A True Story. I Mean It.

"Wow. Is it that hot out?"

An obvious question to ask a guy soaked from the top of his head to the bottom of his shirt, if you happen to run into one. Unfortunately, I was just such a guy, having thrown about a gallon and half of cold water on my head in the restroom a second ago. The stout little man asking the question stood at the counter of this fast food place and looked at me like I had just walked in from a road production of "The Day After."

"Yeah. It's bad," I replied as I eyed the icemaker near the soda fountain.

Don't give him a shake of your head. Or a smile. Or anything to suggest that you're amused by this heat and want to discuss it further.

"What's the matter? Air conditioner broken?"

So we were talking now. That's how it was going to be.

I took a full five seconds to see who this person was. Thirty-something, healthy, hair cut short to hide a receding hairline. He wore standard issue Casual--light blue shirt, tan chinos, and matching baseball cap. Probably the same outfit they gave him with his real estate license.

"The radiator is having a tough time. I'm just going to get a soda."

I threw a couple of singles in front of me and the girl behind the counter handed me a cup. She gave me the largest one they had--a hard, purple, plastic thing that was, according to a sign on the window, supposed to be collectible.

My partner in the conversation chuckled. To him, I was just another Angeleno who had wandered too close to the sun. I hated him utterly.

The girl looked at me for a second and then at him. Right before I had walked in, it had just been her and Chinos. He wasn't eating, so I assumed he was talking to her about something only he had been interested in, like the stock market or a motivational seminar he had recently attended.

"Do you live here?" I asked. "I mean, here. Palm Springs. Indio. The low desert."

"Yes, sir. I do."

"I'd like to ask you a question, and I hope you don't mind if I'm a little personal."

He stared--still genial, still game--at a drop of water rolling down one of the lenses of my eyeglases.

"Shoot."

"Given the choice between here...and anywhere else in the entire fucking world BESIDES here...why in God's name would you ever choose to live in any spot that even for one second reminded you of this place?"

I turned to fill my Collectible Cup with Diet Coke, so I missed the smile leaving his face. He was on the defensive now. Good.

"Well, you gotta understand. It's only like this four months a year. The other eight months are amazing. Eighty degrees every day. You don't live here for July. You live here for January."

"Live in San Diego. Live in Los Angeles. Live near those places. All those people can talk about is how great the weather is. You're living on the upper rack of God's convection oven."

He nodded.

"Sure, it's okay. Los Angeles, you know. But remember, it rains an awful lot in Los Angeles."

And there it was. The end of the discussion. Because once you get actual proof that the person you're talking to is absolutely barking mad, there's no point in continuing. I snapped the lid on my soda.

"Los Angeles...has too much rain for you."

"I like it dry. What can I say?"

"Say...goodbye."

I pushed the door open and the heat hit me in the face like an unwelcome wave of bad news. My lungs sucked in a breath of hot air and it hurt a little.

It took twelve steps and the push of a button to get back behind the wheel of the car, but my hair was already back to where it was fifteen minutes ago. I rolled the windows down and took a long sip from the Cup. Patted my Honda softly on the dashboard.

Just get me to Albuquerque, buddy. One more time. You and me.

I don't want to be stuck here. Ever.