“Put your sunglasses away Fairfield, there is no chance sun coming our way.”

The people hate me.


“As we glance over to t he Doppler radar, we can see a storm front heading our way that should be causing some landfall later this afternoon on the southeast shores, and possibly a few isolated tornados surging at high tide. Some local flooding is on the menu later in the week, and we could see anywhere from 6-12 inches of rain tonight. Unbelievable isn’t it?”

Hell, I hate myself. Every night I deliver a disappointing forecast that’s poorly coupled with scripted humor and whitened teethe. My job is easy, really. I spend a total of two hours every day reading bits of prompts that have been written for me. Every few weeks, I receive some form of hate mail, or am declared a moving target for assorted food products to be thrown at. I might as well be the one summoning t he dreary retrogressions, chilly graupels, and life-threatening gusts, because to the people of Fairfield, Connecticut, I am a plague. For future reference, I’ve added “Dream Crushing” to the occupation description. That’s right, everyone hates the weatherman.

What drives someone to pursue a career composed of mockery and hate? The weather, of course. The weather is more to me than just hopes of sunshine. The technical terms I use are not competent of conveying the deep passion I feel for the clouds. Not just the clouds, but the rain and the breeze as well. My favorite are those days when the town bathes in its natural shower, cleaning the slates of aspiring chalk artists and ridding parking lots of accumulating oil puddles. I hunger for the suppressing winters when the sun stays hidden behind dense gray curtains of sky, only peeking through to relieve freezing temperatures. I love the sound of my tires dividing seas of melting slush and ice, and tingle at the taste of settling dew on the lawns of my neighbors.

I tried living among the sunny California scene multiple times. My pale skin burns under the heavy UV rays, and I found myself sulking due to the lack of clouds and precipitation. I must say, there were perks to being a California weatherman. It’s nice to be the cause of so many optimistic attitudes and not be sued for being a main contributor to “seasonal depression.” No one threw things at me in California, and I think I recall having a girlfriend at one point. But all of that is disposable. The fat pay sums, hefty bags of fan mail, expensive Doppler equipment, and remotely comical weather scripts are worth nothing if I couldn’t feel heavy rain drops fall from my face.

So I moved back east, back to a bitter-sweet life of isolation, ridicule, and bliss. Though I live alone, I feel plenty accompanied by the mist, fog, and rolling thunder storms. I sometimes imagine falling into a muddy knoll and being absorbed by its greatness, allowing me to live eternally and observe dangerous weather patterns. My face would be home to many plants that couldn’t survive without a chilly climate. When I die, I look forward to being cremated and my ashes contributing to a deep layer of sub-freezing sleet on the surface of America’s roadways, endangering the heaviest of utility vehicles, and forcing locals to enjoy the ominous weather conditions.

Instead, I will spend the rest of my life being coated in make-up that hides my pasty skin color and put on a smile for people who dread hearing my voice every morning.

“Good morning, Fairfield! We’ve got some freezing rain coming our way, so keep your candles handy for those extensive power failures!”