For the past several weeks Mr. Donahue’s hat simply hasn’t fit right. One day it would feel too big, and on another, too small. He had never washed his hat; no, not a hat like this, with its silk lining and custom initials embroidered on the inner brim. But he had come under the suspicion that his wife had and, to their dismay, he told the rest of the office so.

Most evenings just before closing, if you listened carefully, grunts and profanities could be heard from the coatroom as Mr. Donahue struggled to fit his beloved hat around his skull. He would pull and pull until the seams threatened to burst, then his wife’s name would dribble sourly from his clenched mouth. And on days when the brim sat low across his eyes, he would blame “the bloody heater,” though it was the middle of Spring. Perhaps he didn’t believe these things entirely, but how else was he to explain the unfathomable truth that a hat which fit him fine in the morning, no longer did when he picked it up again that very same day. It was such an odd thing to happen to a hat.

His reaction to this whole ordeal didn’t exactly inspire sympathy for Mr. Donahue—not that he was very likable before. Folks around the office began whispering fantastical speculations about the nature of the situation. They’d snicker or speak to each other in lightly veiled references, like preschool kids, or board members. What was causing his head to change in size? Could it be explained by an inconsistency in the quantity of gel he was using from one morning to another? How desperate must he be for attention to continue this charade for almost four weeks now? Nobody may have actually known the reason why this was happening, but for everyone other than Mr. Donahue, acknowledging the mystery would have only put a damper on the fun to be had.

For every theory whispered around the office, Mr. Donahue had one of his own. His wifes supposed washing of the hat was the only one he shared, but there were many more which were only ever overheard. Whenever Mr. Donahue headed for the coatroom, someone else would follow. Standing out of sight—but still in earshot—they’d listen to his mindless muttering and fruitless grumbles, then report back what they had heard.

Mr. Donahue blamed everything, from the hook, to the humidity, to the hat maker. If it was hung on the wall and sweat dripped from his brow when he found the hat too large, he could fathom no other reason why. And if the hat was too small and his throat was dry, he would blame the bloody hat maker for their faulty design. Or perhaps there was a thread he couldn’t see, being pulled and released randomly.

It didn’t take long before the matter was considered closed by the rest of the office. A consensus had been reached, without ever being properly discussed, that it was entirely his doing—though still nobody could say how. By the fifth episode of Mr. Donahue and the ill-fitting hat, the chuckles and snickers bubbled from every cubicle. He didn’t hear them, of course, for his anger on the matter was nearly enough to render him deaf. Not until Jolene—while serving as listener on what must have been an especially difficult day for Mr. Donahue—erupted in uncontrollable laughter at one of his private rambles. Hearing this, Mr. Donahue stormed out of the coatroom, tiny hat in hand, and struck Jolene firmly across the face.

Silence fell amongst the padded partitions—save the creaks of rolling chairs being relieved of their weight. It was during that pause that Mr. Goddard stepped out of this corner office and, for the first time, became aware of the issue surrounding Mr. Donahue and his hat. A strike for Mr. Donahue, he deemed to be appropriate discipline, and a firm talk for Jolene about proper workplace behavior. Then Jolene was sent home so she could tend to her bloody and beaten nose. It was only later that she learned it had in fact been broken.

The office’s hatred for the man with the dastardly hat deepened quickly that day. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen Mr. Donahue lay his hand on someone, or storm off spewing threats in a fit of rage. But nevertheless it changed things. It wasn’t just the hat he was ridiculed for now, and no longer was anyone trying to hide their comments from him. It was he who was trying to avoid his fellow workers, trying furiously to solve this mystery in his deepened isolation. And whenever a snap of a pencil, or drop of a notebook echoed off the concrete walls, it was Donahue’s name that, like a chorus, rang with an accusatory tone from everyone in earshot. The theories and stories conjured around him went from simply fantastical to quite extreme. It may very well have been Mr. Donahue’s own doing that led to this debacle—if only indirectly—but you may find it funny to note nonetheless that this new interpretation of behaviors and events—his or otherwise—were shaped not by a shift in knowledge or circumstance, but a newfound consensus on his character.

This new dynamic between Mr. Donahue and his coworkers helped ensure he was scarcely present. And with this new opportunity, him and his hat and his poor character permeated every conversation. Everything was framed in relation to him; camaraderie was thick in the air. When someone lost a sale, or otherwise made a mistake in their work, shame was no longer felt. Instead, a brief celebration would be held, for “pulling a Donahue,” as it came to be known.

Another week had gone by and the reality of the hat situation was all but forgotten. As if, it seemed, it had only ever lived as the legend it now was. That was until Mr. Donahue showed his bubbling red face in the break room one morning. “I don’t know how, but one of you is doing this,” he sneered. “I’m sure of it!” But in fact, Mr. Donahue did not know this to be true at all.

He had, though, become more determined in his search for answers, or perhaps had simply ruled out his wife as the culprit. In any case, Mr. Donahue decided work was no longer his first priority. Every hour on the dot he could be seen standing from his desk and walking into the coatroom. Most times the hat would fit fine—just as it had when he put it there that morning. Two, three, four, the clock ticked, and every hour without fail Mr. Donahue would return to check again. But then, almost every day, at just before five, when Mr. Donahue would grab his hat to leave for the day, eruptions came from the coatroom, and subsequent laughter from the cubicles. It was said around the office that perhaps it was his uncontrollable anger which was causing his head to throb from one size to another. His pain seemed to bring joy to his coworkers without fail. But the same could not be said for Mr. Goddard, who had had enough of dealing with the situation. So much so that he’d shut himself in his office and given up on controlling it altogether, except for the occasional yell to shut up at times like this.

Mr. Donahue spent the next two weeks changing the frequency at which he checked; being a slave to his pocket watch, or frantically rushing to the coatroom at entirely random times. On days he must have been feeling clever, he would try keeping the hat on his head all day, or sit it on the edge of his desk, keeping a watchful eye instead. Some of the methods he tried had worked for a little while, but nothing worked entirely to maintain its size.

Fed up with these “games,” as he called them, he did something nobody thought him capable of. The idea seemed to come to him on one of the rare evenings that his hat actually fit. Seeing that it was still the proper size, he returned to the office and scoured the drawers: a marker, needle, and a stray scrap of paper he grabbed. Then back into the coatroom he went, slamming the door behind him, and proceeding to vandalize his precious hat.

The following morning he came into the office calmer than he had been in a long while. He walked straight up to the coatroom, placed his hat inside, and walked right back out without hesitation or fuss. He sat at his desk, minding only his work, and even ate lunch in the break room for the first time since this all began. Bewilderment painted the faces of his fellow employees. Some thought to comment on this strange behavior, or revive an old joke about his hat for the occasion. But it was just too shocking to actually do anything about—yes, too shocking indeed.

It became clear quite quickly that Mr. Donahue’s calm demeanor was more distracting than his anger had ever been. Even Mr. Goddard took notice of this, and it’s safe to say he wasn’t at all pleased.

The day proceeded and came to a close, and still nothing had been made a fuss about. Like clockwork Mr. Donahue went to punch out, at the same time he always had, then strolled back to the coatroom with anticipation illuminating his face. He stepped inside, then his voice returned, before his body could be seen again. With confidence, he cleared his throat and began to speak. “None of you would reveal to me the shenanigans I knew you were up to, so I took investigative matters into my own hands.” He brought his hat from behind his back and placed it on his head to demonstrate that it clearly did not fit. “Oh, what a surprise,” he said—with no effort to hide his sarcasm—then rolled it into his hands. “I’m not as stupid as I look,” he exclaimed. “I knew it couldn’t be the same hat changing sizes. I just didn’t know how to prove it. Not yet.’’ He paused for dramatic effect. “But last night I made some modifications to the original, you see.’’ He peered into the bottom of the hat. “If this were really my hat, then—” His words trailed off suddenly, and his cheeks grew that familiar shade of red. He was clearly too flustered to say it, but his eyes spoke clear enough: how can this possibly be?

What his brain was having such a hard time understanding, is how on earth the line of permanent marker he’d made on his hat just the night before, had now appeared on this ill-fitting hat, which could of course not be the same one.

Flustered, he turned back into the coatroom, his hands clawing at the silk lining. “Aha!” He announced a moment later, and turned back to face the room. “Last night I also placed a note inside the brim! Sewn under the silk and marked with a pen. But as you can see here—” He held it out as if anyone else could see anything but the silk lining that he’d begun to tear out. “—there is no note! There is no mark! There are no holes made by needle or thread! Therefore!” His voice got louder as he continued. “THIS, ladies and gentleman, cannot be my hat!” He paused, standing with inflating pride.

The rest of the office stared blankly, not sure what to say. Has he gone mad? Most of them seemed to be thinking. None of them knew his hat as intimately as I did, giving them no basis to believe or disbelieve what he was saying. No basis other than their pungent perception of his recently exposed character, of course.

Silence broke as Jolene spoke, sounding nasally still, from her unhealed nose. “You really have gone mad haven’t you?”

“Yeah, what’s got your head all swollen this time? Huh?” A voice quickly followed.

Then another spoke, and more still, until no single voice or phrase could be made out in the cacophony of violent words.

That was the last time Mr. Donahue was seen in the building with any resemblance of calm. For as the yelling got louder and louder, so too did the temperature of his dirty, bulging face. In fact, it was a miracle he remained conscious at all, come to think of it. But conscious he was, as he swung blindly through the air, retreating to the coatroom only to return with his arms full of its contents. Coats and hats and scarfs and gloves arced across the room faster than the threats and profanities he was spewing. His coworkers ducked and dodged, but didn’t slow with their stabbing words. It was just as Mr. Donahue dropped the remaining clothes and charged at the nearest group of cubicles with fists swinging once again, that Mr. Goddard finally emerged from his corner office. And oh how welcome he was. At Goddards orders, security dragged Mr. Donahue away—still swinging and screaming about practical jokes and a profound lack of respect.

Mr. Donahue never did find out who went through all that trouble, to find the original hat maker—whose shop was over five miles away—and proceed to buy two hats nearly identical to his, complete with initials and silk lining. Who thought, in the moment, to have one made a size too large, and the other, a size too small. And how did they keep the hats hidden, while switching them out most days, while Mr. Donahue punched his time card and used the lavatory—which he would almost always do.

Nobody in the office has seen him since, nor do any of us want to. And just like poor Mr. Donahue, his coworkers too, would never discover who was behind the events of the ill-fitting hats that led to his glorious riddance.

I’ll leave you with the mystery as well, if you would like. It doesn’t at all matter to me one way or the other; I’ve never taken any interest in being noticed—no, not in the slightest. But I must admit, I do feel inclined to ask: Mr. Donahue—if you’re reading this—is it not obvious who it was? Really think about it, won’t you?

Of course it was me, fucker.