It's (Almost) 4 a.m.

Saturday night. It's 89 degrees in the shadows and traffic on the West Side has come to a near standstill.

On one avenue, fire engines scream at the gridlock, demanding to be let through to douse a burning building and snatch the people trapped in it.

Farther south, a battalion of taxi drivers slams their horns in frustration as police reroute all cars that dare approach with late evening revelers beginning a night out.

Everywhere people venture forth looking for the R&R the angry sun, the smothering humidity stole from them during the day.

The evening begins at Highline in the no longer fashionable but still-frequented Meatpacking District. Highline, with its ground and lower levels, is described as a "Cornell bar." (If you can't get into Harvard, Yale or Princeton, you go to Cornell.)

From there, it takes a detour to Alphabet City before going to "some place near the bridge" on the Lower East Side. The names no longer matter. What's important is the scene.

But the scene tonight is slightly off kilter. On the first night after the first day of what will be an extended heat wave, DJs are off their groove and the bartenders are off their mark. One drink served tastes like too-sweet cough syrup laced with the bitter kick of bile, warning of what's to come.

"You'll be sick if you finish that."

"No wounded soldiers."

Machismo and indifference at its finest.

By 3:30 in the morning, the river of traffic has reversed its flow, running uptown instead of down and having a much easier time of it.

The magic hour approaches...