Thursday, September 1, 2011

Hot combs and Kool-Aid


        ... A restless tension had been building in us for days now and we knew we had to move one way or another to shake us out of this sulking state of intolerable, head pounding boredom that was getting to all of us. An old cliché of "the walls closing in on us", was becoming all too real.           
             No doubt, there unmistakably was a true heat wave upon us, unlike anything we had seen in the past. This was continuous 100 degree plus, record-breaking days, if not weeks of scorching unbearable misery, in which you just couldn’t for any cause or need, find much relief.
              We mostly spent days laid out flat in front of floor fans, with our faces exceptionally close, hearing only the droning hum of the plastic fan blades that we would every now and then, out of boredom, bravely stick one of our fingers through the small rectangle cracks to try and stop the blades from spinning. Other than that, we might reluctantly dawdle from room to room, several times over, in a useless attempt to find more to do as if something new would miraculously present itself out of nowhere but sadly we always found ourselves right back on the floor in the same place in front of the fans.            
Before long, mid day would creep up on us and soon enough with the sun straight up and even the fans would become as useless as everything else, only pushing hot air around. What seemed to help us stay cool the most was drinking jug after jug of red Kool-aide right out of the pitcher. Billy’s family loved Kool-aide of every color, each with heaping cups of sugar added to mask the bitter taste of chalky well water that ran out of the tap. I couldn’t tell you how many times a day I heard someone holler toward the kitchen, “y’all make some more Kool-aide in there!”
              I myself couldn’t stand being anywhere near that cramped little kitchen. Not only was it already hot enough as is, they kept the gas stove burners turned up full blast most of the day heating up hot combs. If and when you did happen in there for some reason, it was at your own risk. As soon as you walked through that door you were blasted with the awful searing smell of burnt hair and open tubs of ‘blue magic’ hair grease and then you had to somehow cautiously maneuver, squeezing and bending like a pretzel around the sweaty bodies of whoever was sitting stuffed together on rickety metal chairs getting their hair straightened, all the while you are hoping and praying you don’t bump into them as not to burn yourself or worse, cause them to be singed on the back of their necks with the blistering hot irons, which in turn would have gotten you a wallop on the back of the head. If you ever wondered what those little scars below the ear at the back of the neck were, or why you had to hold your ears back, you can be sure it was that hot-comb...

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