Steve drives silently home along the highway. The radio is off; he can't bear the sound of music anymore. The fields are no longer full of waffles. His mood is black. The world is black. Life has no value. Life is meaningless.
They hated him. He gave it his all, and they hated him. The tires rumble along the road, chugging in an almost rhythmic fashion, a mockery of the blues he so longed to play for the world. Perhaps a 24 year old graphic designer was never meant to play the blues.
Or, perhaps it is they, the audience, who do not understand the blues. Perhaps it is they who have never had the blues. Perhaps it is they who are the ball-lickers.
As he drives slowly home, away from Swaggering Bob's Dolorous House of Chitlins and Other Culinary Oddities, away from the cruel world of the blues and all of its empty promises, he reflects once more upon the deep, all-consuming misery that his life has become.
And to make matters worse, he realizes that he still has SWEATY BOOT RASH.