Canada burns; Michigan coughs.
Dirty sweat sizzles dripping on buckling tarmac. Thermometers strain to capture accurate readings. Because most aren’t designed to read quite so fucking high.
Boot soles soften pressing against the scorch radiating up from shimmering concrete. Lungs scream and struggle to function against the domed pressure pushing in. Every breath a small victory in furnaced survival; every simple movement a cry for some sense of refreshment.
The days always end with choking on the stink of a polluted river running sulphur summer sludge. That pungent bouquet of rot hanging low. Down where the dirty Boulevard dips before twisting right the fuck back up.
So I always hold my breath crossing that bridge back over to the grime of the West Side.
Looping myself around the curves. Dodging the shuffling skeletons of shadowy street creatures begging for a treat. The ones unpredictably pinballing on hot pavement. Because something about the usually warmer weather triggers their inherent instability. And the impossibility of them ever standing still.
Summertime in The City.
But that classic song got the lyrics all wrong. Because the backs of ramp necks aren’t dirty and gritty. They are burnt red. And rubbed raw from the hanging friction of responsibility.
Every hazy evening, radios and gloves and ancient handhelds get strapped on. Our only armour against the scourge of flying tin monsters. The unpredictable ones that spool and whine on sweltering Michigan nights; the ones that too often break right the fuck back down. Almost immediately after having been fed their daily allotment of critical care packages. Leaving us to strip them back empty again ahead of the promised salvation of another rescue jet dropping down.
I guess even machined metal feels the fatigue of another searing 517 summer wave of heat.
But somehow, we survive.
Gallons of filtered water. Ice pressed against aching muscles; ice strapped to foreheads. Always so much fucking ice.
Living off of popsicles. And the strange energy of pure stubbornness. Everything a haze. And not just because of invading Canadian wildfire particles.
Too hot to really accomplish much; too hot to really sleep. But still somehow aching for the curled warmth of a soft body pressing back against the air conditioned chill.
Settling instead for the cold embrace of more brown bottles. Or the kind of tin cans lacking any sort of purposeful flight beyond cheap inebriation. The cans strategically kept cold for the drive home with ice stolen from an overworked work machine. Those crumpled, recyclable containers never actually destined for re-deposit.
Because fuck the embarrassment of that state mandated extortion scheme.
I’ve danced the indignity of that sticky nightmare once before. And swore to myself that I would never dance it again. Because everything in this mittened madness reeks of uncertainty. And forever seems to delight in dancing with untethered demons.
So I refuse to accept that accountability.
Maybe it is the constant smell of burning triggering these instinctual urges of flight; maybe it is just the crushing responsibility of it all.
Or maybe it was that unexpected Thursday night text—the one pointedly informing me that I’m probably going to lose someone important to me.
Again.
And there is fuck all I can actually do about it. Because some scourges know no cure.
The familiarity of a stoic “soldier mode” descends through a Canadian wildfire haze. Heartfelt late night texts get sent from the bar. The ones expressing genuine appreciation. And commitment.
But it’s never really enough.
Because some hurts are too large to accept; I am not yet ready to process the enormity of that potential loss.
And I am nothing if not a stubborn little 🦊.
So I will instead fill her time with more of my stupid stories. Send her pictures of our ridiculous 517 ramp life. Because those things make her happy. And I want her to be happy.
Because everyone’s last thought should be a happy one.
As for me, I will pour another round. Roll another page into an antique machine clacking high above the baking Boulevard. Light that next bent cigarette to add more smoke to the hanging haze.
And then, I will send all the love I have left to give down Illinois way.
Because tonight, Canada burns while Michigan coughs.
And I am not nearly drunk enough yet to say that goodbye…
