Heat Advisory

You can’t see it because it isn’t like the other storms, which roll in with a fist and erupt into a display of fear and magnitude. This one is more cunning. It wears a facade of a cloudy day. The trees don’t move. There is no wake of attention. The few aware of its presence know that the best way to survive this storm is to hide away inside and keep cool. For it appears to quietly and gently blanket the bluest skies as if it is doing something good. Something natural. Who knows why. A break from the sun? Most would believe that. But they are wrong. It is this type of day that is the worst.

The clouds are so prevalent you don’t even think of them being there; it isn’t a cloudy day, it is a gray sky. So naturally your fears are dominated by the disguise. From your window you can still go outside and play, run errands, feel good. But when you try to leave, you are first hit by the scorching, stagnant air as your body struggles to push your way through it. You consider retreating but instead you brave the heat and attempt a jog like a decorated athlete to your car. You open the car door and immediately get blasted by a nuclear wave, jerking backward to let the car breathe. You regain your footing and jump in – a lunge for the finish line– as your body melts into the seat and you become stuck in the middle of coming and going.

At this point you’ve endured such punishment that turning back would leave you with double the struggle and nothing to show for it. So, you focus instead on the hope ahead, the air conditioning - on survival. Afterall, you know this weather is a rarity and the worst of the oppression is over. The car begins to move and you are nearly acclimated to your cool, safe environment. You feel grateful, turn on the radio, and merge into the rhythm of the song as it exports you to the happiness of nostalgic memories.

You arrive at your destination and step out of your car. Your skin burns and tightens as your cheeks feel heavy and swollen like muffins two minutes away from being done in the oven. By the time you get to the entrance of the supermarket, your hair is damp with sweat while your face is dry to the bone. Once inside you luxuriate in the circulation of central air, cold floors, and active people walking and talking and just being, and before long it is just another day. Now, you even get a chill in the frozen section and snatch what you want and go through the checkout, selecting a drink from the refrigerator while you’re in line. Making small talk, you joke with the cashier about how hot is too hot and you both laugh as you indiscriminately round up your change to the latest charity. Then, as you push your cart through the automatic doors, you are blindsided again by the raging inferno, forgetting the cruelty awaiting you outside- forgetting the abuse you suffered getting there.

Your cart makes unnoticed tracks on the lines of asphalt covering the cracks that secretly grow underneath, and you remark, “Whew!” as you approach your car. This time you are aware of the seat’s sting but still not the storm approaching. To you, it is still just stagnant, smothering heat that sucks the life from the surrounding world and suffocates with its humidity. Yet through your windshield, it is just a normal gray, overcast day.

You remember this time when you open your door to let the car gasp for air before you get in, and you even remember to tug on your shorts to avoid the vinyl’s burning grip on your thighs. You quickly start the car to alleviate your suffering, and you jump in fear as the radio jolts you from reality; but, the preset air blows hope across your mind, which before too long places you right back into that night in high school at the mud hole when you went skinny dipping during that “hot july moon.” The cool of that evening and the flood of emotion sweeps away the sweltering world as you ignorantly drive through the dry, dying world watching you. Your temperature has returned to normal and you even put the windows down to feel your hair run wild in the moment–your AC still blasts.

When you return home, you remain in your car, singing to the memories as the dried up flowers bow down to the grass, which is turning pale, under the blanket that has now covered the entire sky. So uplifted by your escape, you emerge from the car–run inside, close the door and give an over dramatic sigh, “Oh is it hot out there!” as if to say, I did it! I survived the unbearable, yet you have no idea how lucky you truly are…to experience this weather from your window–to see only gray skies. Me on the other hand, I have been in these conditions often. Often enough to know that what it really is, is the worst kind of storm imaginable. The one no one bears witness to but me.

. . .

From my window, I don’t see a gray sky but the ash that gathers and smolders everything underneath. The trees stand still, but not because the day is at peace, but rather they are afraid to stir the wind into reigniting the fire that was, which is evident by the lack of shadows casted by the cruel sky. It makes the world seem flattened, two dimensions that rob me of the idea of a real life. But not all of it. Look at the sycamores in the distance. They too seem dried into place like a pressed flower in a book, until one observes the part of the tree closest to the storm, the top. Notice the top of the tree sways, deflecting the sky above with flashes of silver and green, like shields deflecting hit after hit of its invisible power while the rest of the world below is still and silent.

Knowing this, I prepare for my own journey. My sunglasses are on, as is my hat, to conceal myself as much as possible from the damage done by the cloud’s false sense of protection, which penetrate deeply despite their appearance. I grab a towel and place it in my right hand and open the door to the house, knowing there is no option to turn back–afterall, I made a commitment. This day's heat will soon be over. I walk quickly to the car, not to alert the storm of my fear. Plus, if I run, the more the heat strokes me. I open the door with my hand protected by the towel and back away, the door acting as a barrier between me and the nuclear blast. I count to fifteen because while ten seconds is enough for the heat to escape, fifteen seconds is enough to let the car inhale a short breath of fresh air where I will be sitting. It gives me a small edge.

I start the engine. The AC is already set to high cool and once I reach the second stop light, turn right, and pass the car wash on the left, I know I will be able to turn the setting to circulate so that no outside air can contaminate the coolness of the atmosphere inside. My playlist, which are the tracks to The Chicks’ “Fly” album, began when I pulled out of the driveway and is now on song number five. Song one motivated me to skip song two. Song three is my song, which motivated me to bypass track four and go straight to five. I listen intently.

When I pull into my parking space, I crack the window an inch and a half, just wide enough the car can breathe yet no one can reach inside. I turn the volume down in preparation for my return, angle the vents away from my face, and shut the car off. I sit there in the moment of silence and inhale a deep breath as if I am diving down as far as I can on a one way trip to see the bottom of the ocean. I then emerge from the car and into the sweltering heat. My hat and glasses shield me from the blaze and yet each step is calculated for the most direct route to the entrance of the grocery store. I walk in casually and no one can tell that I too am a victim of the extreme weather. I rest my sunglasses on the bill of my hat and inhale the central air. The coolness of the shopping cart calms my uneasy hands with its cold, metallic, even touch.

I don’t look around. I get what I need. I stop for a second in the frozen section where my own reflection in the glass doors stares at me. We freeze together there for a moment and the reflection seems so cold that it shatters from my mind as I notice the frost on the other side of the window. I open it up and grab what I need as the collision of the frigid air and my febrile skin steam up my thoughts. I breathe the freezing air in deeply as if it is an antibiotic for the world to which I will return. I shut the refrigerator door. It is here, in this frozen section, that I walk the slowest, double, triple checking the list until I know I can stall no longer.

Like you, I used to get a treat and chat with the cashier at the checkout, but no longer does it cross my mind. I stay focused on the storm outside that keeps me from the casual conversations I once loved. My eyes peripherally acknowledge the clerk and my ears block out all sound but my own voice of the programmed instructions I have memorized for times like these. I return my cart from where I got it so that I have less time returning it in the heat, cover my eyes with my sunglasses, and lower my hat to meet the frame. Now, holding my bags in both hands, I over inflate my lungs like a balloon about to burst. I then exit through the entrance as it is the most direct path to my car.

Instantly I can feel that the storm tightened its grasp and the sweat, which was only in my hairline going in, was already forming beaded drops on my face. I make sure to walk over the tar-filled cracks and without losing sight of the car, I count each memorized step from the exit to the car door while my finger constantly presses the unlock button to ensure I get in the quickest. My hand reaches for the handle and I see through the window that I had placed my towel on the passenger’s seat and it throws me into an unexpected state of panic.

My thoughts begin to melt away and I feel the humidity suffocate me with its invisible pillow. But I’ve been here before. Plan B. I open the car with my left hand and place my frozen bag on the seat and count, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…I already feel the plastic of the bags slipping in the sweat of my left hand… three Mississippi, four Mississippi…the burning pavement infiltrates my nostrils and I get choked by fumes of asphalt and car exhaust five Mississippi, six Mississippi… Thoughts crash into thoughts. Memories streak and bang into memories. I feel faint.…seven Mississippi...”Set me free, oh I pray”...eight Mississippi..”Earl had to die”…nine Mississippi…the beads of sweat cry down my face… ten Mississippi.

I quickly slide the bags from my seat to the towel on the passenger’s side while simultaneously slipping into my place. I turn on the car before shutting my door and let the AC laugh at me with its initial bitter, heated cackles. My playlist resumes with “Goodbye Earl” and I chuckle at the irony of the heat, and the song, and the storm, and the collision of memories that just took place outside. But the irony of Earl’s death and the oppression of the humidity make my fingertips nudge the playlist to song number seven as I already feel the car breathing again, as do I. The AC calms down and soon the cool, free air sings the lyrics and lifts my spirits. I don’t sing the words, but rather I whisper them in my head as if praying.

The music takes me away, but unlike you, my mind drifts to dreams of memories yet to come. I turn down my road and for a brief moment my hands clutch the steering wheel and I think about not stopping. Just to go. Keep going. Not stop. Ever. Drive to the dreams that set me free. Free from the heat. Free from the storm. Free from the idea of freedom itself. Just to drive into a dream where it actually becomes reality. But as I approach the driveway my mind jumps back into trained cadence and my mental checklist reissues the memo showing the importance of preparation. Lower the volume, redirect the vents, pull the towel out from under the bags and put it in a bag, no need to crack the window, secure bags with left hand before turning off the car, and then grab the rest of the bags directly following my removal of the key with my right hand.

I pull in and park the car and notice the flowers sadly drooping as a child being scolded by her mother. I promise them that I will water them when I’m done putting away the groceries and send up a quick prayer for God to protect the life outside in this storm. Then, like butter melting in a pan, I press open the car door and my plan goes so smoothly I smile out of congratulations for my efforts. I make my way up the walk making sure not to step on the dry grass growing in between the slabs of the sidewalk as if to cause no further pain. I get inside and the frigid air stuns me.

“What took you so long? Where did you go?”

“I got what you wanted.”

I put the groceries away and go sit in the living room. From where I sit, I observe the storm outside once again. I sit and think about how people like you are lucky they don’t have to notice the storm. My eyes water up at the thought and a tear silently waters the flowers that I won’t be watering today.