The Summer Wind: Part 1 - The Set Up

My bedroom - 4:25 p.m.

…came blow-n-n-n in... from across the sea. It lingered there -

"Summer Wind" is easily my favorite Sinatra song so it pains me to use it as such a negative lead-in. Normally I never disagree with Uncle Frank. What he says goes. But that summer wind he croons of doesn't have the same sentimental appeal to me that it did for him. It never touched any dame's hair urging her into my arms, convince me to sing a song or walk on any golden sands. Rather, it's humid haze hovers and chokes me like a permanent cigarette puff. The next line of my reworked version goes a little something like this - meastro, if you will - "like painted kites those days and nights… they seemed infinite and miserable as helllllll." I'll admit, not quite as catchy, but slightly truer lyically.

It has become consistently hot and I am methodically miserable.

As I sat slumped in the passenger seat of a friend's golden Ford chariot returning home from a weekend of manly excess, I couldn't help but think about the misery I was in - which happened to be comprised of three distinct factors, two of which are the crux of this piece. First there was the unhealthy level of booze, smoke and meat that I had ingested over the previous 48 hours. Second, was the fact that I was stuck in a hot car with 4 dudes all excreting noxious fumes from their equally gluttonous consumption. My glands were in a constant state of hyper hydrosis, my face glistening with oily residue and my limbs were spotted with itchy little mounds of irritated skin. Third, I was wearing shorts for the second day in a row, hadn't donned a dress shirt in three days and was overexposed to flip flops in a confined location. This hangover was a reverse cocktail made with 2 parts self destructive behavior, 1 part heat and 1 part casual discomfort. The weekend was a success and I was in a mixed state of emotions about returning to my apartment. I would soon be devoid of the debaucherous after effects and be back amongst my wardrobe options but I also knew what kind of sweaty routine I would face the next morning.

It starts when I awake around 6 a.m. and peel myself from the cotton that was once tautly stretched across my mattress. Some time in the previous 6 hours, the military precision of the sheets degraded into a swampy mess of thread on which I had melted. The whir of my window fan is like a mother's whisper. So soft and inviting that I don't want to move in fear that things will get much worse in it's absence. I always shower at night, but in the warmer months I proceed to the bathroom to rinse the exhaustion of sleep and sweat from my skin. I try to make the time between removing my head from the pillow and the pull of the front door as minimal as possible. You would think I was trying to run from the law or feverishly escape the chase of a chainsaw-wielding horror villain. With the efficiency and mechanics of a swiss timepiece I finish my bathroom sequence and dress quickly in an outfit I had mentally prepared the night before as I lay wide-eyed praying for sleep to fall upon me. After the lock clicks and I start to bound down the 6 flights of stairs a wave of cool begins to settle between me and the shaded bricks of my stairwell. I have to cherish this descent for the next one will not bring such relief. As I have written before, I am not an overly religious man but I find myself praying in the last moments before I hit the vestibule that leads outside - "Dear God, if you do exist, let there be a breeze."

Depending on the day, my morning gets infinitely better or worse based on the 3 steps between the inner threshold of my building and the concrete of the first outer step. More often than not it is refreshing. The early morning on the Upper East Side is somewhat tranquil and shaded compared to other parts of the city and my walk towards the downward spiral of hell is a welcome respite from what I have already had to endure. As I approach the subway the only ounce of optimism I carry with me on a normal day is released in my inner monologue - "maybe it won't be that bad today‚ I only have to wait a few minutes for an air conditioned train to come." That lasts all of 10 seconds as the first mezzanine of the underground sweatshop opens up before me. The turnstile chinks around and I head for the second set of stairs, to fall further into the MTA's layered Inferno. The air is now suffocating and horned rats scurry in the trench of the tracks. Have I actually descended into hell? 

She wouldn't stand a chance here.

Much like my approach to stepping outside, the opening of the subway doors is often equal to the flip of a coin. Will this car have AC and if so, will it be powerful enough to erase the last 12 hours of feverish suffering? The blasts of air are a welcome passenger on these rides and I pop out at Grand Central feeling refreshed. I'm now in the home stretch before the frigid oasis of my office chair comes into sight. I race through the main terminal at a calculated pace - fast enough to urge along my efforts but controlled enough to abate the swells of sweat from pooling under my arms and down my lower back. I have only been in my clothes for not yet a half hour and already I am on the verge of losing them to the humiliation of swamp ass and arm pit crescents.

The tragic irony of my day comes when I step through the large double wood doors at work. I've reached a pleasure nexus. Delightfully cold yet soul sucking-ly depressing all at once. I work in a large gray cube, no windows, no colors, no sense of time lost. It is a lifeless vortex that could easily beget a Van Winkle effect without the relaxation of sleep. Hours erode, years easily pass by. You never see the day turn to night, the sun shine, the rain fall, or your dreams float away. My job caters to photography and color so we are sentenced to serve our time in neutral gray tones and pure white light. But it is cool and comfortable so I happily sit and try to forget the last 40 minutes of my morning.

The end of the day becomes even more challenging. Deciding to leave this arctic bastion amounts to being asked if you can ever have too much money or too many woman. It seems absurd to purposefully leave such a place only to return to the sweltering reality of my life at home. The inverse of the morning debacle is much worse as there is no pot of cold gold waiting at the other end. The minutes approaching 4 o'clock cause utter confusion in my head. I possess the giddy unease of a reader running through the final pages of a novel as well as a restless abandon akin to departing from a new lover after a perfect date. I don't want to leave but I don't want to stay either. Shit.

The sad thing is, I used to love the summer. There was nothing better in my youth than this time of year, knowing that the freedom from homework and uniforms was newly upon me. Days full of baseball, grass stains and imagination were at my finger tips. I would be able to run around like a monkey snorting pixie sticks and sweat out my shackled winter frustrations in the humidity of the Mid-Atlantic air. I never was one for video games or hiding indoors. I much preferred living in fantasy worlds as my childish pursuits and also liked pretending to have various blue collar jobs for some reason. Many days I chose to be a cop, fireman, or Ghostbuster, while others would lead me into the more skilled trades as a fuax carpenter, mechanic or plumber. One of my favorites though was a fighter pilot - Maverick from Top Gun in particular. The lawn chaise magically transformed into my F-14 and my sister into Goose. Poor K/C‚ Goose never survived no matter how hard I tried to outmaneuver those goddamn Migs. The dogfights were intense. We lost a lot of good men (read: younger sisters) out there.

To better explain my disdain for summer and the ritualistic to and fro of my daily life, I should mention that my surroundings are partially to blame. Residing in NYC does not make the summer an easy season to endure - especially in a 6th floor walk-up apartment with no AC. Without much imagination you can probably infer my level of comfort when temperatures begin to consistently reach the upper 80s and 90s. It is a downright torturous existence. In the practice of full disclosure there is an AC but it does little to offer reprieve. Our wiring can only withstand a small unit and the pre-war construction and half-assed maintenance means that none of the windows close all of the way. Much like a congressional debate, all the AC is capable of is blowing air around and providing unearned Christmas bonuses to Con-Ed employees. As I stated, leaving the apartment can often be worse. Heat is magnetically drawn to the seas of black asphalt and trapped at ground level by the towering edifices of concrete and steel. The city becomes an oven and exposure to the imprisoned warmth is only complimented by the perfume of the city. Nothing can enliven your love for the great outdoors like the saturating aroma of dumpster juice, stale dog excrement and the homeless basting in a their own sweat and urine. And people say Folgers is the best part of waking up...

So this takes care of introducing you to most of the obvious reasons I might spew ill will towards the summer. Stay tuned for part two which ventures into my number one gripe with the season and its facilitation of casual discomfort.