And the Fan’s Roar

by Tom Swift

Before sunup. The heat has been offensive this first week of June. My go-to weather app, when I checked it after work hours last evening, said, “feels like 100.” At the moment, the humidity of yesterday has been cleared out by the miracle of Central Air. A fan — a big black fan — blows feet from the edge of my bed. As I fumble with words in literal and figurative darkness, the fan-fashioned wind bends the hair on my arms.

I turn on the fan ostensibly for the reason this and every other fan was created: to move air.

As I think on it, though, I like this fan less because of its feature and more because of its bug: its roar.

This is not one of those gentle, oscillating noise-canceling jobbies. This is a cheap, big-box bought, old box floor-sitter that was never at any point fancy and certainly is not now, these many years after twenty-buck purchase from the hardware store, subtle. I can imagine this fan would annoy many people. Fortunately, those people aren’t here; it’s just me, the little buddy, and this steady roar.

At one point I thought of discarding this fan. A guy who was cleaning my carpet in a previous abode pointed out that the dust-caked fan still had some life. So I hosed it down and got it back into circulation (yes, pun intended). Now, on nights like last night, I pull it out of the closet, plug it in, and let it blow as it will, as I wrap myself in the summer comforter and slip into my slumber.

The constancy of that sound. That is why this morning I sipped my coffee and came back to bed for a few more minutes. For a little more of this music.

Summer is a fan blowing all night long.