The summer after I turned sixteen, I took driver’s ed from a coach at my high school and quickly realized that this was not for me. Turning invoked a great deal of anxiety, as did staying in my lane, and parking—oh, parking—that was the worst. I suppose I could have tried harder to overcome my fear and discomfort, but I didn’t, and as a result I have never gotten a ticket, made a car payment, or called anyone a fucking piece of shit asshole through an open or closed driver’s-side window. It’s not that I never get angry, just that I never get angry the way people behind a wheel do. My fury isn’t poetry, just greeting-card prose: “Go to hell, you.”
“What do you say when someone cuts you…