Hot Heat

We are in the summer position on the orbit. The pilot is wearing shorts. No, I'm kidding. There's no pilot. (No pilot?) Don't worry, the planet knows the route blindfolded. As I was saying, we are in the summer position, where the sun's rays strike the Northern Hemisphere at a short and direct angle, like the kiss administered by the sailor to the nurse on V-J Day. This makes it hotter. It's as if the equator has moved up, like the belt on an alter cocker, who you wouldn't normally associate with kissing a nurse in Times Square, but, trust me, even an alter cocker can get lucky.

The point is, it can get vicious out there. Sometimes, like yesterday, it's as if a mad dog were reported in the neighborhood, an escapee from the veterinary hospital for the criminally insane. So you stay inside, in front of the fan and the air conditioner. You're safe inside. But eventually curiosity overrules common sense. You go outside on the pretext of mailing your Netflix, and the dog immediately comes bounding onto you like Rin Tin Tin on a rustler, fangs bared, and knocks you down, burying you under a mountain of fur. "Nice doggie," you say, muffledly. And it is a nice doggie, it turns out. It licks you roughly, sits up on its haunches, thumps its giant tail. And you and the mad dog become best friends. Later this friendship will save your life, during an alien heat wave brought on by a rogue sun, like in the fable of Androcles and the lion. Not to apply a simile to another simile, which makes as much sense as putting a band-aid on a band-aid. Which may be another simile.

Where was I? Right. On my way to the big mailbox outside the main post office to make it in time for the 5:30 pickup. And it actually wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. No roaring hellhound. In fact, pools of shade that kicked up their own cooling breezes, where sleepy shade-trolls collect your nickel with an ingratiating, broken-toothed smile. (Back to 2d person speculative again...) So you drop in your Netflixes and head home, and the Torpedoes sign on the Quizmo's window seems to say Torpidoes, but by and large people don't look too uncomfortable. Neither do small people. In fact, when you re-enter your home, even with the fan and the AC, it feels worse. A pathetic attempt to create your own cold weather, which doesn't make a difference in 3/4 of the house. The truth is, you had better luck outside. In here, you feel sapped. Out there, there's at least a narrative: the alter cocker attempts to jump over the sun, burning his kishkes, the mad dog laughs to see such sport, and the sailor runs away with the nurse, who certainly can can-can!