Its hot. Its so fucking hot. For hours each day you can do nothing because even going 60 down the highway the air is so hot it’ll burn your skin. You have to stay in the deep shade or you will be a puddle of sweat in seconds – sweat streaming into your eyes so you’re blind.
Whats it like living in the slabs? Moist. In August I would describe it as moist, yep. With all the smells that implies. And the bugs. Oh dear God the bugs. There is a special place in hell for slab bugs, the only things that seem to be thriving.
Summer in the slabs is dark. Its knowing exactly when the sun goes down but not what day of the week it is. Its knowing your neighbors and sharing ice cold drinks and low conversations by the low glow of solar with the sound of music and generators drifting through the thick air.
Its the strum of a guitar and voices talking and competing with Joeys barking and waiting your turn for Ken to make your burger at Wranglers Roost.
Its crickets so loud they hurt your ears.
Its creeping yourself out with thoughts of bodies and murderers and evil spirits while walking to the canal to cool off and clutching the cold ladder with a death grip.
Its the smell of cow shit so thick you can cut it with a knife.
If you’re a misfit toy its the only free range asylum on earth and its home.