The Beginning Part, In Which the Author Loses His Hat
The first leg of the author’s present Journey Eastward necessitated that that same author, along with his wife, make a trip via bus from Madison, WI, to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. This is no problem in itself: provided one has enough in the way of internet podcasts downloaded to his informationPhone, the ride is mostly-to-entirely bearable.
This particular trip skewed decidedly harrowing, however, owing to how the author, in his haste to account for the most essential elements of the Journey — baggage, tickets, wife — while alighting from the aforementioned omnibus, accidentally left behind his well-worn Milwaukee Brewers cap.
A Note on the Cap in Question
You can ask anyone: the Brewers cap in question was the very picture of Excellence in Men’s Headwear. It first called to the author from a vendor’s shelf at Miller Park, not unlike how the sex-nymph Calypso called to Odysseus from the sex-island of Ogygia — except that, instead of detaining him for several years from wife and child by dint of unabated lovemaking, the author’s hat merely sat atop his head and didn’t bother anyone.
In most ways that matter the hat in question was not unlike American wordsmith Walt Whitman, in that it both (a) represented the very best of what is possible in this life and (b) wasn’t allowed in nice restaurants, owing to some combination of its appearance and smell.
Regarding the Disposition of the Author
One might suppose that the author was in shambles, or least something close to shambles, in the wake of this hat-losing episode. The “one” in question, however, likely does not have a wife of gloomy Lutheran origin. For, as soon as the bus had sped away towards the next terminal and the author announced his findings so far as hat-losing was concerned, the author’s wife immediately took the position that this most grievous of losses was her fault and all her fault — and confirmed everything she suspected about the nature of life (that it’s miserable) and her own shortcomings (that they’re ubiquitous).
As brave men do, the author immediately endeavored to rescue his bride from the depths by reminding her of the birds singing in the trees and all that sort of thing. As a result, his own grief was put aside for the betterment of everything.
Regarding the Author, What He Resolved
What the author resolved, not long after accidentally donating his hat to the Van Galder Bus Company, was that, this being Thursday, he would wait till the next Monday, on which day he and his wife had plans to attend an Orleans-Chatham Cape League game in Orleans, MA. There, at Eldredge Park, he would buy an Orleans Firebirds cap as a replacement.
Regarding the Author, How He Suffered
Literate man has long pointed to Prometheus — who, each day, had his liver eaten by an eagle, only to have it grow back overnight and have it eaten again the next day by this same malevolent and liver-hungry eagle — literate man has long pointed to this Promethean suffering as the sort of Platonic ideal of what suffering could be. And, indeed, the daily removal of one’s liver via eagle isn’t a way to go through life.
That said, while traversing Cambridge and environs sans hat, the author was forced frequently to shield his eyes from the sun. Furthermore, he found that without his hat to flatten it, his hair often became rather poofy after showering — not unlike the fur of a baby chick. It goes without saying that these twin grievances aggrieved the author considerably, and not entirely un-Prometheanly.
Regarding the Purchase of a New Hat
Monday night, as planned, the author purchased a new hat — a fitted (7 3/8) and very red Orleans Firebirds hat, specifically.
Regarding the Hat, The Author’s First Impression of It
That it’s too big. (But that the next size down, 7 1/4, would have been too small.)
Regarding the Hat, Another Impression of It
That it’s too red. (But that the other colors available were all too that-color, as well.)
Regarding the Hat, A Third Impression of It
That the front part is too high. (And makes the author’s face look sillier than it normally does.)
Regarding the Author’s Hopes for the World, What They’ve Done