Friday, July 21, 2017

Summer in the city.

Air made of hot clay has settled over New York and even the most over-achieving air conditioners are straining, tongues out, to mitigate the oppression.

I woke up at five this morning. I had some work that needed doing and was planning on being at my desk at six. The weatherman said it was 77-degrees already and going up another 20. New York is also under something called a clean air advisory--meaning the monoxide, dioxide, ozone, and cats' piss is so redolent, it's barely safe to do much out-of-doors. 

To quote Raymond Chandler, whom I almost always cite when it's hot like it is today: "On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."

My neck survived the morning. I walked over from Ninth Avenue, past the homeless and residual drunks drinking 20 oz. cans of Coors from sad paper bags, and made it to my desk 15 past six, and did the work that needed doing.

It gets like this in New York.

Keep cool.

And watch your neck.

No comments: