A record-setting heat dome, after claiming thousands of European victims, creeps across the ocean.
A Lovecraftian mass of heat — tendrils of air currents, humidity and stagnant hot air sneak across the eastern seaboard.
One of many apartments tucked under the front’s myriad invisible eyes and colors is my own. And the dated AC unit simply cannot keep up with the otherworldly heat.
On Tuesday evening, after a protracted struggle, it surrendered. With it, the monster came inside the house.
At first, the creature’s influence was debatable. It was only after finishing Obsession that somewhere between her amber eyes, my girlfriend made the kind of observation that my distracted male brain could not quite construe.
The air being exhaled by the vents, the arteries of our swamp apartment felt… “kinda hot.”
My optimism bias kicked in.
“No way, baby.” I folded her golden doll hair between my fingers. “It is just that it is super-hot outside. When the sun goes down, it will all be fine.”
A wake-up call — extreme heat is no joke.
While the icy grip of a winter breeze can make 90 degrees sound desirable. But that is fantasy — a vacation at best.
But outside of fantasy land, the body starts to find it rather oppressive. At 90 degrees on the heat index, the risk of heat stroke is real, and fatigue is present and cramps and exhaustion are likely.
The heat index is more than just temperature. Humidity hampers the body’s ability to thermoregulate through sweat.
I called the apartment complex. They said the repair will be on Monday — I sank. I went mad searching for lost and forgotten knowledge. Every trick to stay cool in the heat was employed by our forgotten ancestors. Damp robes and sheets, like the ancients of scorching, harsh grain deserts. Fans blowing full speed on buckets of ice. The shutters closed in like a shut-in forgotten sandstone tomb. Cool smells like citrus and sandalwood drifted through the stagnant air.
It was like a mixture of an old molasses ship in the Caribbean, Bath & Body Works and the Rochester Adams locker room after a really busy swim meet.
Relaxation blurs with exhaustion. Cold beverages. Ice packs to the pulse points. Cold showers.
I started ringing the corporate office of my complex. I popped into my leasing office hourly to air my grievances.
Still Monday.
I felt that I was melting into an invisible, shapeless form. An entity that once was a feature writing psychology major – but now a mass of hot salt and water As I sank, melting into a stain on my brown suede couch, two heroes burst through the door.
“MAINTENANCE!!!”
Like the finest Swiss watch, they moved with perfect organic rhythm. A clean sleep moved across my study and beat back the arms of the beast.
“If you feel it, it’s working now,” one of them told me.
It seemed effortless, “could I do that?” My hopeless male optimism kicked in again.
“Nada,” he retorted, “but we strongly encourage everyone experiencing this kind of issue to hit the outdoor exhaust with a broom.” He sighed a tired sigh.
He told me he was just back from vacation. Already, four air conditioners are left to fix.
“That is absolutely something you can do yourself.” The other one chimed like a bell. “The cottonwood pollen clogs these something fierce.”
With that, the men and the heat departed.
But the fingers of the monster pry at all our windows and under all our doors.