There are very few places across the country that have been spared from the unrelenting, roasting, sweaty-thighs-stuck-to-the-car-seat heatwave we’ve been suffering through. Here in NYC, most of us only have a tragic window unit air conditioner to give us some relief. These annoying window units are noisy, not particularly effective, and condensation from the one in my upstairs neighbor’s window drips onto my head each time I head out to my patio. When I’m feeling generous I refer to it as the “cooling waterfall”. But really, it’s like being spat upon repeatedly by some vengeful pagan god.
So as you can imagine, here in NYC any place with centralized air conditioning is prized. Restaurants and bars advertise their air conditioning in the same way cheap old motel signs boast: “FREE CABLE!”
Thus, my quest to soak in a little air conditioning had some disturbing consequences…
There I was in Midtown: hot, uncomfortable, cranky, sneering at passersby and unsticking my sweaty dress from my ass.
I said to myself (or possibly aloud–the heat makes me delirious) “Fuck this! I’m just going to pop into some store for a few minutes to cool down.”
I’m not going to tell you the name of the store I popped into.
Let’s just say it’s one of those stores where teenage girls buy cheap pants to wear on the night of their unplanned insemination.
This place is vile. It’s a sea of spandex and trashy shit to wear to clubs that don’t check for fake I.D.s very closely.
The moral of this story is: you just never know where life is going to take you, do you?
(And beware of the dangerous lure of centralized air conditioning!)