Jacoste Haberdashers, Buenos Aires

Along the rue la Perce in the gray city of Ardooie the man in the hat met another man in a hat. On the other man in the hat’s rucksack was written Jacoste Haberdashers, Finest in Men’s Apparel, Buenos Aires, Distrito Federal. On his lapel, pinned with peacock pride and steady hand, was a stickpin with a flag surrounded by two sailing ships, each with a spinnaker holding portside to the wind, and on both sails, written in a glorious calligraphic hand, the following, Viva la Les Fauveaux Libre, Merde san Plus. As he passed the other man in the hat, the man in the hat took stalk of his clothing, his demeanor, his choice of hat, the manner in which he cocked his head ever so slightly to the left, as if he were a wee bit off centre and about to tumble over. On the back of his hat, a calf-soft fedora with a silk hatband that shone like glitter, he noticed the name Dnipropetrovs'ka Oblast'—Dnepropetrovsk, and below that a small nondescript drawing of a pheasant, tail feathers splayed and stickled. ‘A coterie of hats’ thought the man in the hat. The sky closed in on the other man in the hat’s head, his rucksack slung high over his shoulder, a look of concern on his otherwise jocose face. Before he could find shelter, a storefront awning or a candy-store stoop, a coopers’-worth of cool rain sheeted across the sideways, the other man in the hat holding onto his hat for dear life, his feet kittling across the sideways sideways.