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It was mid-May, and Todd was taking a walk as an act of protest. The cold wind gusted around him, making him hunch as he plodded forward. The light mist, almost a fog, splattered him. He would be soaked by the time he got home.
“Stupid weather,” he muttered. It should have been warm by now, with the temperature hovering in that sweet spot where shorts and T-shirts came out but no one sweated much.
Another man was coming his way on the sidewalk. They looked up at each other, nodding, and the other said, “What about this rain?”
“I’m done with it.”
“Me too.”
They continued on.
Todd didn’t enjoy his walk but he completed his usual circuit, just to spite the clouds.
His son Marcus had returned from play practice when Todd entered the house, dripping. “I hope you’re happy,” Todd snarled.
“Dad, it’ll get sunny soon.”
“It should be sunny now.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Who ever heard of delays for ice in May?” Todd demanded, removing his coat and hanging it to drip its excess water on the floor. “What’s even the point. You’ll just have to make the days up.”
Marcus turned his attention back to his phone.
“You voting now?” Todd asked.
“I’m reading the weather report.”
“Tell me what it says.” He began peeling off his socks.
Marcus sighed. “Fifty to sixty percent chance of rain. Less than twenty percent chance of snow. Temperatures likely in the fifties. Ten percent chance of clear skies and sun.”
“What’s the count?” He walked gingerly into the room, the cold shirt and pants uncomfortable.
Marcus flicked his finger to scroll down. “Um…eight percent.”
“See, that’s the problem! Everyone thinks it’s going to rain, so it does. They need to get rid of all these weather apps and choose on their own terms.”
“It would never work, Dad.”
“Yeah, well, it should. It’s groupthink and social media celebrity nonsense. When I was your age, we just let the weather happen and then we talked about it….”
He started upstairs, grumbling.
After a warm shower and some clean clothes, Todd sat down in front of the computer. He clicked the WeatherDemo shortcut and logged in. Weather Demographics was a data-driven website. Todd had obsessed over his county’s statistic for months, who voted, how they voted, long-term and short-term trends, but he had begun to despair. Democratizing weather had seemed a good idea once the weather control systems had been put into place. You didn’t want politicians in charge, being bought out by the travel lobby picking the next tourist hotspot or the entertainment industry increasing inclement weather so you stayed inside and stared at a screen even longer. Let the people decide.
But the people were maniacs. The farmers wanted rain when they wanted rain and sun when they wanted sun, but the older women wanted sun all the time and kids wanted snow, six feet deep, for half the year. These contradictory but understandable desires all made up the daily voting. If that had been it, the weather might have fallen into a rhythm of sorts.
But the Internet was a dark place. Soon, #WetWednesday was a thing, and #FryemFriday and #MistyMonday. Christmas in July went from phrase to reality. Petitions circulated with the goal of giving an ailing person a perfect day of weather, whatever that weather might be.
The control system was remarkably fluid, but weather was weather. If temperatures dropped in a nearby state, it would affect you, despite the 95 degree day the snowbirds ordered in.
This is what frustrated Todd the most. Not that his son and his friends tried (and often succeeded) to influence conditions so there was just enough ice at five in the morning for school to be cancelled or that his wife had given up caring and pre-voted “Sunny and 70” for the next three months. It was that no matter how much data he absorbed, no matter how cleverly he inputted his personal weather desires, he could not really influence what happened. It was ultimately in someone else’s hands.
But he pored over graphs and tables and did some calculations before finally throwing up his hands, two states over.
Marcus leaned into the room.
“I voted for sun,” he said.
“Thanks,” Todd said glumly.
“How’d you vote?”
“I didn’t.”
“Come on, it’ll warm up soon. Everyone gets spring fever.”
“Maybe.”
“I wasn’t going to vote, but I figure you looked so miserable, like a wet cat.”
Todd smiled. “All right.” He picked dry and 85, not because he wanted it quite that hot, but with 43 percent of the vote in, it looked like he’d have to edge it upward.
“So, was it really better before?” Marcus asked.
Todd clicked the button. “We complained. All the time. So maybe it’s not that different.”
Then he pressed the share button to tell everyone how he voted and that they should do the same.