Either Ore

Was the detective’s life a comedy or a tragedy?

Yes, he decided, but as he walked the neon-soaked streets of Tokyo, fedora canted at an impish angle, Detective Moffet didn’t care much for semantics. Wait, was it semantics, or would another word be more accurate here? Was he even getting the semantics of talking about semantics right? Was that a proper use of semantics? Syntax? Diction? Detective Moffet adjusted his fedora. Honestly, he didn’t even know if his angle of hat was impish or not. Impish—it was just the first word that had come to mind. Did impish mean mysterious? If not, then fuck it.

Detective Moffet was so tired of words.

Lugubrious? Loquacious?

Stop it, Detective Moffet thought. Just stop it.

He bought some noodles. He sat at the window of the café and ate his noodles. He watched countless people locomote themselves past. Some walked with an intensity of purpose, while others trudged with big nowhere-to-be energy. The rest? The rest were somewhere in between.

Most of us are somewhere in between, Detective Moffet thought.

Was this a profound thought? he wondered. Was it worth writing down?

No and no, he decided, slurping hot broth.

Detective Moffet took off his hat, turned it over in his hands, studied it.

Is this even a fedora? he asked himself.

Oh God. Oh shit. He’d been referring to it as a fedora ever since he’d purchased it from that street vendor in Mexico City over a decade ago. But now doubts were starting to creep in. Well, not doubts. Doubt. The one doubt being: This not fedora. This some other hat.

How many times had he called it a fedora in the presence of others? A hundred? A thousand? Not once did someone guffaw, slap their knee, and say, “That’s not a fedora, numb nuts. It’s a insert name of some other kind of hat here!”

Christ Almighty, Detective Moffet couldn’t even think of the name of any other hats. Bolo? Was that one? Or was that a kind of tie?

Stetson. There was one. Sombrero. Hard.

But in all those years, no one had laughed. No one had corrected him. No one had called him numb nuts or dickweed or fuckface or shit-for-brains. Had they all just been too polite to say anything?

Another slurp. Another prolonged sucking in of lengthy garlicky noodle.

One time a man asked if he preferred manganese or magnesium. That was in Baton Rouge. He’d said the first thing that had come to mind. Sometimes that was enough. Not always but sometimes.