The heater has been out for over a week and, although I live in Phoenix, the evenings are cold.
[Spare me the stories of Minnesota winters. It’s all relative. I’ve heard Northerners whine when it’s a mere 100 degrees outside.]
The heating wizard came out and declared the situation terminal. ["Mr. Heater. He dead. A penny for the old guy."]
The loss of heat has reminded me of how misery not only loves company, it craves it. If the entire city was devoid of operative home heating systems, I could go to the office or Starbucks and engage in group griping. As it is, I’m the odd man out, the frozen pariah. My associates come in, looking toasty and even a little tanned, while I sit quietly, waiting for internal organs to thaw.
To take my mind off of the chill this evening, I hauled out an old copy of Robert Service poems and read "The Cremation of Sam McGee." Next on the agenda: Jack London's "To Build a Fire."