Maxwell House
Created | Updated Mar 30, 2011
Another in the Max Rebo series. This time, Max seems to have achieved a measure of success. Read more in…
Maxwell House
It had been several weeks since Max left. Standing there in the doorway with the mail under my arm, I waved him goodbye, but the gesture must have been obscured by the clouds of light brown dust thrown up by his motor-unicycle. It made me sad to think about it: the way he still needed that stabilizer at he back of his bike, the way he wore the clip-on hair of a Lego figure instead of a helmet, the way he kept putting his fingers into the blur of spokes because he was convinced they were rotating only very slowly and in the wrong direction. .
He had set off that morning to fulfill his latest dream – of getting men to wear hats again. Little bags, each containing two or three hats, had been sewn into the very fabric of Max's bike, and attached to his spine was a long pole with a placard at the top saying, 'Some hats!' It was Max's earnest hope that someone somewhere, everyone everywhere and finally anyone anywhere would wear any, some or every. To be honest, the hats were not very well made and most were of an irregular shape owing to an anatomical misunderstanding, but Max was too proud to admit he needed help and claimed that people would be happy to change the shape of their heads to accommodate them. .
It had been several weeks since he had set off. I was standing in the sitting room at the window when I decided to sit down. I had just started to change my mind about Max – had come to realise that all aspects of my life had vastly improved since his departure, had come to regain my confidence, hope and health, had come to enjoy life again – when he came crashing through the front window on his bike, knocked over the televisions, tore the sofas and broke all of my legs. He had sold everything and was rich. He was grinning like a slashed melon, but I was worried the hats had gone to his head. .
The future doffed its cap to Max.
