Tag Archives: heat

“just make it, babe, make it…”

“We can make it!  We can make it!  C’mon, babe.  We can make it!”

For nearly six miles I was chanting this to the steering wheel of my car, yesternight.  I was caressing it, leaning my flushed cheek bones against its drying leather.  And when no one was looking, I even planted a peck onto it, with my semi-dehydrated lips:

“We can make it!”

I suspected this would happen:  I had waited till the very last moment — again! — to refill my gas tank.  And now, I was running late to a rehearsal — again! — with my gas light on:  AGAIN!

“God damn it!” I would have sworn normally as I sensed the neon yellow light on my dashboard, out of the corner of my eye.  “I should’ve done this last night!”

But that night, I was exhausted, thinking only of the sleepiness, somewhere in my calves and feet; and of trying to not run outta gas — again.

And now, I was sitting in traffic on a congested side street someone had recommended to me as a shortcut against, um, well… traffic.  But that’s what happens quite a bit:  Other people’s shortcuts — turn into my hell.  

So, I would much rather just keep taking my own routes; doing it my own way.

But then, yesternight, I was running late — again.

So, I attempted to surrender:  “We can make it!”

I had already done THE work, by then:  Five hours — GONE out of my day!  Grateful!  Of course, I was grateful — for being able to do it.  But fitting in THE work every day always required two things:  lack of sleep and brutal discipline toward the rest of my life.

And then, of course, there was the survival hustle:  Chalk up another three hours to that!   But I have long surrendered to that already, because I am the one who chose this destiny, this route.  I am the one who rejected a myriad of day jobs and hustled to get herself out of the drudgery of the restaurant business, as well.  I am the one who agreed to the chronic pain-in-the-ass-ness of a freelancer’s life.  I am the one continuously taking — and building — my own ways.  Because only then, do I have enough dignity and space — for THE work. 

And now, I was dashing across town:  To do more work.

Okay, maybe I wasn’t dashing:  I was crawling, dragging my ass through the overheated, exhausted streets of LA-LA.  I was serving my time among others with their stories of pursuits, and with exhaustion written all over their drooping faces.  And while doing so, I was resisting every urge to curse out the retirees existing in their own timezones inside their oversized Lexuses:

“Why aren’t you moving?!” I’d usually flail while studying the trail of break lights ahead of me.  Normally, there is no rhyme or reason for it:  only the collision of other people’s timezones.  And I have to remember that they too have done their work that day:  THE work.

So, I attempt to surrender:  “We can make it!”

The side street finally opened into a giant boulevard.  We flooded onto it, and the people coexisting in my timezone took over the outer lanes — and we got going.

But then:  My gas light came on.

God damn it!

I immediately remembered the poor sucker in a Porsche who got stuck in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, the night before.  I had been sitting in traffic, on a congested side street, waiting to merge.  Because that’s what happens quite a bit:  My shortcuts collide with the shortcuts of others; and we have no choice but to obey each other’s timezones.

“But why aren’t we moving?!” I kept thinking and trying to see ahead of the red trail of break lights.  Surely, there was no rhyme or reason for it!

Not until we flooded into the intersection, did I notice the Porsche owner sweating, swearing, cursing out the honking drivers, as he refilled his tank with a portable plastic canister.  A Porsche outta gas:  Times must be tough, I thought.

And we kept on crawling, yesternight.  We kept on — serving time.

Some of us had already done THE work.  Others just hustled to survive.

So, I attempted to surrender:  “We can make it, surely!  We can make it!  All of us!”

And I would make it, not just to a gas station, but to my favorite one.  I would pull up behind a tired, droopy face of a young man who stared into space above the rooftop of his vintage Volvo.  He would forget to close the flap on the side of his car, and I would honk.  He waved, pulled out masterfully and waved again.  Thank goodness, there were people coexisting in my timezone.

“We can make it, babe!” I kept chanting.

Forty on six.

Have a good night.

You too, babe.

The nearness of humanity outside the plastic bodies of our cars was beginning to soothe me.  The whiff of gas followed the short-stop pumping sound of the pipes.  I began staring ahead, above the rooftop of my car.

“Um…” I heard.

An older man with smirking eyes and crooked yellow teeth was standing next to me, while clutching a ten dollar bill.

“Could you help me out?” he said.

Behind me, he parked his ride, blocking my way:  A giant black Benz of a recent make.

“A Benz outta gas,” I thought.  “Times must be tough!”

His story would be about money.  About Vegas — and losing all of it, to the hustle.

Times must be tough, I thought.  But we can make it, babe:  All of us!

I surrendered.

Finally.

“Try to Remember the Kind of September…”

This absolutely must be the last of it:  this heatwave, right?!

I’m sitting in my friend’s backyard:

“Dang, this joint needs some work!”

The flower bulbs are waiting to be put to sleep, for the winter…  What winter?!  I’ve been chasing fucking butterflies this morning and playing pingpong with the bodies of wasps.  (Don’t worry!  I’m so not into the whole animal cruelty thing.  But these monsters are curiously attracted to my papaya perfume.  So, I give them a lil’ push and watch them fumble away, with their dangly legs, above my head.  That’s right!)

The wild weed that broke through the pavement three years ago, when I first met the man, is now a wild shrubbery in dire need of trimming.  It’s now taller than the fence.  (His child is also taller by now, but she still crunches my heart every time her strawberry chin is in my vicinity.  And she looks more — like me.)

The rectangular flower bed usually filled with pungent bright orange flowers that remind me of Russian Septembers is completely desolate right now.  I wonder if he had even planted anything this year, or if nothing simply could survive this heat.  I have spent most of my summer on the beach; or more north of here, with more tolerable climates and more grounded humanity.

Here, we’re just fried all the time.  Baked — out of our better minds. 

I noticed it yesterday:  this heat-induced irritability that enters all of our faces and makes us lose ourselves, in want.  I was craving the caramel-colored heart that my barista draws in the foam of my lattes, in the morning.  So, I stepped out, to hunt for it.

Surely, I expected warmth that day.  But not this heatwave!

“Coffee?  Am I crazy?!”

The traffic along Venice was crawling Westward.  The sweaty face of a motorcycle cop showed zero delight in response to my wave as he waited for me to cross:  He seemed annoyed, exhausted.  Baked inside his helmet — and out of his better mind. 

A man in a white tank-top with yellow armpits was walking ahead of me, with two panting Rottweilers, without a leash.  In his left hand, he carried an open bottle of beer, super-sized.  Be it the heat or the liquor, he swayed and zigzagged quite dramatically across the walkway.

“I hope this poor guy doesn’t collapse from a heat stroke,” I thought and looked back at the irritable cop, in a helmet.  He was gone.

I would have caught up to the poor drunk, but the two bitches next to him were meaning business.  So, I slowed down too.

I waited for him to get ahead enough, so I could sneak into the door of my barista’s coffee shop, but the red-faced man turned and noticed me.  He started staring.

“So pretty,” the man slurred as I took a few hesitant steps to pass his bitches who by then got busy sniffing the streetlight’s pole.

I hesitated and took a sudden turn into the thrift store to my left.

Inside, the heat punched me in the lungs:

“There is not enough air around here,” I thought and looked through the glass door at the bitches outside.  Yep, still there.  “Fine.  I’ll take a look around.”

“Take a look around!” she said.

She had appeared out of nowhere:  A face that I would cast for a children’s most feared witch.  I thought of the strawberry chin, and it crunched my heart.

“I have a lot of good stuff here!” she continued, sweating and bulging her eyes at me.  “And I have a dress I’d love to show you:  IT’S SO CUTE!”

A good day for the crazies to be out, I thought, counting myself into that camp.  It wasn’t even noon — and I was already starting to feel on edge.  Baked — out of my better mind.

Maybe it was the fault of the full moon, from the last couple nights.  At first, I thought it was cool:  Its roundness reminded me of my motha’s face — and of Russian Septembers.  (And neither occurrence — is to be fucked with, by the way!).  But then, the heat would not subside even at nighttime.  And I would rummage through my linens, in nothing but my ex’s dress shirt, until I would find another cotton sheet to soak through, in my sleep.

The strange face would follow me, from one rack to another.  And when at the back of the store, I noticed the backdoor:  “Freedom!” I thought.  And I charged out.

Once outside, the heat, that seemed to have increased in the last few minutes, punched me in the lungs.

“Fuck coffee!  Am I crazy?!”

I made my way back home.

And now, I’m sitting in my friend’s backyard, on the West Side of the city, where the temperatures promised to be more tolerable.  The metallic surface of my laptop is now hot enough to fry a stake.

I’m getting messages from NYC about gray skies and blue moods.  My comrades wish they could be in the sun.

“Not this much sun!” I respond and bury my hand in a flower pot full of potpourri as dead as… well, potpourri.

To the left of me:  A plate full of seashells is sitting on a cracked asphalt.  In the winter, I had seen this thing filled with water and moss before; and it used to remind me — of Russian Septembers.

But now, the surface of each shell is whited out and chalky to the touch.  I reach out to rearrange them:  If I put them to the ear, I think, I bet they are too arid to echo the Ocean.

“Coffee?” my friend sticks his head out, through the back door.

“Coffee?  Are you crazy?!” I respond.

But then:

“Well, sure.  What the hell!”