One of us in this house wears a fur coat and doesn’t understand why I can’t just turn off the sun, because it is hot and he is very, very unhappy, my poor kitty cat. I tell him I know, I know, this is terrible and gross, and I’m so sorry and I totally understand, but do I really? Because I can strip all the way down, I can climb in a bathtub filled with ice water, or escape outside into the breezes, or head down the street to the library where I will steal their sweet, sweet air conditioning and enjoy their free wireless. Fang does not know how to type and additionally, has not got thumbs. Fang is stuck in the house, sprawled out on the kitchen tile and hating me, a little bit, because I can’t fix the heat.
He has been lethargic and miserable and there is nothing I can do. I leave the ceiling fan in the office on, which stirs the hot air a bit. I have a fan in the bedroom, which kicks up the heat and wraps it around your head. I have all my stupid crank windows cranked open enough to maybe try and catch a tiny bit of a breeze, but I can’t open them too wide, because I really don’t want to see a meth addict shouldering his way over the window sill and asking if he can borrow my bathroom…with a raccoon hot on his tail, ready and willing to give me face rabies. The giant heart-eating mosquitoes have already covered me with malaria.
So those are my super heat-fighting techniques, and so far, they are working poorly. It is hot all day in the house,
and at night, it does not cool off. I escape over to E’s house most
nights, where they have an air conditioner in every other window, and
sometimes I have to wear my jacket in the house. It was 90 degrees at around midnight last night, and I was fretting about the cat, again.
E loaded me into the car and took me off to Wal-Mart. Are you sure? I
said. It’s so late. Yes, he said. It’s too hot.
Wal-Mart is a terrible place. It feels like sweat pants with ankle
elastics and Twinkies and sadness. It is very very bright, with all the
overhead lights, and still it feels dark and ominous. I hope I never
have to return to Wal-Mart ever again. Wal-Mart also does not have evaporative coolers. Nope! the guy with the child molester mustache
said. None o’ those! I was ready to go home and bathe Fang against his
will. Wait, E said. Get a fan. A very giant fan. Which will stir the
hot air, I said. Seriously, he said. It’ll work. I promise you it’ll
help. I chose a giant turbo death fan, and we lugged it to the car. E
came in to my sweltering sweat box, and we both gasped when we walked
through the door. He set the fan up for me–it needs to be assembled? I
said. Come on!–and plugged it in, in my bedroom.
THERE, YOU SEE! he shouted. IT’S ALREADY COOLER IN HERE! YOU’RE RIGHT!
I shouted. THAT’S AMAZING! WHAT? he said. AMAZING! I said. WHAT? he
The fan is really, really loud. It’s kind of soothing, the way it
sounds like a jet plane taking off. Constantly. It is white noise. A
lot of white noise. A lot of really, really loud white noise, and I
think I’m probably a little deaf, now. But I’m cool. Gloriously,
happily comfortable in my house, because E is brilliant and wonderful. It’s a little windy for Fang, but he
has come to lie on the other side of me, using my body as a windbreak,
and he purrs, and he patters around the house and he looks out the
window and I am not killing him anymore with the heat stroke, and if I
have to go deaf to do it–well, that sucks.