by Becky Akers
Becky Akers is a historian and freelance writer.
The nationwide sauna last week allowed the forces of government to take another stab at protecting us from the weather. You might think said forces would be a bit chastened after the federal government’s staggering snafus in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Yet cities across the country leaped to the plate when Mother Nature pitched her latest curve ball. They declared a heat emergency and foisted cooling centers on their wilted residents.
It used to be that folks expected temperatures to climb in August. Our tyrannical times have turned this seasonal phenomenon into an emergency — legal legerdemain that unleashes Leviathan. The beast hands out absurd advice while wasting our money on cooling centers and other fripperies. Muggy though the weather may be, the state mugs us more.
A prime example is New York City. It established an Office of Emergency Management (OEM) in 1996, which allegedly works to mitigate, and plan and prepare for emergencies . . . and seek funding opportunities to support of [sic] the overall preparedness of the City of New York. Why do I suspect that bit about funding is its real raison d'etre?
No matter: the OEM considers us all morons, unable to discern its true intent, if its Quick Heat-Beating Tips are any indication. First on the list is Stay out of the sun. Whoa-ho! There’s a novel idea! And leave your fur coat in the closet: instead, opt for lightweight, light-colored, loose-fitting clothes. We should also drink plenty of . . . water, and keep rooms well-ventilated with air conditioners and fans. Duh. Folks without a.c. or fans can keep [their] windows open. Such invaluable tips are one reason we pay Our Rulers the big bucks.
Another is the 383 cooling centers sprinkled throughout the city's five boroughs. Most are located in senior and community centers, though a few have been donated by private groups. I headed over to one last Thursday morning, curious about what sort of New Yorker doesn't realize Bloomingdale's boasts floor after floor of freezing air, comfy chairs (especially in the furniture department), and lots of fun stuff to browse. Nor is Bloomie's unique: Macy's, Lord amp; Taylor's, Borders, Staples, and other emporia sprinkled far more plentifully throughout the five boroughs than the cooling centers offer arctic relief from the heat. Then there are the office towers whose atriums and lobbies feature public spaces with superb air-conditioning and seats, mighty few of which are occupied once the morning rush hour ends. Those willing to spring for a latte or a donut can choose from thousands of restaurants. In short, New Yorkers suffer no shortage of places to cool their heels. Only the state's determination to invade every aspect of our lives, to hold itself out as the source of all we need, can explain its ludicrous cooling centers.
Naturally, the city’s website sent me to the wrong address for the center closest to my apartment. When I found the right one, I was pleased that only two civilians were guarding the gates: I’d expected the NYPD. After all, you never know how many overheated terrorists may try to cool down at taxpayer expense. Neither gatekeeper asked me for ID, another nice surprise. Maybe the state’s getting sloppy in its old age.
I'm here for the cooling center, I told them.
Ms. Gatekeeper’s jaw actually dropped. I’ve seldom had so satisfying a reaction, not even when I told my father I was moving to New York City.
The cooling center? she blurted. But you're not — you can’t be a member here! You’re not 60!
Who knew that Leviathan, fierce protector of the discriminated-against, valiant enforcer of Equal Opportunity, Democracy, and All Things Decent, rankly discriminates when admitting folks to its senior centers?
I flashed her a big ole smile. That’s right. But I’m a taxpayer.
When that didn't open sesame, I asked, These centers are available to taxpayers, aren’t they?
This sent Mr. Gatekeeper scurrying off for what I presume was a conference with the head bureaucrat. Meanwhile, I asked Ms. G, So no one’s come here asking for the cooling center?
Oh, maybe a few people yesterday, I guess, but not too many. See, we’re a senior center.
Mr. G returned to announce that the rear room was now officially the cooling center and I could wander on back there whenever I liked. It’s cooler than out here in the lobby, he said. I certainly hoped so. But you’re not entitled to the free lunch so, you know, at noon . . . um . . . .
I can’t help it: I shuddered. Then I headed for the vaunted cooling center.
Not Much to Do
The dozen folks scattered about the place clearly qualified for membership in Leviathan’s exclusive senior center. Most of them were staring blankly into space. No wonder: there was little else to do. The one and only magazine rack contained ancient publications so dog-eared and dirty that I hesitated to touch them, let alone read them.
I wish I could tell you I stayed and chatted with my fellow citizens. So tell me, I’d say, kinda sorry you voted for Roosevelt now? And what’s for lunch? But the room was so depressing — think school cafeteria complete with puke-yellow walls and broken, mismatched tables and chairs — that I left after a few moments.
Bloomingdale’s, here I come.