“CHANCE OF WILDFIRES TODAY: HIGH”
Every summer in California there are wildfires. Even though Smokey the Bear’s sign tells drivers there’s a high risk of wildfires everyday of the year and whether or not that’s the Fire Department’s way of showing motorists just how much burning power they have, one thing is certain: wildfires are hot.
Every summer we hear about them burning thousands of acres of brush as they destroy homes of animals and humans alike. The smoke leaves soot on our cars, clogs our lungs, and leaves the sky’s hue resembling the inside of a chimney rather than the eyes of an Aryan.
Every summer I ignore the fires and the consequences it brings to motorists, animals, homeowners, and anything that exists around them.
On the way home from Los Angeles nine Sundays ago, I saw a smoke cloud forming up north — the way I was headed. I ignored it, like I usually do and kept driving. I ignored all the signs. “Fire Ahead” “Road Closed due to fire” even ignored the cavalcade of fire deputies headed in the direction.
My car’s alternator was being replaced for the second time, so I had to use a rental: my dad’s 2004 red Nissan Frontier that had no air conditioning and manual roll down windows.
I sat in the truck wearing blacks pants, a beige shirt, and a bead-of-sweat necklace that formed at the crevice of my beard and neck. It was hot.
Because I had no air conditioning, I rolled down my window hoping for mother nature to caress my face with a gentle gust of wind, but instead I was met with a pungent, humid dragon breath from satan himself; kinky.
Half of my body was exposed to the radiating heat and the other half of me was sitting in sweat.
I felt like an undercooked grilled cheese.
Like when you’re making a grilled cheese and one side is crisp and cooked and the other side is just laying in butter on lowered heat because your mom said the flame was too high, so you take the grilled cheese off prematurely and now one side is pleasurable and the other is soggy and weak; a post-orgasmic penis.
I was a fucked grilled cheese sitting in my own butter wishing I could’ve been cooked thoroughly. After hours of stand still traffic I realized I didn’t regret anything. The experience was horrid and humid, but I took something away from it: patience and a shower obliterate all feelings of discomfort.
Ignoring all the signs that tell you to “TURN AROUND” or “REROUTE EXIT” are mere suggestions that stifle you from experiencing heat and passion. If I hadn’t suffered through that heat, what would I be talking about now?
Another perfectly crisp grilled cheese, lacking character.
Half Bad Ass Half Phony