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When I worked on this chapter I had just spend an afternoon in my garage seperating old caulk tubes into piles of useless, dried out old tubes and unused tubes that I'm sure I'll use someday.
Every good detective needs a hat and all my dad had around the house were Sheffy City Baller hats. Sheffy City had the worst team in all of baseball. Whenever I reminded my dad that the Ballers had never won any championship he’d always say without taking his eyes off the game, “Then we’re bound to win soon.” Some of the Baller hats he wore on his walks hung from our entryway coat hangers. A few others he kept with his golf bag out in our garage. Since he wore those ones so much I thought I’d use the old, beat up ones with some messy scribbling on them that he kept out of the way next to a book end shaped like a baseball mit on the shelf in his office.
It took nearly all day to make a cool looking detective hat. First I stacked the hats on top of one another with one bill going forward and the other pointing backwards. Next I glued the two together, and finally I got some black spray paint out of the garage and emptied out the entire can all over the hat. If I say so - it didn’t look half bad. But apparently you need to let spray paint dry for a few hours because when I put it on my head the sloppy wet paint oozed down my face thicker than molasses and stickier than syrup. At first I didn’t think it was too bad. I just thought I’d take off the hat and get cleaned up, but the gooey plumber’s glue I used to attach the hats to each other seeped into my hair and pulled at my scalp like a thousand little needles. With my eyes closed I started to pull back the front of the hat and heard the garage door open. Over the rumble of the garage door I’m pretty sure I could hear long, low grumble of my dad sighing.
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