Not Cool, Gary

Gary woke, not so much from sleep but from a heat induced stupor, and sat up on the couch.

He rubbed the back of his head, sweat careening off the strands of his hair that was as wet as the floor where water had pooled from the back of the window AC unit that was precariously tipped back against the screen of the open window. 

“Damn it,” Gary muttered as his bare feet stepped into the puddle and the heat that surrounded the tiny little pocket of cool air smacked him in the face.

The window unit sputtered and hummed mockingly, knowing the house AC was dead and he had no other recourse.

With exhausted, shuffling steps, Gary made his way to the bathroom, his boxer briefs loose and saggy like gym shorts.

After relieving himself and washing his hands, Gary stood, staring at himself in the mirror, contemplating his next move.

“Screw it.”

Gary picked up the hair trimmer, slipped the 3 guard on, hit the switch, and raised the vibrating teeth to the side of his head.

A trim, while not a perfect solution, would at least do some good.

Shave up the sides, a snip up top, and…

The guard popped off and the trimmer cut a no guard divot.

“You have got to be joking!” He shouted the final word as the 3 guard clattered on the bathroom floor. Gary surveyed the damage, resigning himself to the 0 guard and cutting the top accordingly. 

He continued to mutter and curse as he stepped into the shower, running his fingertips on the freshly shorn bristles and sensitive scalp.

Hair clung to his sweaty body, giving him the appearance of a mangy bear, but was soon washed away by the cold water of the shower. 

“Oh, you idiot,” Gary cursed himself.

He realized the water wasn’t draining and he was ankle deep in cloudy, hairy water. 

Finishing the shower quickly, he switched the water off, stepped out, and immediately covered in a layer of sweat.

After an attempt at drying himself, he donned the towel around his waist and returned the little haven of cool on the couch.

Just as he sat, the window unit rattled heavily, gave a wheezing cough, and died. 

“No no no!”

Gary shook, slapped, and pleaded with the unit to no avail, with only cuts on his fingers from the grille for his efforts. 

Minutes later, and fingers bandaged, Gary was in the kitchen, chair and floor fan in hand. He set both items in front of the now open fridge, turned on the fan and sat down.

The fan began to screech a horrific wail like something between raccoons caught in a blood feud and a dying weasel. 

Gary, hanging his head, closed his eyes, and braced himself against the sound and decided the oncoming headache would be worth it when the house went silent and an alert on his phone confirmed his fear. 

Power outage detected in your area. Services should be restored by 10:00 PM. 

A defeated Gary closed the refrigerator door and searched for clothes.

He donned the first accessible items he saw: a faded band tank top and a pair of cargo shorts that a belt would have to hide the missing button. 

Deciding it was too hot for socks, he found his old gray flip-flops that he had only purchased because the annoyance of sand in his Vans outweighed his disgust of bare feet. He was surprised he even still had the thin things given he hadn’t been to the beach in at least five years, and the flops were, at minimum, twice as old as that.

He stepped out into the midmorning sun, walked past his AC-less car whose windows no longer rolled down, and ambled down the road.

Not that he would have wanted to drive around and waste the gas anyway.

“Not in this economy,” he muttered.

Gary walked, the sun beat down on his freshly shorn head, and, after some time, he made his way to the gas station up the road.

He stepped through the door and smiled like a mad man at the slightly cooler air inside when he saw them.

Two hypnotic eyes. One fake, cherry red. The other cola brown.

The swirling vision, and heat-addled brain, made him ignore the factual fallacy of a polar living amongst a waddle of penguins.

The white, giant beast turned his head to Gary, as the penguins raised their flippers in erudition and brayed and chirped in glory, and spoke thusly in the deepest of baritone voices: “You know what to do.”

Gary, nodding slowly, approached the temple of slush, took a cup and began to fill it before pouring the contents into the left side leg pocket.

Cola for each leg pocket. Cherry for the back.

“Sir,” the cashier pleaded from behind the counter. “You can’t do that.”

“I’ll pay for all of them,” Gary said. “One for every pocket, so that’s six. Seven.” He poured a cup full down the inside front of his shorts, then refilled the cup. “That’s eight.” He shuffled over to the register. 

Gary fished his slushy-covered wallet from his pocket and tried to swipe his debit card as the previously called cop walked into the store.

He could barely hear what the arresting officer was saying over the din of the singing choir of penguins and chanting polar bear, only “disorderly conduct” and something about “to cool off.”

Gary smiled.

At least there’ll be air conditioning, he thought to himself. Even if it’s in a holding cell.

There wasn’t.