I keep summer hours


The city in the summer. A concrete inferno reeking with the stench of hot garbage and overripe armpits. Infinite ring around the collar, circling into a downward spiral toward the unpleasant sensation that you’re going to completely lose your mind if you don’t watch out. Which is why I keep Summer Hours.

I get up in the morning – let’s call it “Monday morning.” I shower and get dressed. I grab a Grande Frapp on the way to work and get to the office by 10 a.m. I say hello to co-workers. I answer a few emails. I leave the office at 10:50 a.m. and walk the city with my sports coat tossed over one shoulder. I find an open ice cream shop. I walk inside to enjoy the air conditioning. I order a double scoop of mint chip on a sugar cone, the Official Cone of Summer Hours.

Later, I return to the office, but everyone has gone home. Then I remember: It’s “Monday Afternoon.” Summer Hours. I decide it’s too hot to go home just yet and that I’ll take a nap on my desk.

When my boss wakes me, he says, a bit rudely, “We’re all in the Monday meeting. Get your ass in there, now.” So it turns out everyone didn’t go home.

“Jesus, you’re all here,” I say as I enter the conference room.

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