sex unloosed in a crowded place. Even her eyes wrinkled into the same pattern- like two more smaller O’s- making her face a jostling collecting of features that clamped down to contain what was going on inside.

On an impulse, Mike pulled the release on his hood latch and erupted from his truck, hoping to battle the wind and find the problem and get on the road again, to head to LA where sex and a girl were waiting for him. The wind was stronger than it seemed from the inside erupting out, and it snatched Mike’s Akubra from his head and sent it rolling headlong down the center of the four lane road. Mike had yet to stand and now he was already starting to run. The round-brimmed hat flipped up on its edge and began rolling along like a rogue tire, slowing as it crossed over puddles of water, flipping occasionally and then bouncing back up and onto an edge, rolling right down the middle of the main street of Weed, with Mike running full speed through the wet night after it.

It was as if the universe were playing with Mike. Toying with him. The winds dying down long enough for the hat to roll over and lay in a puddle on its side, then waiting for Mike to catch up to it. Then they blew again, lifting the hat just as Mike neared it, sending it rolling, the occasional laughter or whistle heard from doorways of cafes and burger joints as people responded to the silly sight before them- a healthy, strong and virile man, chasing a hard to catch rabbit-fur felt hat down the middle of the main street of town, focused and serious, looking very silly. It was like there was a string attached to the hat that allowed Mike tempting opportunities to get close to it, to bend over, even to grab at it, then there was that tug, a cunning reeling in of string, the hat always just out of Mike’s reach, set up on its edge and allowed to roll away and back down the middle of the street with Mike trying desperately to stop it.

Mike was a fit man, but he was also starting to tire. He was running in clothes that were collecting weight as they collected water, and running through puddles that softened the footsteps and filled the shoes.

Mike ran on.

His breathing became loud to him and strained. He clinched his thumbs in his fingers the way some runners do. His sprinting became a kind of survival jog. He would continue to chase his wind-blown hat, but he would have to keep a pace that wouldn’t kill him.

The town began to shrink before him. Ahead he could see an intersection and traffic lights and the freeway off and on ramp that he missed on his way into town. After that, the town turned into a frontage road, without much light, which curved off into the dark night and seemed to threaten Mike with swallowing his hat for good.

Mike jogged on. The hat was rolling and tumbling along ahead of him. Sixty feet of space had opened up between them. Whatever game the universe was playing with Mike, it was surely winning.

Mike was growing too tired to go on, and he was starting to lose heart in the chase. Her face and what she said came to mind, and gave him a second wind.

“You are the love of my life.” she said. “I just can’t trust you not to break my heart.”

He had loved her too. She was all things to him and represented more than he could accommodate. She was historically from all over. Her family history read like a fascinating novel. She was smart and well-read and funny and sexy and down to earth and practical.

The hat had been a parting gift because Mike needed a hat to keep the sun off a peeling nose on the day she left him as a bad investment of her time.

“You are who you are, Mike. And you are dangerous to a girl like me.”

The hat curved miraculously toward the curb, jumped it, and then was stopped by a cyclone fence. The wind held it pinned there until Mike could finally get his hands upon it, scrunching it carelessly.

Mike’s side ached with a cramp and his clothes were as wet as they could possibly get. His hat was water-logged and the edges were roughed up by the asphalt some. This was a storied moment, Mike knew- the day his hat got away from him- but as he panted and rested against the fence while the wind blew hard against him, his truck started easily with the turn of a key, and sputtered almost noiselessly down a side street that led away from town.