Exchange

The hat was exactly like the kind Abraham Lincoln wore. I found it one morning in the middle of the living room, lying arbitrarily on the hardwood floor. I didn’t own a hat like that, so I asked Michelle. She swore she didn’t have one either. We were the only two people living in the apartment. It was an uncomfortable situation.

“This isn’t a prank, is it, Zeke?”

“What would be the point of a prank like that?”

Michelle didn’t have an answer, so we sipped our coffee and watched the hat sullenly. I sort of expected it to move. It didn’t.

“Did someone break in, do you think?” asked Michelle.

“Just to leave a hat?”

“Maybe it’s a message of some kind?”

“We should see if anything’s been stolen.”

We decided that I would look in the living room and kitchen and Michelle would check the bedroom and bathroom. I’m a pretty lousy looker—I don’t think I’ve ever found anything I’ve looked for. That morning was no exception. After five minutes of half-hearted exploration, I sat back down on the couch and waited for Michelle to give up. She was a more conscientious looker, but I had a feeling the search was futile.

I was wrong. Thirty seconds later, she let out a little shriek, and I jumped off the couch and ran into the bedroom. Michelle was in the closet, combing frantically through a box.

“What’s going on?”

“My sun hat. It’s gone.”

“What sun hat?”

But I vaguely remembered. Michelle had a big, floppy, tan-colored sun hat that she wore two or three times every summer. It was currently the middle of winter, and Michelle hadn’t worn the hat in months. It seemed incredibly likely that she had just misplaced it.

“You’re saying someone broke into the apartment and snuck into our bedroom closet to steal an out-of-season women’s sun hat? Didn’t you just forget where you put it last?”

“I don’t forget where I put things, Zeke.”

“Everyone forgets where they put things sometimes.”

“I don’t.”

I was skeptical, but I played along. “So you think this was a hat trade.”

“I don’t know.”

“We gain a hat, we lose a hat. That’s not a coincidence, right?”

“That’s some, like, serial killer shit.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Should we call the police?”

“Are you kidding? Over a hat?”

________

For whatever reason, it didn’t bother me too much. I don’t know, maybe it should have. But I had other things to think about. Classes were starting up again in a couple days for winter quarter, and I had to get my lesson plans in order. I needed to reread Macbeth. I needed to get the old back tires on my car replaced, and I desperately needed an oil change. And I needed a new credit card. The swiper on my old one was all worn out. And we were overdue for grocery shopping. There wasn’t enough space in my brain for spooky hats.

But there was enough space in Michelle’s brain for pretty nearly everything, spooky hats included. The whole thing scared her pretty good. She wouldn’t even try it on for me.

“Oh, come on. Just once. It’ll be cute—I bet it covers your face.”

“Jesus, Zeke. What if there’s, like, lice in there?”

“Fine. I’ll try it on.”

“Don’t you dare try it on. Would you try on a hat you found in a dumpster?”

“We didn’t find it in a dumpster—”

I eventually gave in. It didn’t seem like a battle worth fighting. But later that evening, when Michelle was out for a run, I tried it on and stood in front of the mirror.

She was right: it did feel a little grimy. And I looked ridiculous. But there was something thrilling—almost perilous—about putting on the spooky hat alone in the empty apartment. Like turning off the lights and saying “Bloody Mary” three times...