A Nice New Hat

It was 6:30 a.m. on a Thursday. It was too warm for that hour, and the air was too damp and too thick for any time of day. But the mornings had been like that lately, and by all accounts would be for some time to come.

As usual at that hour, I was on my way to the office. There are fewer people to deal with at that time. I was in the final stretch, cruising through the mid-20s on 7th Ave., working on the next smoke, when ahead of me I saw a guy in a wheelchair heading in my direction.

It was no big deal that he was in a wheelchair-it's just that the streets were mostly empty, so it's hard to miss the guy in the wheelchair. As we drew nearer to each other, he shouted out to me, "Hey, brother!"

I looked up and saw him raise a gloved hand.

I was reminded momentarily of Minneapolis, where the Indians on the bus and on the street always greeted me with a raised hand and a "Hello, my friend!"

Figuring he was looking for some spare change or a loose smoke-like Minneapolis or anywhere, those are the only two currencies that mattered on that street at that time-I angled toward him. I had a little of both to spare. As I got closer, I saw that he looked like a biker, a Vietnam vet, or both. He was heavy-set, with a round face and a graying beard. An American- flag bandanna was wrapped tight around his head, and he wore fingerless black leather gloves.

"Hey brother," he said again as I came to a stop next to his wheelchair. "Can I buy your hat?"

"Pardon?" I asked. That was a new one. People usually just make fun of it in one way or another. Admittedly, though, this was a new hat-only a few weeks old, purchased after finally giving up on the battered and filthy hat I'd been wearing for the previous six years. This new one, I thought, was pretty darn snazzy.

"Let me buy your hat," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no," I told him, shaking my head. "No can do. I've got too much invested in it. Sorry." I didn't bother with the spiel about all the ways the hat is more a tool to me than a fashion accessory. Besides, I had my doubts that I'd make up in this transaction what I'd laid down for it.

He looked in front of him, then at the building next to him before turning back to me.

"Well, fuck you, too, brother," he said.

I was about to be mildly offended by this when I noticed that he'd cracked a smile, and was extending his gloved fist my way-not as a threat, but as a streetwise how-do-you-do. Forgetting how this old greeting went until it was too late, however-and not having the depth perception to pull it off anymore anyway-I grabbed the fist and shook it.

"Look," I asked, "is there anything else I can help you out with? Apart from the hat, that is. I'm keeping the hat." I figured that would be his opportunity to ask for change or a couple smokes. I'd seen it happen a hundred times before, and it was fine by me. Ask for something you know you'll never get, then back off and ask for what you really want as a consolation prize. It was a civilized, mild grift.

He was silent again for a long time as he looked around himself. There was a certain sadness in his face and behind his eyes that I wasn't sure how to read.

When he looked back to me this time, all he said was, "Have a good day, brother," before again extending his fist. I grabbed hold of it, shook it again, and we both continued on our way through the early humid morning.

As I walked away, the quiet strangeness of the encounter all began to gnaw at me, and I started wondering to myself if I was supposed to know him. Something told me that I was supposed to remember him from someplace, some earlier time-maybe a time before he was in a wheelchair-and that he was fucking with me to see if I would. For the life of me, though, I didn't.

I also started wondering if I would now start running into this guy every morning. I have what you might call a bit of a neurosis about that. Morgan and I have talked about this on a number of a occasions-you talk to someone once, you give a bum a handout, whatever, and then it's a given that every time you see them you're obligated to stop and chat or come up with some spare change. That's long been the cause for (perhaps too much) worry on my part, and it's led to all sorts of irrational, paranoid behavior.

Feeding that was the fact that it had been the second time in two days a stranger had caught me off guard. The day before, I'd stopped into a drug store after getting back to Brooklyn.

As I approached the register with my various items, I noted that the cashier was a young, dorky fellow with a goatee, as opposed to one of the deaf girls or surly black women this place normally hired. I placed my objects on the counter in front of him and mumbled a quick "h'lo" without looking up.

"Hi!" he replied with far more energy than was necessary. "How was your day?"

My head snapped up. "Huh?" I asked. "Oh?um?a little warm, I guess?but overall I'd have to say it was pretty good."

Then, trapped in that awkward silence that sometimes confronts unexpected intimacy, I asked, "So?umm?how was?was your day?"

As he continued ringing up my deodorant and contact solution he replied, "My day was EXCELLENT!"

I let go a startled "Ah!" while nearly jumping back. Then the two of us were silent again, and I waited for him to tell me how much it all came to. I mean, I'm glad he was having a good day, but I just didn't care to know about it.

As I walked toward the store's exit, small plastic bag in hand, another man stepped around me and approached the same counter.

"Hi!" I heard the cashier say. "And how was your day?"

Looking back on both encounters, and taking into account what little I really know, I think if forced to make the choice I'd definitely stick with the wheelchair guy as opposed to Mr. Enthusiasm.

Problem is, now I have to worry about changing drug stores.