26 Ways to Beat the Heat this Summer

1)    Conquer the season and make your own lemonade with just three simple ingredients (lemon, sugar, water!)

2)    Squash that swelter and join the local community pool

3)    Brush off the burn with a nice cold treat at the pool’s snack shack

4)    Break the ice with the snack shack attendant

5)    Forget those soaring temps and avoid talking about your cooling marriage while you ask when the attendant gets off work

6)    Slap on your SPF 50 and make plans to meet at a nice shady spot far away from your house

7)    Douse the flames and text your spouse a crisp excuse on why you won’t be making it home for dinner (Example: ‘We’re all out of lemons for the homemade lemonade!’)

8)    Bury the blaze and blast the car’s AC to chill those nerves on the long introspective drive to the motel

9)    Hammer the heatwave and take a cold numbing shower after a bout of awkward sober sex with the snack shack attendant

10) What have you done?

11) Dial back that summertime sizzle by exiting the strip mall motel and clocking the wintry gaze of a woman entering the pet store

12) Thrash those tropic-blues and enjoy the nice cool chill running down your spine as you realize it’s that woman who just joined the PTA at your children’s school

13) Stave off the sweat, roll down the car windows, and let the white noise of the wind drown out your thoughts

14) Humidity? More like Humid-not-y. Stop at the store for some lemons so you can make lemonade when you get home because that’s what you said you were going to do and you are not a liar

15) Chill out and let your new mantra ‘I am not a liar’ wash over you like an island breeze

16) You’ve got it made in the shade so let your car idle a block away from your house and remember that trip you took to the beach with your family

17) Escape the scorch of the sun by parking in the garage and binge eating 15 of your son’s ice pops out of the garage fridge

18) The garage, and your brain, is too hot! Escape both by screaming ‘Who’s ready for some lemonade?!’ when you enter the home and feel the sharp chill in your bones when you scream out ‘I am not a liar!’ by mistake instead

19) Recover from the heat when your children ask ‘What?’ by coolly saying ‘I said I’d get some lemons and I got some lemons. I did not break that promise or any promise!’

20) Make like a popsicle and freeze when your partner comes around the corner and says ‘Marge said she saw you at a motel in Avondale?’

21) Swat out those soaring temps by calling up the snack shack attendant and explaining you have nowhere else to stay tonight

22) Sleep off the swelter on a couch in the basement of the snack shack attendant’s grandmother’s house

23) Be pragmatic about the heat. Sure it’s hot out, but it’s nothing compared to the hell of your own design

24) Squelch those highs and pick up some lows at the liquor store

25) Harness step one and combine the water, sugar, lemons, and booze. Shake!

26) You did it! You drank a lot of lemonade and now it’s Fall

THREE STOOGES (a gritty reboot)

A small midnight wind made its way through the branches of the home’s one lone oak tree. The branches creaked as they bent, scraping wooden fingers across the yellowing square siding of the house. The darkness was total, interrupted only by a single streetlamp casting three long shadows in the night. The three figures looked from the blackened house to the buzzing powerlines above. Moe spoke first, as always.

‘Trouble late in the house, that’s definite.’

His two companions silently agreed.

‘Power company probably got their wires all tangled up.’

The three men continued gazing up the length of the telephone poll. The tangle of cables swayed precariously in the wind. Moe’s hat threated to blow off and he straightened it against his mop of greasy black hair. He turned back toward Curly.

‘Go on up and straighten up the mess.’

Curly gave a curt nod and looked back up the pole. He was a broad man, a known oaf, and despite his name there was not a curl to be found on his bald pate. He watched the cables above as they swung back and forth, wondering again why he always listened to Moe. Moe was better suited for the work. He was stoat, but nimbler than Curly, and a notably better climber. Then of course there was Curly’s fear of heights. The cables twisted and rocked, straining against the iron hubs dug deep into the soft wood of the pole. The effect was like an old pocket watch, Curly became lost in the wire’s hypnotic dance. Entranced, the big man tipped backwards and stumbled into Moe nearly knocking him and their third companion, Larry, off their feet.

‘Ah ah!’ said Moe in surprise.

Larry got his footing again, the insanity of the task dawning on him. He began to protest.

‘Wait a minute. What am I doing? You know I get dizzy in high places.’

‘You’re dizzy in low places. Get up there!’ commanded Moe.

His voice was rough and careless like a grindstone. Curly felt hurt. They had known each other a long time and Curly had come to realize Moe was as selfish as he was cruel. He had had enough of this blackguard, this brute! If he didn’t stand up for himself now he never would.

 ‘No!’ Curly shot back, throwing down his wrench in anger.

The gesture was meant as a harmless punctuation to the sentiment, but in a malicious twist of fate, the heavy metal wrench did not bounce innocently off the pavement. It instead landed square in the middle of Moe’s foot. Moe cried out and grabbed his injured foot in pain. Larry let out a light chuckle, but Curly wasn’t amused. He immediately regrated his outburst. He had gone too far. He had hurt Moe and Moe was not one to let even the smallest accidents pass. Curly knew a dark vengeance would soon be upon him. He backed up against the telephone pole, terrified like a scared dog as Moe composed himself. In the nearby bushes lay the men’s assortment of tools. A tire iron flashed evil in the lamplight. Moe picked it up and came for Curly.

‘No, don’t… no please…’ Curly begged.

Moe was silent and precise, uncaring as an arrow. In one smooth fluid movement Moe had Curly’s nose latched firmly in the tire iron. The cold steel burned as it tightened around his soft, tender flesh. He knew it would be pointless to struggle. The most he could do was scream as Moe began to turn the iron, stretching his nose along the rusty grooves of the tool. Larry chuckled idlily, admiring the torture unfolding before him as if he was watching chipmunks play instead of brutal violence on a friend. Moe shot him an angry glace and Larry briskly moved to help him turn the tire iron. The iron made an unnatural screech against Curly’s nose as if it was made of sand instead of cartilage. Curly stopped his screaming, too shocked even to feel pain. It was all he could do now but hope Moe’s wrath was short. After three quick turns, Moe turned to Larry.

‘Ready? Off. Heave… ho! Heave… ho!’

The two men struggled to disentangle the metal from the pulsing mess of Curly’s nose.

‘Heave…’

The tire iron flew backwards with a sickening pop. Curly immediately reached for his nose. He brushed his fingers against the twisted and misshapen flesh. He would be maimed forever. A freak. He tried to stop himself, but the words were already blubbering out of his mouth.

‘Oh…oh…oh no. You’ve squished my nose all out of shape!’

He could hardly believe his own stupidity. It took everything to hold back the tears. Why did he talk back to Moe again? Why was he such an idiot? Did he never learn his lesson? Moe’s eyes lit up, fiery with rage.

‘Oh yeah? I’ll fix that. Come on.’

Moe grabbed Curly by the ear and dragged him over to a power sander they had assembled earlier on the corner of the driveway. The shrubbery thrashed behind them as the wind picked up to an unsettling gale. Larry giggled in the shadows as he plugged in the machine and turned on the power. Larry’s lips twisted in a grotesque smile, eyes thirsty, eager like a wolf. The belt sander began to spin into a hellish saw. Curly let go of his nose, sweat soaking the plaid golfing cap that had miraculously managed to stay on his bald head. He cried out in fear of the torture to come, begging for mercy.

Just a little mercy, Moe. Surely you have it in your heart to be merciful.

Moe grabbed Curly by the back of the head and pushed. Curly’s face smashed down hard onto the rough spinning wheel.

‘Put your nose on that.’ he said.

Moe’s thin lips stretched out to form a cruel, slightly crooked, grin. He was unhinged, lusty with the violence playing out before him. The wheel was hot and sparks flew up as Curly felt the skin flay from his nose, the saw ripping into the tender tissue beneath.

‘Oh! Oh! It’s hot! Oh!’ he cried out in agony.

Curly’s cries fell on deaf ears. Moe held a firm grip on his head, hands rough and callused from years of dark work. Curly could take no more. He was on the verge of passing out, just as Moe released his head.

‘Now I don’t want anymore arguments out of you. Get up that poll.’ Moe grated.

Larry continued his maniacal giggling by the repurposed sander. Curly let out a loaded gasp. It was a gasp of relief, of pain, of submission. He would have to climb the poll. He knew that now. It was pointless to fight Moe. He was as immense and immovable a presence as the mountains and the sea. How could Curly win against something like that? His gasp was of defeat, however Moe took it as a further act of defiance.

‘Go on!’ he prodded like a man might to a stray dog.

It was a choice between two fears. The abstract fear of the heights and the immediate fear of Moe’s brutality. The choice was no choice at all. He would have to turn back on the power. Resigned, Curly walked over to the tower of staple-pocked wood. He took one more dizzying look upward before he grabbed a fist full of cold iron rung, inhaled deep, and began to climb.

Foodie

I arrive at Tom’s promptly at 7pm. Tom answers the door and I immediately hold out a bottle of wine.

‘Wow you didn’t have to do this!’ Tom lies. 

Is there suspicion in his eyes? There should be. I gifted this same bottle of wine to my neighbor for a housewarming potluck she threw last April. It was regifted back to me for a BBQ I hosted in July. The orange zinfandel now finds a temporary home here.

I am the first person to arrive. I’m not embarrassed, in fact this was by design. Tom’s wife has promised smoked-salmon canapes, which I expect will be excellent. To prepare, I have fasted for the last 38 minutes. Thinking of the canapes brings an anticipatory wetness to my mouth. Snacks are the only consistently exciting part of life. Love will die, dreams will fade, friends will come and go. I am just as excited about snacks now as I was when I was five.

‘Well don’t just stand there! Come on in.’

I realize I have been standing silently, mouth-watering, in the doorway for too long. I bare my teeth in what I hope is a smile.

‘Don’t mind if I can!’

Tom’s face undergoes a brief spasm of confusion. I ignore it and follow Tom’s outstretched arm into the living room. The canapes are not ready. Tom presents a bowl of pretzels to me like a proud dog with a dead squirrel in its mouth. I want to kill myself. Tom’s wife of 12 years, Carole (?), follows after with a fused platter/ramakin of chips and salsa. I decide to live. I ask Tom some vague thing about his job. Tom’s eyes light up.

‘Actually I have some great news!’

I nod along in what I hope looks like interest as I nonchalantly reach for a chip and dip it into the salsa. Store brand salsa. My disappointment is a dark cloud. Catherine (?) feels it. I can see it in her oversized honeydew eyes. Why is she looking at me like that? I push the dark feeling down and return my gaze to Tom. I chew and mumble an agreement to whatever meaningless drivel Tom is blathering about. It’s important to look like you’re not considering your next chip while you are still actively eating the previous chip.

The doorbell rings. Tom and Cathy (?) turn and I stuff a handful of tortilla chips into a pants pocket. It’s Collum. Collum is here with his lover/partner Jim. Jim is the worst. I feel him before I see him the way animals know when a tsunami is coming. Jim is like a magnet faced the wrong way. When a mutual person of ours died he made the unforgivable move of drawing attention to how many times I had visited the wake buffet. If I could have packed Jim into the casket along with what’s-his-name I would have. I spent the rest of the funeral eating rolls in the handicapped stall. Jim pulls a pecan pie out of a brown paper bag. Jim’s actually a pretty good guy. I walk over and I give him an enthusiastic hug.

‘Where’s the family tonight?’ asks Jim.

‘What?’ I say.

Jim stares at me while trying to think of another way to word the question. Family… Family… Family! I have a wife and two children. Yes I remember now.

‘Oh sorry Jim. I had a hair in my throat. I do have a family. They are scuba diving.’

I forgot to pick the kids up from school. I was busy hiding all of their Goldfish snacks for myself.

‘Scuba diving?’

Jim is a dead end. I pivot.

‘Can I take that for you?’

I point to the pecan pie.

‘What? Oh. Sure.’

I bring the pie into the kitchen. This is a dessert meant for later in the night. It causes me a physical pain akin to childbirth, but it would be a mistake to have a slice now. I carefully bend back the aluminum and lift the plastic top straight up the way a spaceship might open. I size up the nutty-caramel surface then pull off a loose looking pecan sitting by the crust. It leaves a barely perceptible mark as I remove the nut from the pie and pop it in my mouth. Something is wrong. A walnut?! I will rain black hell on this bakery. I grab the lid and scour the surface for an address.

‘Oh good you’re alone.’

I fumble the lid and it goes flying off into the sink. I turn. It’s Karen (?). She approaches me quickly and kisses me hard and deep. She tastes like strawberry. I didn’t see any of those out. There must be a fruit plate somewhere in the house. I kiss her back. Yeah definitely strawberry and not a daquiri. I don’t detect any booze here. If there’s not a plate out there’s definitely some in the fridge. C…, whatever, Tom’s wife pulls her lips away from mine.

‘I think Tom knows about us.’

Oh yeah. We’ve been having an affair. I see the canapes in the oven. They look a little overdone.

‘Naw we’re fine.’

I begin to sweat. Salmon dries out easily. Normally Tom’s wife is on top of these things. It’s why I started having sex with her.

‘I think he saw your car the other night—’

The other night I came over blah blah blah then we had four cheese ravioli from scratch. It was incredible.

‘Four cheese ravioli from scratch.’

‘What?’

There is a thin veil of smoke rising in the oven. I try to draw her attention back to the present.

‘The canapes should come out soon.’

‘What?’

‘The canapes. They look like they might be overdone.’

Tom’s wife sends a frustrated glance toward the oven. The door opens and Tom walks through, eyes narrowed in suspicion like he’s looking at a pecan pie with a walnut crust.

‘What’s going on in here?’

Tom eyes his wife’s hand on my shoulder.

‘You two doing something you shouldn’t?’

There is a palpable tension in the air as Tom and his wife stare at one another. If tension had a taste this one would be the crystalline top of a crème brulé. The canapes are definitely burning. I open my mouth to mention it again, but then Tom begins to laugh.

‘I’m just messing around!’

Tom and his wife start belching out these weird forced laughs like mechanical clowns.

‘You’re so funny Tom!’ screams Tom’s wife.

‘Canapes.’ I say.

‘Oh yes! The canapes.’

Tom’s wife walks to the oven, makes a tiny yelp, and then pulls them out.

‘I’ve over cooked them!’

The room is silent.

‘I have to use the restroom.’ I say.

I exit the kitchen, pass the bathroom, walk upstairs to the guest bedroom, and scream into a pillow. I shouldn’t have gone into the living room to chat. The second I arrived I should have walked right past Tom’s dumb idiot arm and into the kitchen, but my overwhelming consideration for others has once again betrayed my better judgement. I think somebody must have been eating something in bed because a few crumbs find their way into my screaming mouth. Brioche? The doorbell rings. An unexpected guest? I thought the party was just us three couples (in retrospect it has probably come off as odd that I am not here with my wife). Another couple means hope. Another couple means perhaps… I don’t want to jinx it, but the thought comes anyway… more canapes? I finish the crumbs off the pillow and I head back downstairs.

I’m halfway down the staircase when Tom opens the door. My heart drops. It’s my wife. We stare at one another, both furious. She clearly didn’t bring anything.

‘What the hell?’ she says.

‘I could say the same thing!’ I reply.

‘You left without me and you didn’t pick up the kids from school!’

‘You didn’t bring anything to a potluck!’

She reaches down and pulls a bottle of wine out of her purse. My disappointment only compounds.

‘I already brought wine!’

I stomp my feet. I know I am being petulant. I don’t want to ruin the party. The finger foods have been a disaster, but there is still hope for dinner. I need to calm this storm. I take a breath.

‘I apologize for my outburst Susie—’

‘Susie?’

‘Sarah?’

‘Are you asking me what my name is?’

‘What I’m trying to say is I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and I’ve been forgetting things. I don’t know. It could also be a medical condition.’

Jim comes around the corner like an unwelcome quiche. His eyebrows jump up a level on his forehead.

‘Sarah! I thought you were scuba diving?’

‘Stay out of this Jim!’ I scream.

Everyone is staring at me now. I’ve gone too far. I need to regain some control over the situation. Collum touches me lightly on the arm.

‘Hey pal. Are you alright?’

I begin to respond when I notice something about the hand on my shoulder. There is the faintest trace of chocolate crumb smeared between his index finger and thumb. I look up into Collum’s concerned blue eyes and whisper, deadly serious.

‘Collum. Are there biscottis here?’

He looks behind himself as if there is another Collum in the room. He turns back to me.

‘Beg your pardon?’

I continue, my voice barely above a breath.

‘Biscottis? Crunchy biscuits. Often dipped in chocolate—'

‘What does this have to do with anythin—?' Sarah interjects.

‘Stay out of this Sus… Er… Sarah!’

I point a dagger of a finger at my wife then I continue to question Collum.

‘Collum. Are there biscottis, vanilla-flavored, chocolate-dipped, in this house?’

Collum looks like I just pulled a bra out of my pants and stuffed it in my mouth. I snap my fingers in front of his face.

‘Collum!’

‘No! Yes! I mean to say… yes. There were biscotti here, but only a couple and there aren’t any anymore.’

A dread begins to curdle deep down in my gut.

‘How many biscottis did you have Collum?’

‘I had a… couple and I think ‘biscotti’ is already plural so you don’t have to say ‘biscottis’.’

‘I’LL SAY BISCOTTIS HOWEVER THE HELL I WANT!’

The room falls silent. Nothing has gone according to plan. Life is a nightmare. The canapes are burnt, the biscottis/biscotti are finished, the pillow brioche was stale. This is the rock bottom I hear so much about in the AA meetings I eat cookies at. It doesn’t feel like a rock though. It feels like being stuck in molasses. Less like a rock bottom and more like falling onto a ginger snap.

‘Are you having an affair with my wife?’ threatens Tom in a flat menacing voice.

I pull one of the chips from my pocket and I begin to chew while the dinner party looks on, incredulous. The night is a wash.

 ‘Which one is your wife?’ I mumble at the floor as I move forlorn toward the door.

Tom begins to rant some nonsense at the back of my head as I take out another chip and chew, depressed. I walk out of the house past a line of immaculately trimmed hedgerows. Angry curses are thrown at my back as I turn the corner and walk out down the sidewalk. Something crashes to the street besides me. It’s the orange zinfandel. A fitting end. I walk past my car, down to the end of the cul-de-sac, and into the woods. I don’t know how long I walk for, but after a while I find myself in a dimly lit park. There’s a bench by a gravel path and I sit on it. There is a soothing crunching sound coming from above. I look up to see a squirrel munching on an old Cheeto.

Munch… munch… munch...

I close my eyelids.

Munch… munch… munch...

I let the music of the eating squirrel whisk me off to sleep.