Alisa Hope Wagner Wagner

The Hat Shoppe

Devon jumped from the final step of the city bus. He didn’t care what the other passengers thought about his childish gesture. He waited for this day most of his life. He had achieved something his family had never accomplished. He graduated from college. He took his last test an hour ago, and the professor graded it on the spot. He passed. He earned his business degree. In a few days, he would walk the stage and take hold of his best life, but first he had a promise to keep.

He looked around at the tall buildings of the city. He would visit the city as a kid and walk down important sidewalks as bustling buildings jeered at him. Now sidewalks would bow, and buildings would stand at attention. His mother worked in the city all his life, cleaning rooms of elegant hotels with their ballrooms and swimming pools. She brought him to work on federal holidays when the schools were closed. Hotels never closed. Suits still worked and vacationers still played, and his mother still cleaned.

That was the day he made the promise. He was eight years old on a Monday when he and his mom stepped off the city bus. The hotel she cleaned stared at him impatiently, not wanting to be bothered by a poor housekeeper’s son.

It was after he’d seen the man that he made the promise to himself. The man awaited his driver outside the golden revolving doors of the hotel. The boy hadn’t notice him at first until his mom stopped, knelt and pointed him out. The man wore a sleek grey suit with leather shoes and a felt hat. He looked like he belonged in the city, and Devon felt out of place in his jeans, t-shirt and tennis shoes.

“You see that man?” his mom asked.

“Yes, Mamma,” he answered, noticing that the hotel seemed to lean away from the man in awe.

“He’s a businessman. You can be like him someday, but you have to get your college degree. Do you understand?”

The boy quickly moved his gaze from the businessman to his mother’s serious stare. He felt the weight of her words, and they dropped into his soul like handfuls of acorn seeds that scattered the dusty ground of his school’s playground. He nodded solemnly and stared back at the man in the suit. He was stepping into a shiny SUV. “I like his hat, Mama. When I become a businessman, can I get a hat like his?”

His mother gently nudged her calloused finger into the backpack he held. “You can get any hat you want. Plus, you can stay in fancy hotels and ride in their shiny SUVs. And I will be so proud of you.”

“Yes…but, Mama,” he whispered, “where do I get a hat like that?”

His mom smiled and leaned back on the thick soles of her cheap, orthopedic shoes. “I overheard him asking the concierge where he could purchase a nice felt hat. They sent him to the hat shop only a few blocks from the hotel. It has been there for almost a hundred years, and it has many hats to choose from. The hats from that shop are very well made, yet very expensive. I’ll take you there after work, and you can look through the windows. Would you like that?”

The boy nodded his head fervently.

“Okay,” his mom said, standing. “Now we must go. I can’t punch in late.”

Tension stole Devon’s childhood memory, as the shadow of the hotel fell across the section of city where the bus let him out. He could have gotten off at the next stop and been closer to the hat shop, but he needed the hotel to take note. Devon levelled his chin and puffed out his chest while swinging his arms and legs in long, purposeful strides. The next time that hotel saw him, he would have a college degree in his hands, not a ratty, old backpack.

As Devon reached the windows of the hat shop, he hesitated. He had never walked into the window-framed image of fashionably flaunted hats before. The scene seemed to him more of a painted illusion, but it would momentarily become a firsthand reality. A sun-faded sign that read, “Selling Hats for 100 Years,” winked at him from one of the glass-pained sections of the door. He promptly groped for the bills in the right pocket of his slacks. He worked on campus to supplement the scholarships and grants he had received. Each month, he’d save every crumb of coinage that fell at his table. Finally, he exchanged the scraps of cash for five fresh Benjamins rolled up like brass knuckles in his pocket ready to break the ceiling of lack over his life.

He could have waited until his first paycheck to secure his hat. The college career services helped him receive a paid internship with a bank thanks to his minor in finance, but paychecks were for practical things, like rent and food. This purchase, however, was a declaration to the universe that his will would rewrite the unfolding scroll of time. He would buy the businessman’s felt hat and walk the sidewalks that once shooed him away. Then busy buildings would open their arms to him, but only a hat from this shop would do. His mom had said so, and she stressed that they were expensive. Determinedly, Devon grabbed the curved brass door handle of the shop and stepped inside.

Devon’s skin soaked up the smells of the hat shop, absorbing the aromas of wealth and affluence. If ever he designed his own cologne, it would smell like this moment, and he would douse his suit daily in its self-assured essence. An elderly man appeared next to him, and his smile stretched across his aged cheeks into his wrinkled eyes. “My name is Eleazar, but my customers and friends call me Ellie. I am the owner of this hat shop. It has been in my family for over a century. I can see that you are a young man in need of a good hat, and I am ready to assist you in that endeavor. Our hats are each hand-made with the finest natural materials. You will not find better workmanship with more integrity on this side of the continent.”

The intimidation Devon had unknowingly carried into the hat shop dissolved, and he withdrew his right hand from his pocket of money and offered it to Mr. Ellie, the hat shop owner. He had never questioned the cost of the hats. His mom had said that they were the best, and he took her convictions by faith. However, the shop owner’s statement of quality added a measure of assurance to his acquisition. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ellie. My name is Devon DeWitt, and I just earned my college degree. I’m here to purchase a felt hat, so I can begin my career in the city.”

The old shop owner took Devon’s hand into his calloused palm and gave it a few good shakes. Something about his fingers reminded Devon of his mother, and he knew more than ever that he was meant to be there. The rest of his life began here, and suddenly, the weight of his momentary choice fell on him like four years of learning squeezed into a single, dense second. The rows of arranged hats called out to him, and the five-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket burned. Perspiration gathered on his forehead, and an image of staining his new felt hat with sweat stabbed his chest with fear.

The old shop owner seemed to notice the change in Devon’s countenance, and he nodded with understanding. Then he placed his calloused hand on Devon’s shoulder and peered into his anxious expression. “Don’t you worry one bit,” the old owner affirmed. “I’ll help you find the right fit and hat. I’ve been helping my customers for a very long time. There are indeed many hats to choose from and lots of styles and colors to consider, but we can whittle down the choices a great deal once I get your size and you tell me what you are looking for.”

An air of relief filled Devon’s lungs and his heavy chest lifted lightly. “Mr. Ellie, I’m looking for a felt hat, and when I see it, I will know.”

The old shop owner gave a meaningful nod. “I believe you will. Here,” he said, as a measuring tape unfurled from his fingers. “Let me measure you for the perfect fit.”

Devon leaned his head forward. He hadn’t noticed the measuring tape in the shop owner’s hand, but he was an expert hat maker and knew what he was doing. Devon felt Mr. Ellie place the tape’s end above his left ear and wrap the length of it around the circumference of his head just across his eyebrows. Then he released the loose end and pinched the tape at the right measurement.

“Yep, just what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Now follow me,” Mr. Ellie said. The shop owner made his way into the middle of the showroom and waited for Devon to join him. Then he pointed to the far left. “Those are flat caps,” he said. Then his pointed hand veered to the right, inch by inch, as he listed the rest of the hats. “Those are buckets hats. And those are bakerboy caps. Next are trilby hats and then Panama hats. And finally,” he said, motioning to the far right. “Those are fedoras. There are different designs within each collection, but you can at least make your way to the section of the store you favor most. Within each collection, we have different materials—felt, leather, tweed, linen, straw, silk, and more—but since you want felt, your choice will be even easier to make.”

Devon realized there was more to the word hat than he had considered, but once he saw the shelves of fedoras, he knew where he needed to look. “Definitely the fedoras,” Devon said confidently.

“I thought just as much. Fedoras have a feel for the city. Why don’t you make your way over there and examine each felt fedora closely? They may look similar from a distance, but I assure you they each have a distinctive design and hue. There are no wrong choices. Now that we know your size and desired collection, the rest is a matter of opinion and taste.”

Devon waivered. He had all but forgotten about price. “I must also mention, although I have saved for many years, I do have a budget of no more than five hundred dollars.”

“I respect your budget,” Mr. Ellie assured. “Some folks come in here ill-prepared to hear the price. They either get angry and storm out of my shop or they become embarrassed and apologize. However, your budget should cover almost any felt hat in the store, save the top hats on the racks behind the register. I didn’t mention those because they didn’t fit your need.”

Devon gave a low laugh with relief. “No, I will not be looking at top hats for a while. If you don’t mind, I will look at your selection.”

“Take your time,” Mr. Ellie said. “I’ll be checking my inventory-list behind the register. Let me know if you need anything.”

Devon watched the old hat shop owner step behind the counter of his register. He eyed the top hats lining the wall behind him. No, he didn’t need one of those. He turned his gaze to the rows of elegant fedoras and made his way to their location. Mr. Ellie was correct. There were many felt fedoras to choose from, and he could envision the businessman wearing each one. He reached his hand toward the taupe-colored fedora with a pinched shaped crown and narrow brim, but he stopped abruptly when a hissing voice came from behind.

“Are you sure that is the perfect one?” the tall man sneered. He wore a cream fedora that reflected the celling lights of the showroom. It had an exaggerated pinched crown, forming the two points of the letter “M” and an extra wide brim that shaded the man’s face entirely.

“Mr. Ellie and I decided that I should choose my hat from here. I want a felt fedora, and this is my selection.”

The man scoffed. “Why felt? What a boring material. My silk fedora glows.”

“I am a young man. I want a hat that will last me,” Devon said, trying to dismiss the man.

“Why would the owner even limit you here when there are hundreds of choices,” the tall man pressed, spreading his arms like he owned the shop. “You cannot make this decision lightly. The price is too hefty for just any old hat.”

Devon stepped back. He had been working toward this decision for years, and he didn’t want to choose incorrectly. He did find the man’s hat attractive. He looked to his left, and the other appealing collection of hats beckoned him—every color, every size, every design and every function bombarded his thoughts with what-ifs. He turned back to the man to seek further advice, but he was stunned to see that the man’s silk, cream fedora was now replaced with a checkered, tweed flat cap that flopped across his face like a mourning veil.

“Did you change hats?” Devon asked in disbelief.

“Well, of course I did!” the man hissed. “Why would I want to be stuck with the same hat day after day, week after week and year after year when there are so many hats to choose from?”
Devon did find the man’s hat intriguing. Then another hat captured Devon’s side-gaze. It was one of the trilby hats. It was the same taupe color as the fedora he had picked out, but this one had a leather band around the bottom of the crown. “I do like that one also,” he said, pointing. “It looks a lot like the fedora except the crown is not so pinched.” He closed his eyes, remembering the businessman from when he was young. His hat had been a fedora, but he didn’t have to match it exactly. The trilby would be nice.
Devon turned back to the tall man to get his opinion, but now he wore an oversized, linen bucket hat that hung over his ears and eyes like a stemless, grey mushroom. That hat truly excited him. “You changed your hat again!”

A sly smile curled along the man’s lips like a greasy mustache. “I don’t keep the same hat for long. It bores me, so I must have something new.”

Devon glanced back at the fedoras in front of him. The leather ones looked nice; although, they probably cost a lot more that the felt fedoras. He could see if Mr. Ellie would allow him time to pay the rest with his first paycheck. “What about leather?” Devon asked the tall man.

When he turned back, he was unable to suppress his shock as the man now wore a towering crimson top hat. Devon had to suppress the urge to take the red hat for himself. “You changed it again!”

“Yes, and you can too. You shouldn’t have to stick with just one hat. You can have any hat you choose. I have loads of credit as this store. Just put them in my name, and you can pay me back over time.”

Devon’s chest clinched as images of hats scattered his mind like cards flying out of a bad shuffle. He looked toward the cash register to find Mr. Ellie, but the shop owner was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, he no longer trusted the tall man’s advice. He felt anxious and confused, like he was drowning under an endless pile of would-be hats. “No,” Devon declared, directing his thoughts. “I will pick from the selection that Mr. Ellie and I already agreed upon.” He looked back at the taupe felt fedora he had examined first. He did like it, but it was a little bland.

“Would you like me to put a band around it?” the old shop keeper asked.

Devon looked around. The tall man was gone, and Mr. Ellie stood at his side.

“Yes, I would like that. Will it be leather?” Devon asked.

“The leather band would go over your budget, but I have a fabric band that would look just as nice,” Mr. Ellie said.

Devon took hold of his new hat. “Yes, that will be perfect.”

“I’ll box it up for you,” the old owner said, taking the hat from Devon’s hands.

“I’ll take the box but don’t pack up the hat. I want to wear it out,” Devon said.

“I think that is a fine idea,” the shop owner agreed. “You have chosen well.”

When Devon exited the shop, a sunray reflecting off a city window shined on him like a spotlight. The sidewalk became his stage and the buildings his audience. He tilted the fedora with a gesture of greeting.

“Welcome to the city, Devon DeWitt!” the traffic roared.