The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
When I heard my editor say, ”It’s hot as hell” I wondered if it was true. There was only one way to know for certain. I dialed my reliable source.
“You’ve reached hell.”
“Hello, I’m calling to —“
“— If you are calling regarding your contract with Lucifer, touch 1. If you wish to know your soul’s status or your soul’s itinerary for Eternity, press 2. If you wish to speak to our Press Office, press 3. If you are a pitchfork peddler —”
Bingo. I pressed 3.
“Press Office. Bob Beelzebub speaking. What in hell are you calling about?”
“What?”
“I love that joke! Who’s this?’
People are also reading…
“Dave Fitzsimmons. I’m a cartoonist and I was wondering—”
“The answer is yes, all cartoonists are condemned to hell. No exceptions. Does that answer your question?’
“No. I’m calling from Tucson where people often say Tucson is hot as hell and I was wondering if that’s true and —”
“—Did you say Tucson!? I have a brother who lives there! He was one of the Seven Princes of hell, then he retired after 10,000 years. He was so burned out.”
“10,000 years? I’ll bet he was toast.”
“Totally. Loves Arizona. Especially in the summertime. He says your wildfires make him feel right at home. So tell me. What’s your question?”
“Folks here like to complain it’s hotter than hell here in July and I was wondering if that’s actually true. How hot is hell?”
“Checking my Weather App, Mr. Fitzsimmons, it looks like where you are at in Arizona is not as hot as Phoenix, which is hotter than a Quonset hut in Quartzite at high noon.”
“Uh-huh. But can you tell me how hot it is in hell?”
“It’s hotter than Bullhead City — which is hotter than a seat belt buckle in a Buick in a Gila Bend junkyard.”
“Can you give me a number? The temperature?”
“Where I am right now, looking out my office window onto the Lake of Fire, it’s hotter than a doorknob in Death Valley.”
“And that is …”
“Anywhere from 2,200 degrees to 9,000 degrees. I suspect that’s hotter than Tucson.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Will be?”
“Darned! I meant darned. I admit I’m a little disappointed. Old Pueblo pride and all.”
“Cheer up. Climate change is on your side. Anything else I can help you with? We offer tours. Have you seen our gift shop?”
“Actually, while I have you … why are cartoonists damned?”
“Your vile drawings! None of us looks like a mountain goat crossed with a tomato carrying a trident.”
“Write a letter to my editor. Do you have any Tucsonans down there?”
“More than I can count on all four hooves. So many of them are cast into our hell pit for driving sins. The worst are the venal snakes who swoop in to grab parking spaces— in the shade, close to the store’s entrance — from your less aggressive drivers.”
“The lowest. Where are they?”
“Condemned to circle our eternal Michigan Turn. In smoking Ford Pintos. For all time.”
“Wow.”
“With their windows rolled up.”
“Awful.”
“With busted ACs blowing hot air in their broiled faces.”
“Stop.”
“With their radios set to Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ looping over and over.”
“Please stop.”
“Behind a retiree driving 25 miles an hour with his left turn signal blinking for all time.”
“Are you done?”
“During rush hour.”
“Are you done?”
“I’m done.”
“Listen, I got to go.”
“You don’t want to know what becomes of those who lock children or animals in a parked car.”
“You’re right,“ I said as I wiped my wet brow and leaned into my desk fan.
“One more thing. There’s been a huge rule change that should interest every Tucsonan.”
“What’s that?”
“Any condemned soul who ever spent a summer in Tucson, with only an evaporative cooler, will have their Celestial Sentence pardoned.”
“That’s a hell of a thing.”
“Yes, it is. And they will be sent straight up to Heaven.”
“Why?”
“It’s our new Double Jeopardy Rule. There’s no way we can match the torment those poor sweaty souls have endured under their swamp box. They’ve done their time.”
“Hey. Thanks for the scoop. I could talk to you all day but I really have to go. My guayabera shirt’s soaked with sweat, deadlines are calling and my editor’s head is on fire.”
“It was a hell of a fun time. Hope we’ll see you soon, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Not if I can help it.” I hung up and glanced out my window at the time and temperature sign shimmering in the heat across the empty street. I looked back at the monitor and started tapping out my story. I didn’t care what my source said. As far as I was concerned, on this day, Tucson was hot as hell.
