It looked better on her anyway.

Admit it – it looked better on her than it did on you anyway.

Still – it was gramps favorite hat.

Back when people wore those things and they looked like they had someplace to go.

Suit and tie to get on a bus – different planet – different universe.

He died – eighty-two – walking down stairs – life stopped. 

Grams was cleaning out the house. Looking at the day it was her turn and didn’t want any of us to get stuck with mountains of “what’s this?”.

Something to remember him by, she handed it to you.

Stetson. Kept it like new – never went a day without it.

He’d look at you and shake his head – poor, doomed heathen – never knowing what the vibe of looking sharp felt like.

Your girlfriend, on the other hand. . . .

She had a habit of borrowing your clothes – she had a closet full of her own. She liked yours better. Something about baggy and guy-oriented. All your white shirts were missing.

Something about love – you used to tell her in your next life you wanted to come back as one of her bras. It wasn’t quite the same thing for her.

Together for six months – a record for you. A first for her.

She wanted the hat. She loved Humphrey Bogart.

You loved her – you saw the future. She could keep it as long as she took care of it.

Wore it everywhere – became her personality. You were Mister Wonderful. There was no known end to your status as soul mate.

Until the fight. 

Love had a sell-by date – yours sailed into knock-down/drag-out.

World of hurt, spinning off its axis.

Made a solemn oath never to be on the same planet as her.

She picked up and moved to L.A. – UCLA and Behavioral Science.

That was that.

Her parents never answered the door. Her phone number went nowhere.

The things you say when it gets heated. Life gets like that.

Sometimes they stay that way.

And Grams reminded you about the hat.

Something about Gramps hiding things – important things – money-oriented things. Pack rat.

The liner of the hat – he stuck a note. Suitcase full of Hundreds. Train station locker. Direction and Combination – all in the Stetson.

She still had the hat. Somewhere in L.A.

Begged and pleaded – her mom finally opened the door.

Hat went to Goodwill.

Your blood drained. Puddle of horror on the front steps.

Goodwill – One by one – hundreds of hats – employees looking at you like you swallowed something.

They tell you there are 20 other Goodwills – they all have hats.

You are convinced you’ll be spending the rest of your life surrounded by Stetsons.

You swear they are laughing at you.

You would laugh at you too, but . . .

At least someone at the cash register has the good sense to have WPLJ playing on the radio.

It’s 45 minutes worth of Pat St. John on WPLJ from March 18, 1976.