Media Share 9/MEDIASHARE_09.ISO/private/rubyv19.zip/RUBY19-2

Text File | 1993-02-22 | 9KB | 160 lines

Copyright 1993(c)

                      IT'S ABOUT THOSE HATS
                       By Dick Burkhalter

     I collect hats; silly hats, useful hats, weird hats, anything
that expresses my feelings at the moment, protects my balding pate
from the elements, or otherwise strikes my fancy. My taste in hats
is catholic and, to the casual browser, without rhyme or reason.
A genuine French beret that I bought in Paris shares space in my
closet with a propeller beanie and a baseball cap with a Budweiser
can sticking out of the front of it. Many of my hats are nothing
but blatant advertisements for some place or product. Some are
absolutely incongruous on a 55-year-old man with graying hair.
I've been told I look rather distinguished, (obviously by someone
who hasn't seen me in my Goofy hat from Disney World with it's
long ears hanging down next to my cheeks and the two buck teeth
dangling from the bill.)
     People who know me well enough to know of my collection have
sent me hats they felt fit my rather strange personality. Ordinary
strangers tend to hurry away, shooting strange looks over their
shoulders, when I ask their pre-schooler where he got that fine
specimen he's wearing, and offer to trade something like a toy boat
for it. My wife, Lucy the Shrink, tends to treat me as if I could
use a bit more counseling when I bring home a particularly tacky
or insipid example of the hat maker's art. Being Jewish, she also
views such expenditures as frivolous and not in keeping with her
own philosophy of investing rather than spending. Of course I, a
gentile, remind her that if it wasn't for us, nobody would buy
retail. I also feel a need to assert my identity from time to
time, in a mature adult fashion, of course. Wearing one of my most
offensive hats in public while in her company is very effective,
if not in getting her approval, at least in getting even. Some of
my hats have thus taken on the status of POW's (that's Personal
Offensive Weapons).
     When I had a photo studio, I often used the hats as props, but
the real reason I collect them is that I'm just plain nuts. About
hats, anyway.
     I used to buy hats in every country I visited in my travels,
so I have a bowler, a kepi, a beret, a turban and other assorted
headgear of the "memento" class. I stopped doing that when my
collection began to get out of hand, overflowing from my closet
into other rooms of the house. It's also difficult to pack many
kinds of hats without damaging them, and their weight adds to the
pounds I have to lug around during a trip.
     So now I mainly take still or video pictures of intriguing
hats wherever I find them, be they in shops, sidewalk souvenir
stands or, in some cases, even on the heads of their owners. The
object of my desire may be something as elegant as a formal top
hat, (which is not yet in my collection), or as inelegant as a
Styrofoam fake-straw boater with a red, white and blue band from
some long since forgotten 4th of July picnic, (which is.)
     Sometimes, the urge to add a particularly fine specimen to the
collection coincides with the need to unload excess foreign
currency (which I refer to as my Monopoly Money, and also collect),
and overpowers what little common sense I still possess. Such a
sartorial convergence occurred recently in the Duty-free shop of
the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv, while waiting for the plane to
bring us home to Los Angeles. In this case, it might have been
triggered by the sudden realization that there I was, at the last
moment of the trip, and despite my vow to bring home some trinket
for each of our children and a grandchild, I had not bought
a gift for my son, John.
     We had a few extra shekels left over, more than enough to add
to the Monopoly Money collection, and were discussing how to best
get rid of it. A couple of businessmen sitting nearby overheard our
conversation and reached in their pockets and unloaded their excess
shekels on us. Off I went to see what I could find. While browsing
around the Duty Free shop, I suddenly became aware of a small,
heavily accented voice.
     "Buy me, already! Be a good boy, make your mama proud of you!
You haven't even bought your own son a present to let him know you
were thinking of him! For shame."
     I looked around for the source. Being deaf, it's hard for me
to identify where sounds originate, so that took some doing.
Finally, on a shelf, almost at eye level, I spied two white cloth
golf caps. I was about to turn away, thinking I was still looking
in the wrong place, when one of the caps slipped slightly,
revealing the flag of Israel silk-screened in bright blue across
the top. I stopped and stared, wondering if I could possibly need
yet another souvenir hat, or if John, having no connection
to Israel aside from being related by marriage to an extended
family of Jews, would appreciate it. I was about to turn away and
continue my search when the voice spoke again, louder and more
clearly this time.
     "You have just enough money for two! Nothing extra to buy!
No charge to try me on! Go ahead, see how I fit!"
     Embarrassed, I looked around to see if anyone else had heard
the voice, but the clerks were busy serving other people, unmindful
of my dialogue, so I gingerly picked up the hat, put it on at a
jaunty angle and looked in the mirror conveniently placed close by.
     Hmm. Not bad.
     "See, it fits like it was made for you," came the voice, now
from right over my head.
     I took off the hat and looked at the price tag. Sixteen
shekels, about five bucks and change.
     "A bargain! Where in America can you get a hat for five bucks,
I ask you? A Quarter Pounder With Cheese and a Coke is what you
get for five bucks in America," coaxed the voice. "And no calories
or cholesterol in a hat, besides."
     I counted the money in my hand. Just 33.40 shekels.
     "A perfect match for your budget, too!"
     Yeah, perfect! But silly. A waste of money, really. Yet they
would pack flat and not add much weight to my already too heavy
backpack. Still, did I really need another hat? What would Lucy
say? I could just hear her now, saying in her best professional
psychologist tone, "Well, if you must. Just don't expect me to pack
them in my carry on luggage!"
     "Think of it as a mitzvah, your contribution to the Israeli
economy," countered the voice.
     That clinched it, and I bought two, one for John and one for
me. As I was leaving the shop, I heard the voice again, emanating
from inside the plastic shopping bag I was carrying.
     "Your mama will be proud of you. So what if she isn't Jewish?
All mamas are proud when their sons do the right thing! You don't
even have to show Lucy until you get home. Hurry, she's in the
Ladies' powder room and you can sneak them into your backpack
before she gets back."
     "But she'll ask what I bought."
     "Tell her it's a surprise. Wives love surprises. You don't
have to tell her it's not for her. Tell her that later, when she's
jet-lagged and she won't remember."
     "But Lucy always remembers."
     "But nothing. You did good. Trust me!"
     I quickly stuffed the hats deep inside my backpack and
discarded the bag. Not a moment too soon, either, as Lucy was
coming toward me and our flight was being called.
     Sure enough, as were getting ourselves situated on the plane,
Lucy asked me what I bought and I told her it was a surprise. She
asked no more questions. As I stashed the backpack in the overhead
rack and closed the door, the voice spoke again in a loud whisper.
     "See?  Would I lie to you?"

Post Script:
     We arrived home after a 14 hour flight, wiped out, jet-lagged
and bleary eyed. On the airport bus to home, Lucy asked, "Did you
ever remember to get something for John?"
     "Yeah, I'll show you when we unpack later," I replied, a bit
uneasily.
     There was no response; she was already asleep.

Post Post Script:

     Three days later, I drove over to John's house, taking our
gifts with me. Ashlee loved the carved wooden camel Grandpa brought
her from Cairo, my daughter-in-law, Stacie, loved the jeweled
bracelet from a bazaar in Aswan, and John cracked up at the hat.
He put it on, I put mine on, and Stacie snapped a picture of the
two of us together making goofy faces.
     "Hey, let's go to lunch at McDonald's. I'm absolutely in need
of a Quarter Pounder fix!" I said. "We can wear our hats and get
some laughs out of the people there."
     "Well, Pop, I'll go for the McD's, but I think we might want
to leave the hats here. Have you noticed that many of the people
in this neighborhood are Middle Easterners? And there are no
synagogues around?" John responded.
     "Oh, yeah, OK," I replied, taking off the hat.
     As I walked out the door, I heard the voice call after me,
"Smart kid you have there. You sure he's not Jewish?"
                               END