The Hat He Wanted
written by: Hugh Goldberg
As the courier left, Mr. Stevenson examined the black package, its electric yellow label reading “Mr. Alfred Stevenson, RBDM-593-87-7A-5, Mennelos Colony.”
He guessed it was a hat. Had to be. They were assigning him a new role. His pulse quickened as he thought of the application he made a month ago after two weeks of seeing Didi.
Maybe they finally approved me for a husband hat. Please, let it be a husband hat!
As one blunder followed another, he realized he had no clue about relationships. He desperately needed the hat for the skills it would provide, far more than for the actual permit.
He went to the kitchen counter, placed the package on it, and opened it with trembling hands. His heart sank when he saw the hat within. He recognized it immediately as a pilot’s hat.
Simultaneously, the hat sounded metallically, “Mr. Stevenson, you are assigned to the Omicron squadron as a fighter pilot. Report to squadron headquarters within an hour. You are required to don the pilot hat immediately upon receipt to acclimate yourself with your new profession.”
They’re sending me to the front again. I won’t be returning.
Mennelos grew on him during his two-year stay, with cool breeze in the evenings and the dual moons passing beyond the planet’s narrow ring. And since he met Didi, he wanted to stay. He didn’t even mind that hated enforcer position.
He turned his head to look at the worn black enforcer cap, which imbued him with all the knowledge, skills, and brutality required to get the job done. Oh, how he despised it. Even his old trooper helmet was better.
“Attention. You haven’t donned the pilot hat yet. Don the hat to comply with authority regulations.” The hat’s hard voice called.
The dream of becoming a husband was slipping through his fingers. Last week he busted an illegal hats shop, and found fifteen husband hats. He toyed with the thought of taking one, but knew better. Husband and wife hats were granted to specific persons. The authorities would’ve found him, and then he would be on the receiving end of an enforcer’s wrath.
You are a soldier, and always will be. And soldiers do as they’re told.
That echo of Sgt. O’Leery’s words haunted him from the first time he wore the trainee hat in basic conditioning when he was six. He didn’t want combat, but apparently, he passed their tests too well.
“Attention. You have five minutes to comply.”
“Shut the hell up!” He picked up the hat and threw it at the wall.
“Non-compliance has been registered.”
A moment later, shots tore through the hat as Mr. Stevenson, wearing his trooper helmet, fired.
He dropped the gun and the helmet and sank to the sofa next to his guitar. Beside it was a stolen musician’s hat, which enabled him to play. Putting it on, he plucked Dire Straits’ Brothers In Arms, tears rolling down his cheeks. They will be coming for him.
- The Hat He Wanted - November 7, 2025
