“Excuse me, sir, do you repair hats?”
“This is a shoe repair shop.”
“What’s the problem with it?”
“My feather is torn.”
Jake Luck took the hat off his head and offered it to the old liver spotted man behind the counter. It looked as though the man was thinking quiet deeply over the near pristine hat. He held it to the light, and inspected its many angles.
“This is a nice hat.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We don’t carry replacement feathers.”
Jake Luck spun on his worn-in heels and walked to the door. He stumbled on the warped floorboard.
“Sir, you’re hat!”
Once again Jake spun on his heels to face the small old man standing in a small mountain of broken heels and worn-through leather. The old man extended his shaking hand to Jake, with the hat in it. Jake took the hat from him.
“You know . . . “
“ . . . uhh . . . sorry, I completely lost track of what I was going to say to you.”
“Oh, that’s just fine. Good luck with your hat sir.”
Again, Jake Luck stumbled out of the shoe repair shop. Outside it was cold. Jake pulled up his pink hoodie over his hat. He walked at a leisurely pace to his red ford festiva. With two swift blows, he kicked the accumulated snow from the under side of his tires. The old ford festiva was stubborn to start in the cold, but rarely needed assistance after a few turn overs. Jake looked into the rear view mirror before taking off, and felt dissatisfied with his appearance, then shifted the festiva into gear.