Summer in Manhattan is Hell

Islands can be a wonderful place to spend the summer. The island of Manhattan is not one of them. There is no escape from the merciless heat. Tall buildings deceive by providing patches of shade but, after a few consecutive days of taking on the sun’s wrath, they’ve been transformed into rows of towering infernos. Standing outside smoking a cigarette, I rethink my habit, my fear of rogue icebergs, and rising sea levels. They are not harbingers of death, they are angels of mercy.
Garbage trucks, every corner you turn, mash up piles of trash so rancid even the rats don’t bother with it. They drip their condensed byproduct onto the streets where it sizzles, the steam trapped in the humid air. The smell gets on your clothes, on your skin, in your mouth.
Standing outside smoking a cigarette, I rethink my habit, my fear of rogue icebergs, and rising sea levels. They are not harbingers of death, they are angels of mercy.
And then there are the crazies. The heat brings them out. The shelters throw them out. The tweakers smoke them out.
I watch a lady standing in the middle of 3rd Avenue blocking traffic while screaming at a man only she sees. A few minutes later, a six-foot-three Indian guy wearing a crooked Liza Minnelli wig and a chartreuse pant suit screams his way down the block. He does this every day. He threatens to cut every “motherfucker” who dares look at him. He’s a walking paradox. It’s 95 degrees and 100% humidity. Today, I hate him too.
A sweaty canvasser walks up to me. I have tattoos, they have tattoos, but the commonality often ends there. He corners me with the tired line, “Hey, you look like a person who cares!” “I do,” I tell him. “I care about the homeless, the greyhounds, and the fetuses. I’m guessing I’ve missed something?” I say, bouncing my cigarette, arm bent like Bette Davis because it’s only 11 am and I’ve already had it with this day. When I’m done listening to his pitch, I’ll also care about prison inmates via a recurring monthly donation.
He forces me to listen to the long version of his short life’s story. Now I’m the prisoner. He’s a photographer, a song writer, a comedy writer, and an activist. He’s been a Christian, a Buddhist, and a Jew. He’s lived here, he’s lived there. He thinks this makes him sound worldly. It makes him sound fucking lost. We’ve all been lost as some point in our lives, I get it, but today I’m too hot to care. The smell of meth has leapt from his wet skin onto my wet skin. The sweat I’m pouring does little to wash it away.
He corners me with the tired line, “Hey, you look like a person who cares!” “I do,” I tell him. “I care about the homeless, the greyhounds, and the fetuses. I’m guessing I’ve missed something?”
He’s managed to find a new way to make the insufferable heat even worse. I still manage to be somewhat kind to him despite the fact he’s consciously ignoring my visual cues alluding to my escape. I’m a highly empathetic person which often does me no favors. This is one of those times.
Nearly 20 minutes have passed. His monologue veers into his transition from female to male and he starts talking about human rights. I seize this opportunity to break free from his speed shackles. “The transsexual community will find acceptance the same way the gay community did,” I say as I take a drag from my fourth cigarette, “when corporate America finds a way to profit from them.” He clearly doesn’t like my answer. I excuse myself as he stumbles for a response.
I hate the summer. I hate the summer more than Noriega hated Welcome to the Jungle. More than Anne Coulter hates bleeding heart liberals. I hate the summer more than New Hampshire’s paramedics hate administering Narcan. Period.

