The Mad Hatter
I think it’d be hard to forget a character like him. Small desert town like this, characters are hard to come by, but I think he’d be a character just about anywhere. Everyone called him Crazy Joe, even though his name probably wasn’t Joe. He’d sit in the blue wooden chair on the porch of Pap’s General Store wearing his bright yellow fedora slanted over his eyes and smoking a Marlboro, the real man’s cigarette or something like that. If you asked him his name, he’d give a little smirk and give you a name. It changed from week to week. One week it was Paul, the next it was Sam, seemed to be just whatever name popped into his head that week.
He’d always sit next to a hat rack, filled with all kinds of hats: baseball caps, cowboy hats, fedoras, you name it. The sign he stuck at the bottom said they were for sale but if you wanted a hat, he’d just say you could have it for free. He’d say he didn’t need the money. Then, whenever the sun went down, he’d get up and leave. But he was back the next morning, sitting in the blue chair by his hat rack in his yellow fedora and smoking his cigarette. No one knew where he went when he left; I guess no one really bothered to find out.
I don’t remember how old I was, must’ve been at that age where I was young and stupid and trying to impress people. So, when my friend said, “I double dare you to follow Crazy Joe after he leaves,” of course I had to say yes. What were they going to say about me if I didn’t? So, when Crazy Joe left Pap’s porch the next day, I followed him. For a little while, it didn’t seem like he was going much of anywhere, I followed him down the red dusty streets and out of town, to the outskirts.
He walked out to the place where the town turned into pure desert, where the red dust stretched on for miles, where you could see the sunset on the horizon painting the sky bright yellows and purples and pinks.
Then he stopped and, slowly, half-turned in my direction and nodded toward me. “Hey,” he said in his non-caring way. I knew I was discovered-not like there are many places to hide around here anyway-and so I stepped out to where he could see me, though I felt that for some reason he could see me the whole time anyway. I looked at him, somewhat sheepishly, and he smiled back and turned to face me head on.
And then he did the strangest thing: he tilted back his bright yellow fedora. Never, in the entire time that I’ve seen him sitting on the porch at Pap’s, or in any of the stories I’ve heard about him, has he ever tilted up his hat. Ever. But he did for me.
And I could see his eyes. Curious things, those eyes. One was brown, and in that eye I could see the human, the part of him that was still here, still taking part in the world around him and still in awe of how immense the earth seemed. The other was the same gold of the coyote, the bobcat, the eagle, and in it I saw…something else. In the gold eye was the world, the solar system, the universe as they were, are, and will be. In his golden eye was the one who understood that the earth is but a speck of dust in a sea of sand, but also understood that every speck of dust is still precious and beautiful. The infinity glimpsed in that one eye stunned me in a way I never would have thought possible, and I wondered how the human part of him could still exist, still survive in the face of the vastness in his other eye.
A cloud of dust, kicked up by the wind, blew into my face as I was still standing and looking at him, and I blinked and tried to wipe the dust from my eyes. When I opened them, Crazy Joe was gone. I looked around several times, but he wasn’t there. Something caught my eye on the red ground. It was a bright yellow fedora. I was curious about it, and so, almost without a second thought, I put it on.
- - -
“Hey, Mister,” some kid asks. I turn my head towards the voice, my Marlboro cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
“Yeah?” I say. I can’t really see the kid through the bright yellow felt in front of me but, somehow, I can see him. I can see everything. For some reason, I know the kid has sandy brown hair and blue eyes. And he’s ten-and-a-half years old.
“Um, what’s you’re name?” he asks.
“Bill,” I tell the kid. Last week it was Tom. Next week, I think I’ll spice it up a little, pick something flashy, like Charlie, maybe. Yeah, Charlie’s good.
“Um, Mister Bill,” the kid continues. “Someone just took one of your hats.”
I smirk a little. I knew the older kid in the blue shirt had taken that black cowboy hat with the turquoise and silver studs. I know a lot of things. But it doesn’t really matter. “That’s okay,” I say to the kid. “He can keep it.”
“Can I have a hat, Mister Bill?” the kid asks.
“Sure, kid,” I reply. “Take whichever one you fancy.”
“Thanks, Mister Bill,” the kid says. He takes the blue ball cap off the rack and runs off. Some ash falls off the cigarette and onto my bare chest. It’s hot, but so’s everything else in this town, and I don’t much care. I smile and, slowly, raise my hand to wipe the ash off.
- - -
A/N: Okay, so this is kind of a work in progress. It was inspired by a painting I saw online, though I can't seem to find it anymore. Anyway, I was so struck by the charatcer that the wheels in my head started turning. I think this story needs more, but I don't exactly know where. So here it is as-is. If you want to comment on it, feel free. I'd love some input, especially on this one, since it's somewhat different from the stuff I normally write. Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed it!