Heat Wave

In the town of Steam Pump, known for its scorching summers, the unwelcome news of a heat wave had spread among the residents. With temperatures usually in the high 90s, the projected temperatures exceeding 100 and reaching the scorching 110s caught everyone’s attention.

While checking the time on her cell phone screen, Marcy turned the ignition key, putting an end to the supply of cool air pumping into the now empty transit bus. Even with the A/C unit running full blast, the interior of the vehicle was like a sauna; only ten degrees cooler than the outside temps.

Upon parking at the far end of the shopping center parking lot, Marcy, a slight of build woman in her thirties, left the bus with the hazard lights flashing. Marcy felt the unforgiving sun radiating through her ebony head of short, curly hair as she hurried across the molten pavement towards the building.

Inside Steam Pump’s only hardware store, the air conditioning was strained to its limits, but kept the interior of the shop cool enough to provide relief. Upon entering, a few desperate customers saw the sign saying that the store was out of fans to sell and turned away. They had all hoped to score the ultimate advertised treasure: a small but mighty oscillating fan of any kind promising cool breezes and solace from the heat.

Ignoring the sign at the front door, Marcy walked confidently past and ventured deep into the interior. Her brother’s friend, Bruce, who managed the store, had promised her he’d set a fan aside. As head of the household, Marcy alone supported her family on the meager salary of a transit bus operator and couldn’t afford to miss a day’s pay. She squeezed in a quick trip to the hardware store at the end of her route before heading to the yard with the bus.

Marcy needed to get the fan, park the bus in the company yard, and pick up her kids from day-care before five-thirty to avoid being charged extra. With two children depending on her as their sole provider, she barely made ends meet. She had already set aside her extra money this month for the purchase of the fan.

Upon arriving at the store’s back, Marcy saw the loading area with the swinging doors propped open and the “Authorized Personnel” sign. Peeking through, she spotted the fan, and her heart raced. Perched on a shelf with a slip of blue paper tapped on the box, the fan sat waiting for her.

Marcy turned to see if she could find any sales floor personnel and ran smack into another shopper.

“Ooof!… sorry,” she said, bouncing off the newcomer. She collided with him so forcefully, it caused her to lose her breath.

A tall, beefy man with a grease smudged dingy plaid shirt, for Marcy, it was like running into a wall. Marcy recognized her old classmate from high school, Jake, who owned a mechanic shop on the north end of town. Unintimidated, she tried to seem taller as she looked Jake in the eye, then glanced back at the fan. Jake turned his head and fixed his stare on the fan, too. The two shoppers eyed each other again. Then, with determination, Marcy dove across the threshold into the stockroom, nimbly squeezing past the sweaty mechanic with slow reflexes.

Just as she reached for the box, Jake’s voice boomed through the suffocating heat. “Hand it over, Marcy. That’s mine!”

Jake’s reaction startled Marcy a little, as she remembered him to be a gentle and friendly sort. Jake saw Marcy’s fright and realized his frustration was palpable. Moments after Marcy entered the store, he walked in, but a woman stopped him to ask about the cleaning supplies. As if he knew anything about mops and buckets or where the store displayed them. If he hadn’t been polite and wasted precious seconds talking to the woman, he would have a hold of the fan, and not Marcy.

Feeling the threat, Marcy tightened her grip. “I got here first, Jake!” she replied. Her voice was firm, but the sweat trickling down her spine betrayed her trepidation.

“It’s not up for grabs, Marcy. They put that fan on hold for me!” Jake fought to regain composure. Bullying was not his nature.

Marcy glanced at the paper taped to the box, but there was no name on it. “Bruce set this fan aside for me this morning,” she defended loudly, hoping someone on the floor would hear.

“You’ve got kids; I get it. But I really need this fan! My shop is like a kiln, and I’ve got jobs to do! This blasted heat is interfering with my livelihood.” He swept his arms above his head as if the weather were a living creature stalking him, preventing him from staying solvent. Just this morning, his daughter had asked for money for a prom dress.

“I have to make money, too, Jake.” Marcy argued, not ready to back down.

A few shoppers had gathered around to watch the kerfuffle. The commotion caused a division among the small town interests. In Steam Pump, where everyone knew everyone, they welcomed a good show-down when they could choose sides and root for their favorite. Not even the oppressive heat seemed to dampen their spirits. Murmuring among themselves, some felt for Marcy's plight. Others had sympathy for Jake.

While the pair continued the stand-off, joining the group of onlookers was an older man wearing baggy clothes and leaning on a cane. “Marcy is not usually like this,” the man cackled, then cleared his throat. “She deals with conflicts on the bus among passengers with utter professionalism.”

As a few more folks came upon the scene, a man in paint-spattered cover-alls agreed. “Marcy never accepts the invitation to confrontation.”

“If you know Jake,” a third onlooker, a round, slightly frazzled woman with a drowsy toddler attached to her hip, added, “he is the most honest and upstanding mechanic I know. Generous to a fault. He needs the fan.”

A senior lady fanned herself using a paint sample pamphlet and cast disapproving looks at everyone. The tension in the air thickened with the heat like gravy.

“Look, I understand—it’s hot in your shop. It’s hot for all of us,” Marcy said. Her voice softening just a touch. “But my kids are small. They can’t handle this heat for much longer. Can’t we just find another fan?”

Running a hand across his sweaty brow, Jake answered. “There aren’t any more fans, Marcy! Trust me, I’ve called every store in Steam Pump. Even the suppliers are out. If I don’t get this one, I might not sleep tonight, let alone work tomorrow.”

While Marcy understood Jake’s situation, her thoughts kept drifting to her children. Restless and thrashing about all night, nobody in her household was sleeping either. Then she paused, remembering her parents’ storage unit on the outskirts of town.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she proposed. “I have some old square fans in my parents’ locker at Pack Rats Self-Stor. If you can use your truck to help me collect them, I’ll let you take this fan right now.”

A glimmer of interest tweaked in the corner of Jake’s eyes. “Square fans? Are they working?”

“Industrial sized, and yes, they work. They’re dusty, but if you help me clean them, I’ll give you one to use in your shop. We can all benefit from the relief.”

“Okay.” Jake mopped his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. His shoulders drifted down from around his ears, and he realized he didn’t want to battle with Marcy over a fan. “It’s a deal.”

Marcy released the fan and placed it back on the shelf, a breath of relief escaping her lips. The moment she and Jake agreed upon a solution, she felt bonded to him by their common enemy; the relentless heat.

Sensing the tension dissolve, the crowd dispersed. Some returned to their shopping. Some wondered off, still discussing the outcome, all smiles as they found hope in the unexpected camaraderie forming between two beloved town residents.

On the way to the storage unit, Jake dropped off his daughter at Marcy’s to look after her young kids. Marcy and Jake worked together, scrounging through her parents’ dusty, disorganized storage unit. In the climate controlled interior of the facility, they found lightness and laughter and shared stories of their children.

The first fan, now cleaned and ready to go, whirred to life, and spread a soothing breeze through Jake’s auto shop, chasing away the heat. Marcy danced in front of the fan while Jake put the finishing touch on the ignition switch replacement job; his last of the day. Thanks to Marcy’s generous offer, he also had the oscillating fan from the hardware store for the small living area above the shop he shared with his daughter.

Jake brought Marcy back home and set up the second industrial box fan. Once operational, the fan spread its refreshing breeze throughout the kitchen and living area. To everyone’s amusement, Marcy’s youngest kid discovered the entertaining way a fan breaks up sound waves as he ohhhed and ahhhed in front of it.

That evening, with the sun scorching the horizon, there was promise in the air. Cooler temps were the prediction for tomorrow. Amid a sweltering battle, like a cool breeze on a hot day, what could have turned into a disastrous rivalry instead blossomed into a rekindling of an old friendship. The heat wave in Steam Pump is over. Community support and compromise bring the best relief.