He wasn’t worried about the roads.  It was barely freezing so the snow wasn’t sticking to the freeways, and the slick-sheen melt wasn’t cold enough to freeze. He could drive these roads in a 2WD, but got up-sold at the rental agency into a Nissan Murano, aerodynamicized chrome turd on-wheels,
4WD at least: unnecessary, but nice to have the bulk and height,
Not nice to have the blindspots not to mention the remnants of snow still clinging to the back corner windows.

Primus thumped from the car speakers
Les Claypool’s fretless bass groove lurching like a rhymtically blessed drunk dancing in the streets
Living for the Glory of [his] American Life five lanes wide and that was just northbound,
Snow not thick enough to snowblind, but the April sky thicker and closer than usual,
Close enough to make lesser drivers clutch their breaks for reassurance,

a sense of control,

staggered hesitations that opened room for him to weave through the snow and traffic,
Not drunk yet, that’s what he was on his way to do, but thoroughly wound-up from a long day onsite,
Just starting to unwind now through the swirling weather,
The staggering bass-lines and commute
Enough stimulation to stir up a drug and booze-free wide-eyed rush

Not quite high but close.

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