Manhattan 's Own Brand of Summertime Steaminess Gives Way to Sidewalk Fantasies, Drunken Jigs, Bedroom Craekups, and Air-Conditioned Nightmares
New York is a completely different city in August. Like living in some South American country with a corrupt and drunk dictator, skyrocketing inflation, drug cartels, dust-covered roads, clogged plumbing—where nothing will ever get better, the rains will never come.
The psyche of most New Yorkers cracks under the heat. Bad thoughts and bad feelings bubble to the surface. They lead to bad behavior, the kind New Yorkers specialize in. It's secretive. It's nasty. Relationships break up. People who shouldn't be together get together.
The city's in heat. Days of ninety-five-plus-degree weather are strung together one after the other. Everyone is cranky.
In the heat, you can't trust anyone, especially yourself.
Carrie is lying in Mr. Big's bed at eight a.m. She believes she is not going to be okay. In fact, she is pretty damn sure that she is not going to be okay. She's crying hysterically into the pillow.
"Carrie. Calm down. Calm down," Mr. Big orders. She rolls over, and her face is a grotesque, blotchy mask.
"You're going to be okay. I have to go to work now. Right now. You're keeping me from work." "Can you help me?" Carrie asks.
"No," he says, sliding his gold cufflinks through the holes of starched cuffs. "You have to help yourself. Figure it out."
Carrie puts her head under the covers, still crying. "Call me in a couple of hours," he says, then walks out of the room. "Goodbye." Two minutes later, he comes back. "I forgot my cigar case," he
says, watching her as he crosses the room. She's quiet now. "Goodbye," he says. "Goodbye. Goodbye." It's the tenth day in a row of suffocating heat and humidity.