Red Hot

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you to a shelter.” 

They peered into my box, shining a beam of light into my eyes. 

“Fuck off,” I wanted to say, but I knew better. Best not to antagonize the public, especially the cops. They would haul you out and shove you into their car quicker than you can shake your ass at them.  

I held my tongue and said nothing, waiting for them to move along.

The sweat was collecting on my forehead, dripping sideways down my face, stinging my eyes. I felt sick, nauseous, and disgusted. When was the last time I had something to eat? I sat up and rummaged through the garbage that surrounded me finding no sign of food or wrappers in the rubble. It may have been days. I couldn’t remember. Taking a swig from a bottle, I gagged and tossed it aside.  

What was that voice that I heard? There was a commotion outside my box, more than the usual traffic on the corner. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I lay back down, not caring as long as they left me the hell alone. I pulled the cardboard closer around me to block out their static. I waited half asleep for it to pass.  

The voice started chirping only to be interrupted and then started again. And again. And again. I was getting angry at the intrusion. I was hungry and waiting to go scavenge for food. But that voice wouldn’t stop.

“Cut!” The man’s voice was sweet relief from that chirping woman.

“Clear the corner, let’s try this again,” a second voice barked.

“Good morning, New York! It’s 101 degrees in the shade. You can fry an egg on the street here in midtown Manhattan. I’m Jane Alexander reporting on the heatwave.”

Fuck. That bitch Jane Alexander. I remembered her from last summer when she was “reporting on the homeless crisis” and shoved a camera in my face. She offered to take me someplace airconditioned. Those shelters were hell on earth, someone always screaming, some junkie coming down from some shit. Last time the cops forced me there, I woke up to find my stuff was gone. Never again, I swore. My cardboard box was safer than that.

“Doctors say this type of heat can lead to a multitude of health concerns.”

This type of heat, she said. The type of heat was unbearable, scrambling my thoughts, allowing the demons to come creeping back in. My body was both restless and exhausted. Drained, I turned on my side listlessly, my legs jerking about every few minutes. I knew I would have to get up soon to stretch.

“Recent reports have indicated that the symptoms of mental illness can become exacerbated in severe heat.”

Was she talking about me? Did she remember me from last summer? She was back to torment me, provoke me. I ran my fingers through my matted hair, feeling the dirt mix with sweat. My heart began to pound, faster, faster, louder, louder. I wouldn’t be able to stay there much longer.

I was thirsty, my tongue as dry as my body was wet. My clothes stuck to me like an added layer of skin. I needed water, but that bitch was outside chattering like a windup doll. She would just love to catch a glimpse of me to put on the news for all to see. Well, not today, lady, not today.

I reached an arm up and out, my hand blindly feeling the sizzling city streets hoping for some water left as a goodwill gesture by a passerby. The regulars came by with their extras hidden in places only they and I knew of. The day old bagel tucked beneath the flap of cardboard was sometimes accompanied by a cup of coffee. The bruised apples from the bodega were brought to me by unknown faces. When I had my share, I passed along the rest to others.

My desperate grope was met by nothing but garbage. Not wanting to entice a rat, I quickly pulled my arm back into the safety of my box.

“The soaring temperatures can lead to an increase in mood swings, anxiety and depression.”

I had to get out. My energy level suddenly soared as excitement pulsed through me. My twitching legs were ready to stretch, to run, to climb the highest mountain. Nothing would stop me as I sprang myself free from the prison cell that I was both warden and inmate of.  

“Other neuropsychiatric symptoms such as hallucinations can be a result of heatstroke.”

“What’s wrong with you?” My father’s face sneered at me from the darkness.  

“Leave him alone,” my mother pleaded with him.  

“Ma? Is that you?” A lone tear slipped out of my burning eye. I reached out to stroke my mother’s face but not quickly enough as it dissolved into a mere memory.

“It is even said that heat can cause an inflammation of the brain leading to psychosis.”

“That’s a wrap,” the man’s voice was back again putting an end to the chirping voice, an end to the nightmare. If he hadn’t ended it soon, best believe I would have.

I crawled out squinting against the sunlight seeing that damn Jane Alexander with a microphone clutched in her hand. From all fours on the sidewalk, I looked up at her and screamed like the animal she had turned me into.  

“Don’t you dare!” I stood up to my great height shaking with rage as she motioned to her cameraman. “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

All hell broke loose as the cops came out of nowhere. The crowd became thick with ugly leering faces. A sea of phones danced around, held up high to capture me from every angle.  

My arms suddenly grabbed from behind, I was thrown down and hit the hard concrete sidewalk. My feet were pulled out of my shoes, my skin roughly scraped as I was dragged to the curb and pushed into the car with the flashing lights. 

“Come on, buddy, let’s get you to a hospital.” 

“I don’t need no hospital. I don’t need no shelter. I just need some water. Can you please give me some fucking water?”  

Damn that Jane Alexander. I had a nice day planned, starting with my seat at the corner café followed by a walk in Central Park. I wasn’t bothering nobody. I wasn’t asking for nothing. Can’t a man just be?