The Heat Is On

CLANG.  Kerchunk-chunk-chunk.  Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze.

The heat is on.  Despite my best protests and campaigning, fall has apparently arrived. 

Most apartments in New York City, at least every one I've occupied, have steam heat that rumbles up fitfully from cantankerous boilers hidden deep in the basement.  It's an angry and intrusive heat.  A heat that arrives in the middle of the night without calling first.  One minute you're sleeping peacefully, and the next you are shocked awake by what sounds like hammering on metal pipes next to your head. 

The radiator is always painted a fake dull silver, layer upon layer, curling at the edges.  If you're lucky, the knob to adjust the flow of steam hasn't been painted shut.  For the first several years I lived here I didn't even realize that was an option.  Maybe that was for the best, because now I spend my days and nights loosening and tightening this valve compulsively.  It's almost always too hot for my taste - the window stays cracked even in the coldest depths of January.  You can smell the heat the moment you open the door.

Let me just say up front that I am grateful to have heat at all.  Because I know that at some point the boiler will rebel and laugh as we sit heat-less for a day or two or three.  And no amount of sweatshirts and socks will quite cut the chill.  Happens every winter, just to remind us who's boss.

Growing up in Minnesota, we had quiet gentle heat.  Maybe it had to be to offset the malicious winter weather.  We had heat that blew happily from black iron grates in the floor that temporarily branded your feet with octagons when you stood on them.  As soon as we heard that puff of air, we'd run to sit on the grate in the TV room, a blanket tucked beneath us and over our shoulders.  We'd seal in the air until we became human Jiffy-Pop.  The best, though, was when our mom would wear her white fluffy robe.  She'd knot it at the waist and let the air inflate the bottom into a giant bell.  It never ceased to be hilarious. 

So for now I will lie awake and listen to this conversation of clunks and whistles.  Just about the time I think they're winding down and my lids are getting heavy again, a new set of sounds will be invited in to join the party.  After a week or two, they'll all be absorbed into my sub-conscious and I won't give them a second thought. 

Maybe.  It's possible.

Ker-chunk.