Following another productive day of unwinding paperclips at The Grind, I exited the 72nd Street subway station at 5:55 Tuesday evening. I looked up at the temperature on the Apple Bank digital clock at 73rd and Broadway and thought:
Me (thinking): I can’t believe it’s 94.
What compelled me to think that made no sense for it’s July. July is always hot. Some July days seem hot as hell. What would call for genuine disbelief is if the temperature was half that, 47. Or 57. How about 27 and snowing? Snow in New York City in July would certainly be a global news top story. The Big Apple had snow in October last year and en masse everyone was bracing for a winter worthy of Siberia. In fact, last winter was one of the mildest on record. We had next to no snow all season. Of course people were bitching about that. I paraphrase:
Bitching New Yorkers: Where the hell’s the snow? It doesn’t feel like winter.
Back to the present on this seasonably hot July day that feels exactly like summer, sweat was surfacing from my scalp down to the soles of my feet and all body parts in-between. Soon you could probably fry an egg off me. A minute passed. It read 5:56 on the clock. There was a correction that added validity to my disbelief.
I wondered if I continued to stare at that clock like a slack-jawed doofus for another five minutes would the temperature climb to 100? I didn’t stand around to find out.