Hat's Off to Brunch

I could hardly believe my ears. Well, not that I have ears, but that’s beside the point. We were all having a perfectly lovely time at brunch, spilling the latest gossip, regaling one another with tales of trials and tribulations of the week, and testing the limits of the term “bottomless mimosas.” It seemed like a perfect day among friends.

Carl wore a fedora, because of course he fucking did. It clung to his balding head just as desperately as Carl clung to his fading charisma. Janet wore a sunhat even though there was no sun today. She thought it would hide the evidence of her hangover, but she wasn’t fooling anybody. Brenda wore a beret because she thought dressing like she was French made her better than everyone else. I was relieved that I wasn’t eating the food since she insisted on answering the waiter with “wi,” whether she meant yes or no. Guarantee he spit in the food at the first chance he got.

And then there was Max. My Max. The head I had so selflessly covered for years. I literally weathered thunderstorms, high winds, hell, I even got blown off his head on a roller coaster once. And how does that prick repay me, his trusty ball cap? He says, out loud –in front of God, his friends, and all of their hats – that he means to consume me!

It was all Carl’s fault. It was ALWAYS Carl’s fault. He was telling another one of his ridiculous stories. Carl didn’t lead a very interesting life, so he often liked to embellish his stories. This week, he was telling everyone about getting a flat tire on the side of a country road, when of all people, Joe Biden stopped and helped him put on his spare.

At first, everyone seemed okay with it. After all, bottomless mimosas can make even the most nonsensical stories more palatable.But Carl just would not let the story go. He went on and on about his presidential roadside assistance. Finally, Max had found the bottom of his mimosa, and the bottom of his tolerance for Carl’s antics.

Max looked him dead in the eye and said, “If that story is true, I’ll eat my hat!”

Now, calling Carl out on his crap was business as usual among this friend group. But someone threatening to eat their own hat…that was a whole other level. The group started to chuckle, amused that someone grew tired of Carl so quickly today. But the smirk that Carl flashed back was confident, smug, unsettling.

Wouldn’t you know it, for once in Carl’s miserable life, something interesting actually happened to him. And he brought the receipts, probably because he knew nothing else interesting was going to happen to him again anytime soon. He pulled out polaroids of him and old Joe, grease on their hands, posed victoriously behind a ruined tire.

I felt the stares of our friends around the table. They weren’t looking at Max, no. Their eyes were squarely focused on me, the ball cap perched upon his head. Everyone heard what Max promised-- especially Carl.

“Bon appetit,” he sneered. Brenda practically fell out of her chair upon hearing one of the only other French expressions that she understood. Max looked down at the polaroids, stunned. That’s when I felt him grab me by the visor and pull me off of his head. With horror, I realized he dropped me on his plate and was reaching for his knife and fork. He dangled them over me and licked his lips with a cartoonish slurp as he leered down at me.

“He’s actually going to do it,” I thought to myself as he pantomimed cutting into my button. Thunderous laughter erupted across the table, the humans all delighted by the thought of my impending dismemberment. And their hats…their hats just sat there, snug on their owners’ heads, completely unfazed by what was unfolding in front of them. Finally, of all people, Carl put my suffering to an end.

“You don’t have to eat your hat, Maxie,” he chuckled. It was comforting to know that even Carl had a sane thought every now and then. Relief flooded across my fabric as the looming fork and knife were pulled away from me. Max picked me up in his hands, ready to return me to my rightful place atop his head. But Carl’s sanity was brief in its tenure.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “You don’t have to eat it. But you have to give it to me.”

Newfound horror coursed through every inch of me. Max couldn’t give me to Carl! After all we’d been through, there was no way! And yet, Max, almost in a trance, began moving me toward Carl’s greedily outstretched hand. Oh God! I didn’t want to sit on Carl’s head! He hadn’t washed that fedora in years! Still closer and closer I drew to his greasy fingers. I was upon them. I felt the grease seep into my cloth skin.

Carl chucked his fedora over his shoulder. It laid on the ground, as forgotten as the decade in which it was last relevant. Carl dumped me atop his head. The grease on his fingers was nothing compared to the grease matting the few wisps of hair he had left. Carl stood and posed dramatically with me as his new crown. Applause broke out around the table.

“Magnifique!” gasped Brenda. 

“Lookin goo-” started Janet before rushing away from the table, hands clasped over her mouth as she fought the urge to make room for more bottomless mimosas.

And Max just sat there looking vaguely disappointed.

“I can get a new hat,” he shrugged.

Being discarded so easily should have hurt, but to be honest, no emotion could topple the fear and revulsion that plagued me. Because I belonged to Carl now.  Carl got a win with a real story, and he was desperate for another one. And I know if he ever says “I’ll eat my hat,” he’ll actually do it, just so he has a story to tell.