Evaporation

The summers of my youth were intensely hot out there on the edge of the Mojave. It once topped 110 degrees every day for two weeks straight. We'd go for drives just so we could roll down the windows, but even a 60 MPH breeze was no match for that heat. It washed all the color from the landscape, leaving everything white and dusty as if the world was coated in a sheet of frosted glass. I'd hide in our den for hours, perched in front of the window cooler, twisting the dial till it almost came off in my hand. Around noon, we'd put on our bathing suits and ride our bikes to the public pool, rubber bathing caps swinging from the handle bars. Rubber bathing caps were one of the cruel tortures of my 60s childhood. The were hideously ugly and uncomfortable, but I didn't care; I would have worn a diving mask if that's what was required to get into that pool. It cost a quarter to get in, a dime for a popsicle. We'd swim for hours and hours until our hair turned green and brittle and the brown San Berdoo air made our lungs ache. Every two hours, they'd force us out for a mandatory rest period. I never bothered to bring a towel, Ijust lay directly on the concrete deck and felt the moisture evaporate off my back. I loved to stretch my body out on the concrete and then carefully peel myself up, leaving a wet impression on the deck like some crime scene outline. It was so hot, my silhouette would evaporate in a matter of seconds. I used to love to watch myself disappear.