Today was the first day I felt the heat of the sun in a while. Or at least considering the emotional state I’ve been in over the last few months it felt that way. It wasn’t particularly sunny. I just guess the sun’s just a little more powerful down in these parts. I imagine I’ve gotten a little bit closer to it while riding along the earth’s sweet curves.
I get picked up by a couple. The woman is overweight with rough skin and I don’t take close note of the man’s appearance. I talk to the woman mostly anyway. They take me home to set me up with a few friends of theirs who are soon heading south, like me, in their newly purchased $1000 beat up Volvo. Before we make it back to their place we stop to pick up a present for one of their babysitters. It’s the babysitter’s birthday. The man has bought a pipe and a pack of rolling papers called “My Fucking Rolling Papers.” They both think the name is quite comical. We make it to their small and messy house where I meet my next ride. Three young street kids, two of which are proud high school drop outs. They make up a jug time band and they each have their respected dogs. They’ll teach me about food stamps later. The mother has the babysitter roll a large joint. They proceed to smoke it while the couple’s three year out daughter dances around the living room and their four month old baby rocks, transfixed on the TV. There’s a swear jar specifically for the F-word; it’s in the shape of a large green Crayola Crayon. No quarters enter the crayon despite the frequent use of the word. Their first child would have a healthy trust fund by now if they followed their own rules. Despite the pot and casual swears the daughter is quite sociable and polite, she must be loved. The three friends decide it’s time to leave so we head on the highway, surf board rattling on the roof and old time music played off burnt CDs.