Intersection

By 9:30 AM today, I will either have become certified to operate an automobile, unsupervised, at any time, or have failed in my fourth attempt to do so. My driving instructor, when asked whether he believed I, most probably his oldest student, would pass the test with which I would imminently be confronted, averted his eyes to the ground and refused to answer. I can feel the unquantifiable weight of inevitability bearing down upon me, I can feel the heavy, putrid breath of inexorable disappointment on the back of my neck, and yet I will not surrender to defeat. I maintain that a man can only perpetrate a finite number of mistakes before the universe all but coerces him to do something right, and if I am correct in maintaining this, I have fucked up sufficiently in the past year that I am owed five minutes of flawless performance behind the wheel of my mother’s Audi A6. By 9:30 AM today, I will either become certified to operate an automobile, unsupervised, at any time, or die in the pursuit of this goal. I will signal when pulling away from the curb, I will adjust my mirrors and check my blindspot. I will steer hand over hand, I will slide my palms along the frame of the wheel as it returns to its default position.  I will remain almost presciently aware of my surroundings, I will stop before the white line at every stop sign. I will not confabulate any more excuses concerning Jack Kerouac or Carbon emissions. I will, from this day forward, travel to the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Glen Cove Road whenever I want. I won’t be no scrub, a scrub is a guy who won’t get no love from you, hanging out the passenger’s side of his best friend’s ride, trying to holler at you. I will, one day, purchase a car of my own, and I will adorn that car with a Sex Gang Children bumper sticker, which will provoke onlookers to remark “Sex Gang Children? That sounds horrible. The youth these days,” as I drive, unsupervised, wherever I should be pleased to drive. At 9:00 AM today, destiny and I meet at an uncontrolled intersection, and, for once in my life, it will yield to me.

-Gothicus Maximus

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