Story for VisCom

I have written a story based on my two word title, "His Hats." However, I wrote this story for my fiction workshop class, so it is a little bit more involved than other stories might be. And a little longer. I plan to make a book out of it for final reviews, but for now, I just have the story. It will be edited after my critique, so this is not the final version. Here it is:



He had at least one for every day of the week.

On Mondays, he wore his gray business hat. To start the week properly, he had to make sure he focused on his job. Only taking it off when he got to his building downtown, he wore it all day long and would tip the brim to his acquaintances. Their faces would light up, a man of such stature showing knowledge of their existence was rare. This hat gave him a good opportunity to conceal himself in the crowd. It was also his lucky hat, as the story behind it was quite interesting.

Perhaps, he thought, it was always a lucky day when you don’t have to leave.

On Tuesdays, he put on his Cat in the Hat headdress. He would go to the schools and read to children lovely stories by Dr. Seuss, a man he admired greatly. To the businessman, Dr. Seuss embodied everything that was so classically unfair about being a child to an adult: happiness, wonder, discovery, simplicity. However, he was well aware that he was now an adult and couldn’t be bothered by such simple traps. But, whenever he read those colorful books, he was doing so partly for himself.

Perhaps, he thought, it would make life a little easier to understand.

On Wednesdays, he split his time between two hats, the fedora and the police hat. The fedora was white, and he wore it to his secret meeting with the mobsters of the city. No one knew of these meetings, because on the same day, he would meet with police chiefs. He promised commitment to both parties, citing facts and numbers that neither participant really understood. With the police he would discuss how the crime could be reduced by at least two percent by next the fiscal year, all the while wearing his black police hat. With the mobsters, he implied of known and unknown police activity and who had to lie low, while others should emerge again.

Perhaps, he though, it’s important to keep things balanced on the edge.

On Thursdays, he sported the good looks of his construction hat, as he made his rounds to the various building projects around town. Three houses were on the outset of town, so the drive was at least 40 minutes through fields and forests. On the way, he would listen to Soothing Sounds of Nature, a CD purchased by his assistant for him. At first he was skeptical about it, but after listening to it several times, he found to be extremely relaxing. When he arrived on the sites, he would check on the progress and then head back. This way, he spent at least one hour and twenty minutes relaxing per week. The rest of the day was spent running around the inner city, honking his horn and flipping people off.

Perhaps, he thought, no one had the right to relax.

On Fridays, he adjusted his stylish hat. This was his night on the town. Usually he would bring back a girl or two to his empty apartment. In the morning, his residence would be vacant again. Save for a couch and a couple chairs, the living room was free of any furniture. He considered himself somewhat of a minimalist, and an interior architect. His bedroom was graced only with a bed and one hollow lamp. Often, he would sleep on the floor, simply rolled in a blanket. In the morning, he would exercise according to a new workout regime, which he revealed to no one.

Perhaps, he thought, the thoughts that followed are purest.

On Saturdays, he displayed his World War 2 army helmet. Down on 47th and Oak, he helped reenact the most famous battles, and sometimes, the less famous ones as well. No one knew him as the high power business executive he was, simply because he never talked about his work. Here, he could be a common man, just for one night a week. However, it was often hard for him to understand these people. To him, they were distorted reflections in a muddy pond. Every Saturday he would paddle out in that pond and try to make out the image in the waters below, but to no avail.

Perhaps, he thought, I will never be ordinary.

On Sundays, he stayed home with his Santa hat. Silly as it was, he would wear it around the house, even when he was working. It made sense that such a hat could bring him fulfillment in his unfilled apartment, reminding him of healthier times. He knew he was going to leave one day, but the hat brought him back. Often he would sit, feeling the fuzz ball on the end of the hat.

Perhaps, he thought, fuzz is just fabric made in the perfect way to feel this good.

On June 27th, 2003, Robert Henry Stanton went to sleep alone in his bed. He lay still on the pillow, fish swimming in his dark head, around and around. He was not wearing a hat.