Hat

The hat is coming up the road now. Straw, battered; broad rim visible since the wearer’s head is down. You can see the hat passing El Bichito when your car’s alongside the industrial estate. That’s at least half-a-k. You can’t see the old man until you’re much closer. ‘Course, you’ve recognised the hat, so you know who it is. But you don’t, not really. This old man rolls home everyday at about 11. At 9 a.m., he’ll be walking away from you, if you happen to be on the ring road then.
I know he turns at the Los Chavos roundabout. No stop off at the Venta. Up left, towards an older barrio on the edge of the town. I saw him once, when I was buying light fittings. He was outside the not-so-supermarket next door: hat on the back of his head, letting the sun revisit the creases on his face. He always has a plastic bag, it’s full on the way back. 3 hour round trip for the bread. I don’t suppose he’s in a rush.

He looks like he’s shrunk a bit. The suit – always a suit – flaps around him, if it’s windy, or a lorry passes. He’ll hold onto the hat then. Palm flat on the crown. I’m glad he does. It wouldn’t be him, without the hat.

I wished him good morning, sure, outside the electrical supplier’s. He gave me a gummy grin and what passes for the same in the town dialect. Nowadays, I wave at him, when I pass. He’ll lift that hat- if the wind cooperates- and keep on walking, by the side of the south ring-road.