Rose Sidman



Boy, is it a scorcher! Don't think I've seen one like this since the summer of '49. You know, at my age, I can feel pretty faint just sitting here, all alone in my stuffy, poorly ventilated apartment. Better brew a pot of coffee, take my blood pressure medication, and…hey, wait a minute.


Oh, shit. I'm going to be one of the poor fucks who dies in this heat wave, aren't I?

Well, that's just fantastic. Every time a week of triple-digit temperatures rolls around, there's a half dozen sad sonsofbitches who succumb to the heat, and this time I'm gonna be one of them. I know it. Six oldsters at a nursing home, a couple babies, some middle-aged dad jogging up bleachers, and me. How did I not see this coming?


Yup. I'm totally screwed.

Hold on. Maybe this heat is just making me delirious. I should look for warning signs before I panic. Low mobility, check. History of cardiac problems, check. Old, check. No regular schedule of visitors, so no one will notice I'm gone—oh, for Pete's sake, I've even dead-bolted the front door already.


I refuse to be one of those pathetic heatstroke victims. Not me. Although, I do have a habit of sucking on hard candy instead of drinking water, but that's only because when my blood sugar gets low I become easily disoriented and oh my God, I'm dead fucking meat.

I can't believe that a week from now, some news anchor is going to cut to footage of my building with an ambulance parked out front, which I'll be inside of, baked like a Cornish game hen. It's humiliating. I used to pity those "Heat Wave Claims 7" people when I read about them in the paper. Then I'd usually have to lie down due to my hypertension.


You'd think that would have tipped me off.

No, no, I can beat this. Ol' Rosie's got a few summers in her yet! All I've got to do is drive my car to… Okay, I'll just call one of my children who still lives near… I'm sure the neighbors I've never met and who never hear me make any noise will…


I'm a goner.

So there goes any chance of dying with dignity, resting comfortably in my bed surrounded by friends and family. No, I'm going to be one of those schmucks taken down by the weather. Peachy. I'm about to have the distinct honor of leaving this earth slumped over a kitchen chair near the only window I could muster the strength to pry slightly open.


Nothing left to do now but spread some decent obituary photos out on the credenza so I don't look like a total idiot in the newspaper. That, and wait for this heat to kill me.

It's times like this that my husband Denny, God rest his soul, would know just what to do. He'd never let me die in a heat wave. I can almost see him now, offering me his hand and beckoning me into the cool, white light. And my friend Gladys is there beside him. My, my, look at her sundress! And, is that—Rusty? Oh, good boy, Rusty! Good boy. You'll lead me to some water, won't you?


I'm so thirsty, Rusty. So tired and thirsty.