2009-07-28 - 10:08 a.m.
Sticky, man. We've made it this far into summer without any air conditioning, but last night was sticky. I lay in bed, in just underwear, fan oscillating and loud, and still the sweat came, under my legs, in the small of my back. I did all my tricks to fall asleep--detailing an intricate process such as rigging up a fishing rod, like my dad taught me; taking batting practice, swinging dozens of perfect swings; even flying a little, jumping off of high buildings and gliding around my old neighborhood--but the heat beat each, and I couldn't fall asleep.
Just now, I was walking through the cafeteria here, on my way to fix a cup of coffee, when I passed the cashier. She is a short woman, with enormous breasts, with short salt-and-pepper hair parted down the middle. She is from Moldova. Her son is an engineer. She likes when I ask about him, giving me a sly look as if to say, "How do you know about my son?" She sees a lot of different people in a day, taking their money and giving them change, and she forgets that I know about her son, that I've asked. She's told me that he has gone back to school for a master's degree, that he has gotten a new job, that he's gotten married.
Today, when I passed, I waved hello and she waved back, as we often do. I asked, "How are you doing?" and she said, in her high voice, the accent making the words heavy and choppy, "I am good, but I do not know how you will be today."
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