City Conditioning

New York City is like a teenager's bedroom at 1pm on a Saturday.

There is the sensation that the air hasn't been changed for months. There is the feeling that someone needs to brusquely walk in and throw open the curtains, open the window, and arouse the slumbering methane factory beneath the sheets. Above all, there is the same overwhelming feeling that you are no longer clean after startlingly short periods. Today, that period was about thirty seconds - from stepping out of my front door, thirty seconds was all it took to make me feel like I needed another shower.

The city is sticky. Overcast and pale grey, the sky this morning also seemed to promise wet and sombre weather ahead...so on the way out of the door I scooped up my umbrella.

After my thirty seconds of rapidly declining freshness were up I started looking forward to my subway ride. The cars, while crowded, are at least air-conditioned. The sidewalks between our apartment building and the subway were periodically streaked and wet from the night-long dripping of old and incontinent air-conditioners in the windows of the buildings above.

I was right to bring an umbrella, because it rained on the train.

Like the smart little commuter I fancy myself to be I used my freshly acquired copy of Metro to wipe down an inexplicably water-spotted place and took the last seat in the carriage. The N-W trains sometimes run irregularly in the mornings and after just a few stops the train was packed to full rush-hour capacity, which is when it started raining. Cries of shock and surprise came from the people standing in front of me as water cascaded slowly but relentlessly out of the air conditioning unit in the ceiling. One woman started crying about her suit being ruined, and everyone tried to shift out of the way, but there was nowhere to go - the train was packed. A few wayward drops caught the upturned pages of my copy of HP6, the edge of my jeans was hit and a splash off someone's shoulder dampened my shirt sleeve, but apart from that I scooched over in the seat and dodged most of it.
Or so I thought.
Reaching the top of the subway stairs and stepping into the bustling pageant that is downtown Broadway, a lazy breeze drifted by. It was a useless breeze; merely teasing the city with the illusion of relief from the yoke of meteorological oppression, but it was enough to let me know that the back of my shirt was completely soaked.

I am wet, I am sporting a distressingly subway-like odour, and now the air-conditioning in my office isn't working.

This is Stuart, New York City, having a strop.