The Temperature of My Life

My Coca-Cola bottle, which had been frosty a few minutes ago, was now dripping water down my hands and arms. There was a paper plate of food in my lap. All that was left was the boiled chicken feet. I pinched the bottle between my knees and lifted a foot to my mouth, slurping the skin off and swallowing. It was easier that way. Chewing it took forever.

As I watched the flat, dusty land of my new home country pass by, I was struck by the thought that it was snowing where I used to live. I thought about the snow wistfully for a moment and gulped down the rest of my coke. It was warm now.

When the truck stopped we walked. The air was so heavy with water that I imagined I was feeling resistance as I passed through it. I was small and tired and my sandaled feet were caked with pink road dust. I thought to myself that if Jesus had showed up and offered to wash them, I probably would have let him.

We lived quite a few villages away and although they had gotten used to seeing us walk around and barter at the markets, we were still a novelty in this one. Seeing a soda, or a shop run out of a person’s home, I walked up and asked for a bag of water, giving the girl a coin in exchange. I could tell my voice was strange to her, it’s cadence and pitch unfamiliar, and she stared at me longer than she stared at the other customers. 

She gave me my bag and I ripped the corner with my teeth, squeezing the contents into my mouth. It was warm too. 

I held my mother’s hand and we walked. My father was ahead of us, and as his feet landed on the ground he kicked up the pink road dust in puffed clouds that landed on and coated his shoes. I looked up and squinted at the sun as it burned my skin to match the roads. I was sure I would never be hotter than I was at that moment. 

…....

A few years later I was living in a different country. Our home had air conditioning, but only in the bedrooms. The daily average was 115 degrees. The bedrooms were 85.

I laid face down on the tile floor of my room. It was the coolest place I could find. I had been outside since 8 am and it was now 4. My sweat had evaporated off my skin leaving a whitish flake behind. This happened everyday. It itched. I rubbed my hand across my arm and watched the salt fall away. I needed a shower.

In the uncooled bathroom I took my clothes off. They were stiff with salt too. Already I could feel my body start to sweat. We had running water in this house, but no water heater. That was okay. We would never have used it anyway. I scrubbed my hair and body under the tepid stream. Even it was not cold. It was collected on the roof and the roof was 200 degrees. So I stood in the shower, unable to tell if what was dripping from me was water or sweat. 

Scrubbing my body I lifted my arms and saw something new. Hair. My mother’s razor sat on the shelf next to me. I lifted my arm and tilted my head, my vision blurred by the salt in my eyes. I grabbed the razor and dragged it across my skin. A paper cut sting was followed by a gush of red from my skin. I muttered something unladylike under my breath and tried to wipe the distracting sweat from my eye with a soapy hand.

If it only wasn’t so god-forsakenly hot!

…....

As I said before, a roof can be clocked at upwards of 200 degrees with an infrared thermometer on a sunny day. It was a very sunny day.

The harness I have worn for many months has now left permanent indentations in my collar bone. To this day, if I drag my finger across it, I can still feel the divots. I don’t know if you have ever lived through a hurricane. I haven’t. But I’ve spent many months cleaning up after several of them. This one was about to break me. I stood on the black tar of the roof and adjusted my gear, soaking wet with my own sweat. When I lifted my feet to walk across to the other side, my boot was pulled from my feet, and I fell to my knees. I looked to see my shoe, the sole stuck to the plane of the roof. I had stood in one place too long again. That was my fault. In tempertures like this you had to be in constant motion or else your shoes would melt.

I was sent to repair the flashing on a small section of roof facing the sun. The shingles were black and to reach the work area I needed to kneel. Through my jeans I felt the hot burning of tar. They would be red and blistered for a long time, even after I was sent home. I had tried knee pads. They only chaffed the back of my knees with sweat and made my skin raw.

I knelt on that section of roof for thirty minutes, peeling up hot, tar laden flashing and nailing down new. I found myself in a trance. Or rather somebody else did. I had not moved. I felt nothing but heat. Even my lungs were filled with hot, sticky air. I was ordered down.

I don’t remember climbing down the ladder, but when my feet his the grass I collapsed. I remember it was cool. I felt a twisting in my stomach as I began to gag. Sharp bursts of heaving. Someone sat me up, holding a cold rag to my forehead. I don’t remember who it was. It was one of my team. I had a really a good team. There were no chairs there, so they lifted me into a metal wheelbarrow. It had been sitting under the shade of a live oak and felt cold on my skin. 

I heard a voice telling me I was done and ordering me to drink. I felt a hand gathering my hair and watched with curiousity as it was wrung out. As I filled myself with water and electrolytes and allowed my body to return to it’s normal temperature, I felt my awareness coming back. I was able to focus.

If only it hadn’t been so hot.