Saturday, July 18, 2009

A Modest Proposal to Ian Frazier’s Colloquium

(A response to Ian Frazier's article The Temperature of Hell: A Colloquium in the July 20, 2009 New Yorker magazine)

Upon reading your screed in the July 20th, 2009 New Yorker, I feel compelled to set you straight on your portrayal of various famous people complaining about the thermodynamics of Hell; something Fundamentalist preachers also never cease to shut up about.


I offer you a dissent; it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I realized this in 1954 when my husband, a pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates, was sent down to their minor league triple A team in New Orleans. That was quite a Hellish summer to endure. Therefore, I propose to prove my thesis:


My husband and I lived through a sultry, steaming summer and the agony of those months is still a vivid memory. The heat was intense and interminable; but surely the equally insufferable high degree of humidity was a brilliant Satanic master stroke. I imagine our whole planet must have been much like that in its primeval state; heat and humidity combining to produce riotous, lush plant life and monstrous lizards and insects. Our tiny apartment contained many descendants of the latter. The entire city was, in fact, the answer to an entomologist’s prayer. Our landlord’s Schweitzer-like philosophy was that the critters were living in the region long before people were; therefore they were actually putting up with us instead of vice versa. Unfortunately, I was never able to reach that level of equanimity, especially after it started to rain.


With Yankee (New Jersey) naiveté, I actually welcomed the forecast of thunderstorms. All expectation of relief from the heat and humidity vanished when the daily rains came.

New Orleans is too far south for the wind to perform it’s merciful task of sweeping out the moisture-laden air; the earth does not thirstily suck up the enormous puddles that cover the land. I had forgotten that New Orleans is below sea level. Puddles became stagnant incubators for giant mosquitoes. The saturated earth evicted the fire ants from their cone-shaped homes and, outraged, they vindictively attacked anyone who didn’t move quickly enough. Extreme precautions had to be taken to hang out the family wash. I found that a combination of bug-repellant (liberally applied), a pair of my husband’s wool athletic socks, and his woolen bathrobe was an effective way to perform this once-simple household chore. Effective, yes -- comfortable, no.


The location of our apartment produced a startling variation to the ordinary thunderstorm. Our windows overlooked another building that provided us a view of a corrugated tin roof. Normally, this roof’s function was to blind the eye with glaring, reflected sun and to supply our valiant window fan with more B.T.U.-laden air than the conservative British ever dreamed of.


Often, the thunderstorms contained hail stones, and it was then that the roof proved its mettle. When the hail came pelting down, the tin roof tattooed a perfect sound re-creation of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. It was an excellent performance; although whenever it hailed thereafter, we were not so impressed. In fact, we were downright blasé after we had mastered that first terrified impulse to dive under the bed. Too, the sweltering heat of that summer soon taught us to be extremely chary about any lively motion at all. That’s Sloth, isn’t it? When I was spraying all those bugs, I was killing them. Murder; right? I can still remember a certain restaurant where they served ice-cold beer in enormous frosted goblets and I developed quite a craving for it; sounds like Gluttony. Anger? I certainly wasn’t even-tempered about my landlord’s refusal to fumigate the building. Jealousy and Envy – all those lucky people living in air-conditioned apartments. Pride took the form of self-pity because I wasn’t living in one of them. I don’t think I was guilty of Lust; I never once that summer saw a streetcar named “Desire”. But, that’s still six out of the seven deadly sins.


I really do think the Fundamentalists/Frazier ought to do some re-thinking and realize that when it comes to Hell… it’s not just the heat, it’s the humidity.