The Fez
by Ross Clark
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: An ugly moment of revelation about a young man failing to deal with a traumatic event in his life.
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Nathan surveys his wide collection of novelty hats. The most important thing in choosing headgear is always visibility. You’ve got your logistical matters as well, of course, (Christ, he can hardly kick about Princes Street in a ten gallon cowboy hat when there’s a gale in from the coast) but all things being equal, he always picks whatever forces more eye traffic his way.
He rotates alphabetically and today is an ‘F’ day. The fedora or the fez? The fedora is black and medium-sized. It blends in. The fez is bold and red; and it has a golden tassel for Christ’s sake. There’s no contest.
As he walks out the front door, Nathan’s mum shouts on him, ‘Let me know if you’re going to be….’
But she stops there. Nathan’s given her a look, and that’s all it takes. That’s all it ever takes.
The top deck of the number three into town is empty. Nathan switches between staring out the window and flicking through a copy of The Metro; the showbiz section has an exclusive with a soap star recently outed by the tabloids. Nathan knows the story already, the actor’s affair with his show’s married set designer. He first heard about it in a queue at the newsagent’s in Sainsbury’s. The wee wifie ahead of him was waiting to buy her copy of The Edinburgh Evening News and a photo of the soap star, looking haggard and drawn, had been slapped across the front page. When her turn came, the wee wifie pointed out the soap star’s photo to the teenage checkout girl and, in her wee wifie voice, said, ‘I see he takes it up the arse an aw, ay?’ But the checkout girl wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring at Nathan, who tipped the brim of his Abe Lincoln-style stovepipe hat and smiled.
He gets off the bus outside Waverley station and sticks to the Gardens side. If he walks on the side with the shops, he’ll only dissolve into the crowd.
A silver-haired executive type approaches just as Nathan passes under the birdshit-coated statue of David Livingston. The executive’s eyes settle on Nathan for a second but, just as quickly, he turns away and pretends to be looking at something in the gardens.
‘Look at me!’ screams Nathan inside his own head. ‘I’m wearing a fez for Christ’s sake!’
The man passes and a young woman, a hippy dippy student chick with dreadlocks and, God help us, an Edinburgh University hoodie, is up next. She sees Nathan and doesn’t look right at him, but doesn’t look away either. Nathan knows her game; this is all conscious effort and piss poor artifice. He sees right through it. Don’t think for a fucking second that he doesn’t see through it. You get the types, like the grey-haired arsehole who just passed, who pretend they don’t see him and you get the schoolkids and the neds and the wee wifies who gawk shamelessly. But the third type, like this middle class bint giving it the big ‘I’m not bothered’, they either want to stare or they want to look away but they end up doing neither. Then they go about for the rest of the day feeling good about themselves for not having treated Nathan any differently.
As she passes him, Nathan curses at the student loud enough for her to put a hand to her mouth.
He walks by the steps of the National Gallery and sees a guy in his late twenties up ahead, balding with a light blond beard. Nathan puts on a swagger and walks straight at him but the guy doesn’t move. Nathan increases the pace and gives blond beard a stare-out, to let him know he’ll cattle right through him if it comes to it. And they’re less than five feet apart now. But still the guy doesn’t move.
‘Hi,’ says the guy, smiling.
Nathan just looks at him.
‘Nice hat,’ the guy says.
‘Cheers,’ says Nathan, too confused to keep up his scowl. ‘It’s a fez,’ he adds.
The guy nods. ‘You seem angry,’ he says.
Nathan doesn’t have an answer to that.
‘Do you mind if I ask what happened to your face?’ asks the guy.
Nathan does mind. Yes, he very much fucking minds.
‘Was it a fire?’
Of course it was a fire, his mother’s fault. I mean, who in fuck uses a chip pan in this day in age? When they first let Nathan look at himself in the mirror he threw up. Then he screamed. He screamed until the orderlies held him down and someone injected something into his arm. When he woke up, he screamed again. Another injection. By the third day he’d lost his voice and it killed his chest just to breath. Later Nathan tried to kill himself. Pills. It didn't work.
‘I belong to a church group,’ the guy is saying to Nathan. ‘We have meetings. Maybe it would help to talk with other people.’
Nathan is running. He‘s pushed his way past the guy and sprinted halfway up the Mound. He stops to catch his breath and looks behind him; the guy is out of sight.
Nathan bends over to tie a shoelace that’s come undone and the fez falls onto the pavement. He turns and snatches it up and as he stands he sees someone ahead of him, a middle aged woman with shopping bags. She stares at Nathan, her face frozen in mid gasp. He takes a step towards her. She steps back. He walks straight at her and she runs out onto the road to avoid him. A hail of horns sounds from the cars that screech to a halt before they almost hit her.
‘Stupid bitch,’ he calls after her.
Nathan smiles.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: An ugly moment of revelation about a young man failing to deal with a traumatic event in his life.
_____________________________________________________________________
Nathan surveys his wide collection of novelty hats. The most important thing in choosing headgear is always visibility. You’ve got your logistical matters as well, of course, (Christ, he can hardly kick about Princes Street in a ten gallon cowboy hat when there’s a gale in from the coast) but all things being equal, he always picks whatever forces more eye traffic his way.
He rotates alphabetically and today is an ‘F’ day. The fedora or the fez? The fedora is black and medium-sized. It blends in. The fez is bold and red; and it has a golden tassel for Christ’s sake. There’s no contest.
As he walks out the front door, Nathan’s mum shouts on him, ‘Let me know if you’re going to be….’
But she stops there. Nathan’s given her a look, and that’s all it takes. That’s all it ever takes.
The top deck of the number three into town is empty. Nathan switches between staring out the window and flicking through a copy of The Metro; the showbiz section has an exclusive with a soap star recently outed by the tabloids. Nathan knows the story already, the actor’s affair with his show’s married set designer. He first heard about it in a queue at the newsagent’s in Sainsbury’s. The wee wifie ahead of him was waiting to buy her copy of The Edinburgh Evening News and a photo of the soap star, looking haggard and drawn, had been slapped across the front page. When her turn came, the wee wifie pointed out the soap star’s photo to the teenage checkout girl and, in her wee wifie voice, said, ‘I see he takes it up the arse an aw, ay?’ But the checkout girl wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring at Nathan, who tipped the brim of his Abe Lincoln-style stovepipe hat and smiled.
He gets off the bus outside Waverley station and sticks to the Gardens side. If he walks on the side with the shops, he’ll only dissolve into the crowd.
A silver-haired executive type approaches just as Nathan passes under the birdshit-coated statue of David Livingston. The executive’s eyes settle on Nathan for a second but, just as quickly, he turns away and pretends to be looking at something in the gardens.
‘Look at me!’ screams Nathan inside his own head. ‘I’m wearing a fez for Christ’s sake!’
The man passes and a young woman, a hippy dippy student chick with dreadlocks and, God help us, an Edinburgh University hoodie, is up next. She sees Nathan and doesn’t look right at him, but doesn’t look away either. Nathan knows her game; this is all conscious effort and piss poor artifice. He sees right through it. Don’t think for a fucking second that he doesn’t see through it. You get the types, like the grey-haired arsehole who just passed, who pretend they don’t see him and you get the schoolkids and the neds and the wee wifies who gawk shamelessly. But the third type, like this middle class bint giving it the big ‘I’m not bothered’, they either want to stare or they want to look away but they end up doing neither. Then they go about for the rest of the day feeling good about themselves for not having treated Nathan any differently.
As she passes him, Nathan curses at the student loud enough for her to put a hand to her mouth.
He walks by the steps of the National Gallery and sees a guy in his late twenties up ahead, balding with a light blond beard. Nathan puts on a swagger and walks straight at him but the guy doesn’t move. Nathan increases the pace and gives blond beard a stare-out, to let him know he’ll cattle right through him if it comes to it. And they’re less than five feet apart now. But still the guy doesn’t move.
‘Hi,’ says the guy, smiling.
Nathan just looks at him.
‘Nice hat,’ the guy says.
‘Cheers,’ says Nathan, too confused to keep up his scowl. ‘It’s a fez,’ he adds.
The guy nods. ‘You seem angry,’ he says.
Nathan doesn’t have an answer to that.
‘Do you mind if I ask what happened to your face?’ asks the guy.
Nathan does mind. Yes, he very much fucking minds.
‘Was it a fire?’
Of course it was a fire, his mother’s fault. I mean, who in fuck uses a chip pan in this day in age? When they first let Nathan look at himself in the mirror he threw up. Then he screamed. He screamed until the orderlies held him down and someone injected something into his arm. When he woke up, he screamed again. Another injection. By the third day he’d lost his voice and it killed his chest just to breath. Later Nathan tried to kill himself. Pills. It didn't work.
‘I belong to a church group,’ the guy is saying to Nathan. ‘We have meetings. Maybe it would help to talk with other people.’
Nathan is running. He‘s pushed his way past the guy and sprinted halfway up the Mound. He stops to catch his breath and looks behind him; the guy is out of sight.
Nathan bends over to tie a shoelace that’s come undone and the fez falls onto the pavement. He turns and snatches it up and as he stands he sees someone ahead of him, a middle aged woman with shopping bags. She stares at Nathan, her face frozen in mid gasp. He takes a step towards her. She steps back. He walks straight at her and she runs out onto the road to avoid him. A hail of horns sounds from the cars that screech to a halt before they almost hit her.
‘Stupid bitch,’ he calls after her.
Nathan smiles.
About the Author
Ross Clark is a thirtysomething lecturer and as yet unpublished author. He is currently living in Germany.