New Hat

Another random chapter from Lincoln’s Hoard. Enjoy, ye mighty, or despair!

A brand new red Phillies hat shaded his balding head from the late August sun as it faded from the sky. Barely broken in, the brim was unbent, straight and level. Unblemished by sweat, grime, or frayed threads, the hat sat over his placid eyes just as it was when it was taken off the shelf. He was taking a longer walk than normal for a Tuesday, than for any day in a long time, a different route than those he had mapped out and planned so long ago. The Phillies were playing the Dodgers later that night in Los Angeles, and Arthur wanted to stay up and listen to the game on the radio. He straightened his tie and adjusted his adjusted his hat slightly and continued to shuffle down the street. Straining with the effort, he lifted his head, muscles unused to the demand of lifting his gaze up off the street. He saw the face of each building lit up by the sun as it set, noting each new window and door as he passed, listening to the quite sound of cars passing by in the cross street ahead of him and the slap of footfalls from behind him.

Arthur began to smile, until a pair of hands slammed into shoulder blades and the rough pavement slammed into his face. The pain was overwhelming, and he gasped over and over, face pressed against concrete, just trying to breathe and reach the next moment, hopefully where the agony would be just slightly less. Voices finally began to creep past the hurt, demanding, angry, young voices.

“Where’s his wallet? Grab his money man!”

“I’m lookin, I’m lookin!”

Hands pulled at his suit jacket, at his pants. He didn’t understand. What did they want from him? Why were they doing this?

“This guy has no pockets! What the hell?”

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin me!” Another pair of hands pulled at his clothes again. The pain was beginning to localize itself, focusing mostly on his head and face.

“What kind of joke is this old man?” A metallic click echoed in his ears, and one stranger’s hand ripped off his Phillies hat before palming the back of his head and pushis his face harder against the pavement. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw a small revolver swing around before he felt the cool metal circle of the barrel press against his head.

“Where is your wallet? Where’s your money man?” He didn’t answer, couldn’t find the strength to, only continued to gasp and wished the pain would go away. The barrel of the pistol pressed harder against the back of his head.

“Fuck it man, let’s get out of here.”

“Whatever.” The pressure of the hand and gun disappeared, but a foot slammed into his ribs and Arthur couldn’t even breath as their running faded away into the distance. He held his side, then his head, then his side again, not sure where to go, as his lungs began to work again in small sips.

“I don’t have anything” he whispered. Forcing himself to his hands and knees, he crawled along the sidewalk, reaching out occasionally until he found the brick of the nearest house. He leaned against the house, slowly gathering his legs underneath him and rising to his feet. Touching his forehead, his fingertips came away bloody. His eyes then found a small pool of blood sitting next to his Phillies hat on the sidewalk. Trying to raise his head to see if there was anyone else around, his strength failed him, and he could look no further upwards. The sidewalk spun to his right and moved forward as Arthur’s feet took over and carried him home, head bleeding and ribs stabbing at him with every breath, until a familiar glint caught his attention in the dying sunlight.

Arthur’s feet eventually recognized the feel of the sidewalk in front of his house, and he turned to follow the paver walkway to his front door. It was dark, but the pavers of his walkway had only shifted a little over time and his feet slid over them easily, and he walked hunched over and leaning to the right. He took the three wooden steps up to the silvered wood of his porch with care, going one step at a time. He noticed that the middle one was beginning to warp. Reaching to his with his left hand, he carefully unclipped his house key from his belt and unlocked his front door.

Flicking on the light switch near the door, Arthur shuffled across the living room towards his kitchen. The plate glass mirrors hung from the wall reflected his slow moving twin with identical injuries, his sparse hair spraying wildly from his head, blood drying on his face, left hand hold his side while his right hand hung at his side, tightly clenched. The smooth wooden floors of the living room gave way to the alternating black and white tiles of the kitchen. Richie Ashburn and Steve Carlton watched him impassively from the kitchen table. He shuffled over to the nearest chair, reaching out with left hand and pulling it away from the table until he could finally collapse into it. Richie Ashburn hid behind his ceramic castle. Arthur’s left hand returned to hold his ribs, and he put his right on top of the table, slowly uncurling his fingers to reveal three pennies. He tipped his open palm and shook them onto the table top. Two of the pennies were glued together with the dried blood that Arthur had wiped away from his forehead. Richie, Steve, and the wooden radio on his kitchen counter gave mute testimony to the tears spilling down Arthur’s face.