Mad Hatter

By midnight, the hopefuls were jamming the sidewalk on Chicago's Michigan Avenue. One pregnant woman perched precariously on a fireplug. At 1 a.m. the mad milliner of the magnificent mile, Benjamin Benedict Greenfield, strolled into view, bareheaded, nodding to women with familiar bees in their bonnets.

In a land where women often confuse fashion with flash, Mr. Ben makes hats that sport everything from canned soup to nuts, fake pennies and phony posies, ersatz ballet dancers, grasshoppers and turtles. The materials are the best that mon ey can buy: coral, jade, moonstone. The price tags come high: $475.75 down to $89.75. Each year Mr. Ben adds up the six bits and other pieces, sends himself to Europe to refresh himself on the shapes of chapeaux. On departure's eve, as a special bon voyage present, he invites his faithful clients to a soiree sale at 2:15 a.m., since it is never too early to catch a bargain, with every one of 400 hats marked down to only $5 a throw.

Each toss sent a fruit salad of custom creations arcing past the chandelier in his exclusive salon. A mere 60 women had managed to squeeze into the maelstrom, along with a handful of men. But as hats fell like peonies from heaven, ladies grabbed and shrieked. Five stalwart matrons, operating as "The Syndicate," reached for anything that sailed by, however conservative.

Then Mr. Ben tossed his crowning achievement, a trifle of black feathers, lace, rhinestones and a soupc,on of warmed-over custard. Two ladies clawed away for life. "Ladies, please," begged Mr. Ben, rounding off his numbers, "that is a $475 hat." The littler lady finally let go, holding back her tears.

At 3:15 the bargains were gone, and so were the well-heeled and newly hatted clients. Only Mr. Ben was left. He poured himself a cup of coffee and saw bananas on a table. At first he thought somebody had forgotten her hat. But then he nibbled and saw that they were real.

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