The Honorable Reginald H. Pennyfeather III was a very distinguished man, and he wore a very distinguished hat. The hat was a top hat. It was tall and black and gleaming, and it sat upon his head like a king upon a throne. Reginald wore it everywhere. He wore it to breakfast and to board meetings. He wore it to the opera and to the post office. The hat had never been anywhere undignified in its entire life.
That changed at exactly 9:47 on a Tuesday morning.
Reginald was crossing the intersection of Grand Avenue and Willow Street when a gust of wind arrived from absolutely nowhere. It was a sneaky wind. It did not ruffle his coat or tug at his umbrella. It went straight for the hat. The hat lifted off his head as if it had decided, on its own, that it was done being distinguished.
"No!" cried Reginald, reaching up too late.
The hat sailed into the air, spinning like a lazy black wheel. It cleared a lamppost, dodged a pigeon, and landed directly on the head of a woman carrying a very large baguette.
The woman did not notice. She walked on, and the hat rode her head like a ship on an unexpected sea.
Reginald ran after her. "Excuse me! Madam! My hat!"
The woman turned. The baguette swung and nearly took out a cyclist. She looked at Reginald, then up at the hat on her head.
"Oh!" she said. "Is this yours?"
But before Reginald could answer, a second gust of wind hit. The hat lifted off the woman's head, did a graceful loop, and landed on a fire hydrant.
"Now stay right there," said Reginald, approaching slowly, hands out.
The hat did not stay. A squirrel appeared, investigated the hat, and decided the brim would make an excellent lookout perch. The squirrel scrambled onto the hat, which tipped and rolled off the hydrant and into the gutter. The squirrel chattered angrily and vanished up a tree.
Reginald sighed. His hat was now in the gutter.
He reached for it. A taxi drove through a puddle, and the wave of murky water carried the hat forward, spinning it along the curb like a boat in a storm drain river. It slipped through a grate and disappeared.
Reginald stared at the grate. His hat was underground.
"I am a banker," he said to no one. "This is not how my day was meant to go."
Far below the street, the hat drifted through a dark tunnel. It floated past a family of rats who looked at it with deep suspicion. It bumped against a plastic bottle, spun around a corner, and emerged into the daylight again on the other side of the park, where an old drainage pipe opened into the duck pond.
The hat bobbed to the surface of the pond. A duck swam over, examined it, and tried to sit on it. The hat was not built for duck sitting. It flipped, dumping the duck into the water with an indignant quack.
A dog on the bank spotted the hat and splashed in after it. The dog grabbed the brim in its teeth, gave it a good shake, then dropped it when a more interesting stick floated by. The hat drifted on, slightly more crumpled and very offended.
A child on the bank pointed. "Mum, there's a hat in the pond!"
Another child threw a stone nearby. The hat, as if offended by this behavior, drifted toward the pond's edge, where a very soggy and slightly muddy Reginald Pennyfeather III had just arrived, out of breath.
"There you are," he panted, kneeling at the edge.
He reached for the hat. A goose hissed at him. Reginald pulled his hand back. The goose hissed again, then waddled over to the hat, sniffed it, and decided it was not food. It waddled away.
Reginald grabbed the hat.
It was wet. It was muddy. A leaf was stuck to the brim. One side was slightly squashed from the squirrel incident. The satin lining had a small tear. It was, without question, the most undignified state his hat had ever been in.
Reginald stood up. He looked at the hat. The hat looked back at him — or would have, if hats had eyes.
He placed it on his head. Water dripped down his collar.
A woman walking her dog smiled at him. "Lovely day for a swim?"
Reginald did not answer. He walked home, and his hat dripped water all the way.
When he got home, he cleaned the hat. He brushed the mud off. He dried the satin lining. He reshaped the brim as best he could. But the hat was no longer the same. The leaf had left a small stain. The squash would not fully come out. And there was a tiny scratch on the band from the drainage grate.
Reginald put the hat on. He looked in the mirror.
The hat still looked distinguished. But it also looked like a hat that had been places. Like a hat that had ridden a baguette, offended a duck, and survived a squirrel.
He smiled. It was a small smile, but it was real.
He wore the hat to work the next day. Nobody mentioned the stain or the squash. But his assistant, Margaret, said, "Your hat looks like it has stories to tell."
"It does," said Reginald.
And that afternoon, on his lunch break, he walked past the fire hydrant where the squirrel had perched. He stopped. He took off his hat, looked at it, and smiled again.
Then he put it back on his very distinguished head and walked on, just slightly changed.