So Much Hotter Than Iran

My cab driver is a political refugee. Religious issues in Iran. When the U.S. government was trying to place him, its representative in charge of my cab driver’s destiny asked if he had family or friends here. My cab driver said no.

“So it doesn’t matter where we send you?” the representative asked.

“No,” my cab driver said.

“We could send you anywhere, and you wouldn’t care?” the representative confirmed.

“Yes,” my cab driver said.

“And so they sent you here?” I ask, waving toward the cab window at the skyline just beginning to approach us, and my cab driver says yes. Don’t get him wrong; employment’s better here than a lot of places. 

“But it’s so hot,” my cab driver says. “So much hotter than Iran.”

“If they asked you again—“ I begin to ask, but he interrupts with the answer before I finish the question.

“California,” my cab driver says. “I would tell them California.”