my air conditioner is broken again, for the third time this summer.  again, then, i am living out of my car, bringing a canvas bag full of

makeup
hairspray
toothbrush
deodorant
underwear
medication
bra
cell phone charger
jacket
dress
soap
john barth

with me everywhere i go.  i sleep in other people’s apartments, use other people’s computers, eat only

turkey and chive cream cheese sandwich
grilled cheese sandwich with tomato
grilled chicken sandwich with cheese
sourdough chicken club
tofu hot dog

purchased from bagel shops, restaurants, fast-food drive-throughs.  i drive back and forth from school to apartments to food places to bars drinking

vodka tonics

to apartment security gates to which i don’t have a code or card, listening to the cds that max burned for me.  anyway, who am i? how did i get this apartment, this job, these friends, this shaking?  when did bacon and hot lettuce on a sandwich become acceptable?  why is the lime in my drink so small?  why did i forget my

toothpaste
razor
shampoo
socks
pajamas

?  and what is it that makes people’s apartments feel so strange, smell so different?  they keep their blinds closed, drink water out of juice glasses, throw dirty clothes on the floor.  they brush their teeth with whitening toothpaste.  they have half-bottles of wine leftover from last night’s you’re not sure what it was they did.  you look for shaving cream and find hair straightener; look for a stapler and find their class ring from high school; look for your sunglasses and find a picture of yourself, the one you gave them nearly six years ago.  who are these people? you think, as you put on one of their t-shirts, adjust their pillow beneath your head, pull their blankets up over your shoulders.  you may not actually know them at all.