How I Became a Hat (pt. 1)

Here's what happened. I was eighteen and more lost than I am right now. And I met a man.
I skipped my high school graduation to earn some bucks at the video store. As I wasn't quite sure where my life was headed, I figured it was good idea to start putting some cash in the wallet; I could get the piece of paper later. This gentleman picked up an exercise video and then asked me if I liked Kurosawa. I said sure, though I hadn't watched any of his films yet. I only ever checked out Party Girl for my free rental, but I was unwilling to reveal the gap in my knowledge of cinema. Normally I'm reluctant to chatter on with men like him, by which I mean men creased around the edges with age whose eyes are filled with just the subtlest hint of loneliness. They tend to fall for my moon pie face and gee whiz vocabulary pretty hard. So I sent him packing without getting into too many specifics.
I didn't drive yet, and in my typical shy fashion, I often trudged home in the dark after the store closed rather than asking for a ride. Somewhere in between the florist and the dry cleaner along the far side of the strip mall a long maroon car pulls up. Mr. Henry Overwater, whose name and penchant for sophomoric frat comedy I knew from the nifty corporate database, popped his head out the window, "Do you need a ride, miss?"
I am not in the habit of accepting rides from strangers, but I had to get home somehow. If I went on foot I was fairly certain Mr. Overwater would follow me anyway, sticking his head out to check my status. So I took the ride.
I don't like the smell of leather, and his leather interior had me gagging as soon as I got in. "May I roll the window down?" I asked.
"Sure, kiddo." He pressed a button on his window console. "That better?"
I nodded, turning my face to the lightly brushing night air. I imagined my classmates draped in blue robes, throwing their hats up in the air, and eating late dinners in the company of decrepit relatives, and thought At least I'm not them.
My hands worked as Mr. Overwater's directions to my house since my lips glued together with fear of what sadistic elements of torture he might have waiting in the trunk. With one final flick of my wrist, we pulled into my driveway. The lights inside the house were off. My mother finally stopped waiting up for me on my eighteenth birthday. Mr. Overwater killed his headlights so as not to wake the neighbors.
"Is there any way I could convince you to stay with me awhile longer?"
"I doubt it." I began to reach for the door handle.
"My son died three days ago."
"That's terrible. But I still can't stay." I'd heard the I've lost my dog pitch before. No thank you.
"We didn't have him until we were older. Too busy for a family. He was beautiful, but never healthy."
Now I'm not typically wooed by sob stories or strange men in stinky cars, but when you're 18 and trying to figure some things about your life, it's easy to hope you'll learn something valuable by bypassing the not-talking-to-strangers rule. Still, I kept my hand on the door ready to jump for freedom if things got pervy.
"But the thing is he was my heir, and now I have to find another."
The construct of his comment was clearly designed to perk up a young wage-slave's ears. The only fantasy more common among my ilk than a dead distant relative bequeathing an independently wealthy lifestyle was selling a screenplay for an independently wealthy lifestyle.
"Well, I could be your heir," I said releasing my hand from the door. I offered it up like it was nothing, a slip of cellophane kite caught in a tree. I could be a video lackey for the rest of my life, or I could inherit millions and build a Parker Posey-shaped pool. It could go either way really, depending on my mood.
"Indeed," he said. He coughed a little, then said, "I was hoping you'd say that."