Do Not Engage the Man with the Clipboard

It was the hottest day of the year.

This fact was confirmed via five push notifications, two flashing news tickers, a chalk sign outside the post office that simply read “HOT AS SIN,” and an orange government flyer dropped through every letterbox:

⚠ STAY INDOORS. STAY HYDRATED. AVOID COMPLICATED EMOTIONS. ⚠

At 10:17 a.m., Colin Turner (semi-retired, patio obsessive, widely considered to be the spiritual leader of Hightree Gardens) burned his palm on the front door handle and accused the sun of “a targeted psychological campaign.”

He spent twenty-three minutes drafting a furious email to the city council titled Solar Aggression & Related Municipal Failures. He copied in the Department of Atmospheric Affairs, the housing association president, and the customer care chatbot at Dyson.

Next door, Marlene Pratt (widowed, twice, both times under suspiciously mild weather conditions) opened all six windows and stood in the hallway, arms limp at her sides, listening to the walls breathe. Her curtains had stopped pretending to move.

Across the street, the Flanagan children were banned from saying “I’m hot” under threat of screen deprivation. One of them stuck her entire head into the freezer and was promptly grounded for “fridge abuse.”

By noon, the air shimmered like a lie. The pavement hissed under trainers. A man was seen trying to bribe the postwoman with ice cubes in exchange for “cold mail.” She declined, but took the ice.

At 12:58 p.m., a laminated sign appeared on the community board, barely attached with a melted refrigerator magnet:

EMERGENCY HEAT MITIGATION SESSION

1:30 PM — MARLENE’S CARPORT

BYO WATER / RESTRAIN YOUR INNER FIRE

Everyone arrived early. No one brought water.

The carport, shaded by a single exhausted hydrangea bush, became the de facto war room. Lawn chairs appeared in a sun-faded semicircle. A whiteboard was propped up by two gnomes. Someone had scrawled SURVIVAL across the top in melting blue ink.

Marlene called the meeting to order with a wooden spoon. “The situation,” she said, “is unsustainable. Suggestions?”

“Turn the hose on and take turns lying on the lawn,” said Derek, who owned both a jet nozzle and a Napoleon complex.

“She turned off the hose,” someone replied, gesturing toward a house with a wind chime made of spoons. “She says water pressure interferes with her root chakra.”

“We could build a dome,” suggested Lorraine. “A mist dome. Like Coachella.”

“We’re not a music festival, Lorraine,” said Colin.

“I say we take shelter in the funeral parlour,” muttered Mr. Alvarez, still recovering from a mid-morning collapse brought on by bin duty and civic pride. “Cold tiles. Free mints. No small talk.”

Several people nodded. A note was added to the whiteboard:

→ FUNERAL OPTION

Colin cleared his throat. “Let’s keep things orderly. Roll call?”

“We are all here,” Marlene said flatly. “No one else survived the afternoon.”

They moved on.

“I propose,” said a teenager in sweat-glued denim, “that anyone with a working AC unit must declare it and share it, or be excommunicated from bin privileges.”

Silence.

AC ownership was classified information. Admitting it in public was tantamount to declaring oneself monarch.

“I’ve got a fan,” muttered someone.

“We all have fans, Greg,” said Marlene. “This isn’t the Stone Age. It’s the Age of Swelter.”

At 1:49 p.m., Vince arrived. Vince wore a linen waistcoat, no shirt, and carried a bowl of ice cubes like communion wafers. He had the aura of someone who moisturised with mineral water and once dated a weather presenter.

“I’m launching a micro-economy,” he said. “One ice cube per personal favour.”

“What kind of favour?” asked Colin.

“Emotional, practical, erotic. I’m flexible.”

“That’s price gouging.”

“It’s innovation.”

Nobody could argue, mostly because they were all staring at the bowl.

At 2:10 p.m., the street divided into factions:

The Shade Dwellers, who nested under trees and muttered about chlorophyll, and

The Sprinkler Supremacists, who believed salvation lay in aggressive oscillation.

Tensions rose. Someone erected a makeshift misting altar using a hose, a sieve, and three empty bottles of elderflower tonic. Children were sent to scout for untapped shade.

At 2:47, a philosophical debate broke out over whether sweat was “just the body’s way of apologising for existing.”

At 3:00, someone tried to dig a tunnel to “cooler ground” and resurfaced in their own crawlspace, dazed and triumphant. They were briefly elected Street Prophet, then swiftly overthrown when they failed to produce a second miracle.

At 3:14, Marlene stood up very slowly, stared at the sky, and said, “The sun is close enough to touch. I can feel it behind my teeth.” She then sat back down and resumed fanning herself with a funeral pamphlet.

By 3:45, the HOA whiteboard had been stolen and used as a personal parasol. A symbolic garden hose was burned. Vince declared his driveway an independent cooling zone and replaced the bowl of ice with a single, perfectly round melon carved into a throne.

At 4:03, the community cat, Pickles, was declared interim mayor after falling asleep on a podium-shaped cardboard box.

At 4:17, a man wrapped in foil and carrying a clipboard announced that the moon had messaged him through the garden radio and that relief was coming in the form of “lunar condensation.” He was given two grapes and appointed head of meteorology.

Marlene, still in her chair, spoke again. “The heat wants something,” she said. “It’s testing us.” She removed one earring and held it up like an offering. “It feeds on grudges. On guilt. On polyester.”

Nobody challenged her. A few people took off their shirts.

At 4:46, rain began. Not a drizzle, but a heavy, declarative downpour — as if the sky had been watching the neighbourhood for hours and decided to wash it off.

Everyone emerged slowly from tents, carports, beneath upturned bins and overturned canopies. They stood in the road, faces tilted upward, mouths open.

Nobody spoke.

Steam rose like ghosts from the pavement.

Colin fell to his knees. Marlene laughed, once — sharp and private. Vince removed his vest and said nothing for the first time all day.

The rain washed away the factions. The misting altar collapsed. The cat disappeared. Someone’s gazebo floated briefly into the road like a ship without a crew.

At 5:12, the temperature dropped nine degrees. At 5:14, the power returned. A communal shudder of air conditioners and fans rattled through the neighbourhood like a mechanical amen.

No one mentioned the clipboard. Or the melon throne. Or the fact that Colin had briefly crowned himself “The One Who Perspires with Purpose.”

At 6:30 p.m., Marlene opened her kitchen window. The hydrangea bush had flattened. Her funeral pamphlet had melted into the whiteboard, which now simply read:

CHILL OR DIE

Later, she would tape it to her fridge. Not as a threat. As a mission statement.

The next morning, the sky was overcast.

Pickles reappeared with a dead mouse and was respectfully re-sworn in.

The government text alert buzzed:

TODAY: HIGH OF 25°C. LOW OF 14°C. EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE.

Someone asked if it was supposed to be hot again tomorrow.

No one answered.

But several people quietly checked their ice cube trays — just in case.