On Heat Advisories and Wayfinding
The North American heat wave of 2012 broke more records than Bob Gibson and Lou Brock combined. Like Gibson’s 17 strikeouts during Game 1 of the 1968 World Series, the heat came out of nowhere and struck fast.
The intense wave, which originated over Mexico’s Baja Peninsula around June 20th, pushed its way through the Rockies and hit the midwest a few days later. Soon after, the temperature in Hill City, Kansas peaked at 115°. Nashville broke its previous high temp record by 11°. Two boys in Bradley County, Tennessee died of hyperthermia. And the air—heavy, concrete, and swollen with anticipation—settled into St. Louis at 108°.
At the height of the wave, statues of Gibson and Lou Brock cauterized in the 3pm St. Louis sun. Games were rescheduled, radios fell silent, the air void of KMOX AM static and organ riffs. Daylight herded St. Louisans like cockroaches into the dry, dark sterile coolness of movie theaters, basements, and libraries. I slept in my underwear on the couch almost every night that summer under heavy starless skies, tossing and turning to the hum of the window unit that was struggling to stay relevant in a city run by central AC and swimming pools.
The June heat coincided with an end to silverware rolling and late nights serving margaritas to my former high school peers and a beginning to 7am punch-ins and hourly pay. After failing in a Craigslist interview to correctly resize several lines of copy for a memorial hospital plaque, I received a phone call the week after; the recruiter on the other end offered me a typesetting position. Total incompetence had landed me an $11/hr job preparing text to be read on restroom signs, park maps, and donor plaques. The company— ASI, which purported to develop “digital signage solutions designed to enhance the human interface experience by offering dynamic, relevant wayfinding information”— was housed in a seemingly indestructible concrete block uptown.
Wayfinding, as I would come to learn, is an official term for spatial problem solving. It means knowing where you are in a building or environment, knowing where you want to go, and knowing how to get there from your present location. It applies to commercial spaces—healthcare facilities, educational institutions, and urban centers—but existed as a concept long before the presence of cities and schools. It is the ancient, almost spiritual practice of finding one’s route, of orienting oneself in a physical space.
The origins of wayfinding can be traced back well over 3,000 years ago, all the way back to the ancient Polynesian diaspora that defied traditional human movement patterns. According to traditional Polynesian wayfinding lore, one cannot simply memorize the juxtaposition of the stars in the cross, look towards the night sky, and know where you are. Finding your way requires not only a familiarity with the skies but also an ability to look forwards and backwards. Using where you sailed from to inform where you are sailing to. Allowing the mind to be in two places at once. To let where you’ve been create a mental star path of deliberative, constant observation.
Nuku Hiva, the largest of the Marquesas Islands of French Polynesia, is 4,584 miles from St. Louis, Missouri. Tropical winds, not unlike the midwestern gales that precede spring funnel clouds, evolve into cyclones and ravage the islands each summer. However, if you happen to be in Nuku Hiva at the right time of year however and look south at nightfall, the first stars you see will appear in the shape of a shimmering cross on the horizon. Resting in one of the brightest sections of the Milky Way, the four stars create the Southern Cross, or the Crux, as it is better known in the Southern Hemisphere. Its visual magnitude is +2.8, making it one of the brightest constellations despite being the smallest of all 88 formations.
Navigating my way to ASI on day one. Even at 7am, heat had already begun to pool in the cracks of the asphalt. Everything in the office looked the same as it did when I was interviewed two weeks earlier. My desk, covered in dust, still housed a broken Big Mouth Billy Bass and lacked any office supplies save for a pink highlighter. “Purchase orders are put on your desk every morning,” John Reiger told me. John, my new boss, knew I couldn’t resize text in Adobe Illustrator but didn’t care. He had a dimpled baby chin and his lower lip would tremble when he defended himself, which happened a lot. John lives with his parents in Farmington, a coworker told me.
As typesetter, I had the ability to ruin an entire project without anyone noticing until the installation at whatever school, hospital, or community center took place. In some cases, no one would notice for months. I was on my own, meticulously preparing, proofreading, packaging up, and sending out step by step instructions, guides for people I didn’t even know. Showing strangers how to move through spaces that were no more theirs than mine. I felt imprisoned, sandwiched between the edifice of 220 Olive Street and a stack of project orders. It felt like it was my own human interface experience that was lacking. My own movements were at a standstill, muggy and stagnant.
On July 22, as I walked out of that horrid concrete block, I received a call informing me that someone who I loved dearly had passed away unexpectedly. The air conditioning in my car had just broken and I drove home down deserted streets, sweating and crying until I couldn’t tell what were due to heat and which were due to heartbreak. That night, the record temperatures devolved into a raging derecho—one of the most destructive and deadly in North American history. The storms resulted in 22 deaths, millions of power outages and damages in excess of $2.9 billion. A wake of ruin was left behind, but with it came questions and possibilities for new beginnings. The night I began packing up my belongings to move my life elsewhere, the storms subsided, and for the first time in months, stars were visible overhead.