Sam Drinks Mud

The sun in California is significantly different. There is no scientific reason for this to be sure, but ask any visitor from elsewhere in the US, and they will agree. It is clearer, warmer to be sure, particularly if you are from the midwest or northeastern United States. The air feels different; there is a vibe of possibility, of the new. Anyone from California would perhaps disagree. There is a maxim that those that live near Disneyland rarely go; the novelty wears off quickly and it becomes something in the background, always there as a reminder, but at the same time it is a noise in the background, a dull roar that is tuned out.

Sam had ceased to be annoyed by those, who on their first day in San Francisco, commented on how temperate the weather is. Weather, weather, weather. Weather was what strangers talked about when there was nothing else to talk about. Weather was something that no one had control over, and the inability to change the weather becomes a common point of contact. It is banal because it's commonality makes it so.

Sam had to hear a lot of this because of his job. He was a taxi driver, but when he did speed dating he would elaborate, saying that taxi driving was both a way to pay the bills, but gave him fuel for his real work, which as writing 1 minute songs about people. He wrote these songs constantly, particularly when things happened in his job, such as the bastard in the rusted white van cutting him off at the last minute. "Van Driving Man" was an old standard.

I'm a Van Driving Man
With a Master Plan
To rule the world
and to get the girl

There was more to this, it devolved into a acrimonious rant about stupidity and compromise (I wanted a Camaro, but my wife wanted the minivan.). He didn't feel sorry for these people. They got what they deserved. He was excluded from this of course. He didn't get what he deserved, not nearly enough. Life was shoveling shit down his gullet, and he had no opportunity to swallow. It just kept packing in there.

Time to pull over, and pick up another passenger, a pasty faced woman in her late 30's. He thought that she could use a new hairstyle, that the closely cropped and spiked look wasn't working for her anymore. It seemed strange when coupled with her new found poundage. He couldn't let things go, so why should anyone else?

He grunted and took a swig of his cold Dunkin Donuts coffee. It tasted literally like Mud. But it was good mud.