Hat Crime

I like to think of myself as a man of many hats, but as of right now, I’m wearing one less.

The chapeau in question is my father’s cap, which commemorates the 104th Infantry Division in World War II.

I think he had ordered two of them many years ago and given one to me, but in any case, I like wearing it to honor his service.

Every so often people will ask me about it, and I’ll tell them about my dad’s time with "the Timberwolves," which was the division’s nickname. Usually though, people don’t even notice.

But that all changed recently when my sister and I flew out to San Francisco for our family reunion.

It started at JFK as we boarded the plane and the gate agent scanned my ticket.

“Thank you for your service.”

I was so twisted about flying that at first, his words didn’t register with me.

That’s an expression of gratitude reserved for military veterans, but I’ve never been in the service. Why would he say that to me?

And then I realized he was referring to my hat.

Apparently, this young man thought I was a veteran of that global conflict and was showing me respect that I didn’t begin to deserve.

Now, I know I’m old, but Jesus, do I look like I’m in my 90s? True, I was wearing a mask and a hat, so very little of my face was visible, but I’d like to think I look good for my age.

“Oh, no,” I said to my sister. “It’s stolen valor!”

She assured me that I was being ridiculous. We boarded our plane, and I forgot all about my father’s hat.

Until it happened again.

This time it was at the hotel in Pacific Grove where we were all staying. Once again, someone — this time the clerk at the hotel — said “thank you for your service.”

Drop of a Hat

And once again, I was slow on the uptake and failed to correct them.

I wasn’t wearing a mask this time, so I don’t see how I could be mistaken for someone in my father’s age bracket. And for the record, the hat does not mention the word “veteran.”

I always loved hearing my father’s war stories when I was growing up. I’d often ride with him to the main post office in downtown Brooklyn, and he would tell me about the war and the men he knew.

I didn’t realize until after he died that he must’ve been severely traumatized by his experiences in Europe, and there were probably many stories he could never tell me.

The hat came up again while my cousin was giving us a tour of the Monterey Bay Aquarium, where she works.

A young man at the gift shop noticed my hat and proudly declared that he was a “World War II nerd” — which I find amazing, given that most people don’t seem to know what happened last week, let alone 80 years ago.

I told him about my father’s army experience, and he wrote down the name of the division and promised to look it up on the internet.

Great, now I could go back to wearing the hat and lose all that foolish guilt.

The reunion ended much too soon, of course, and the next thing we knew, we were back on the plane to Brooklyn.

Early into our return trip, a flight attendant came down the aisle offering food and drinks.

When he got to me, I asked for the turkey and cheese on a roll and reached for my wallet.

“Nah,” he said, handing me my lunch. “You’re good.”

I looked to my sister and told her that the guy had just given me a sandwich free of charge.

“He charged me,” she said.

And then it dawned on me that once again—oy vey!-- I had been mistaken for a World War II veteran.

I ate my sandwich in shame and vowed never to wear that hat again.

And to my father and all the men and women who have served in this country’s wars, thank you for your service.