(1) Listen to many, many true crime podcasts, such that you become convinced that all strangers are out to get you. They will lure you into vehicles, then dismember you and bury you in a construction pit. They will also take your money.
(2) Call the American Auto Academy and demand a quote, so that your instructor cannot fleece you. Obtain the quote. Meet your instructor. Recognize that he is fleecing you. Pay him, anyway; perhaps he has a hard life.
(3) Your instructor will have an anxiety disorder, and each order he gives will be restated three times. "Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel." Find yourself murmuring: "Actually, I heard you." And: "Easy does it!" These words will have the opposite of their intended effect.
(4) Ask your instructor: "What do *A* and *I* mean, on the road test results?" And the man will say, "A: Good. I: Bad." Recall that, on your failed road test, you received all Is, though you seemed to have made only one error. But some of the I boxes have one kind of hieroglyph, and other boxes have another hieroglyph. Does a check mean one thing, while an X means something different? Does an X in an I-box mean "not I"? In other words, is an X in an "I box" really, in fact, an "A"? You will never know. Ask Kafka.
(5) Grumble through several achingly slow "parallel park" efforts; feel yourself awash in boredom and self-pity. Dare yourself not to look at your watch. Make whiny remarks about "the shitty steering wheel," then wonder, silently: Is this what I have become? Am I really thirty-six?
(6) Your teacher will seem to relax, and he will request that you stop parking and just drive. Apparently, the teaching portion of the morning is over. Now, your buddy will unburden himself. His past has, indeed, been difficult. He mentions to you that he has had a son in Iraq, though this information is unsolicited. Mumble something sympathetic, and begin to recognize the journalistic possibilities here. If only you could take notes! You could be like Edna O'Brien, spinning narrative gold from the suffering of others!
(7) Your teacher continues. "My son is a loser," he says. "Loser son. He came back from Iraq with PSD." (What is PSD? Resist the urge to correct, here. You are not in the first-grade classroom anymore. Resist--also--the temptation to say, "Go easy on your son! He fought in a war!" Maybe now is not the time.)
(8) "My son," says the teacher. "He does not show up for jobs. Cannot hold a job. Drinks, takes drugs. I drank, and then I stopped. I stopped! My son. He cannot be in the house anymore. He cannot be in the house anymore. He cannot be around my daughter; she is the good one. She cannot be tainted. She will be a doctor, or a lawyer. I tell her, Do not be a lawyer. Lawyers are assholes. But I will not get in the way."
(9) Murmur something about life's intractable difficulties. Murmur, now, about the opioid crisis, as if that's relevant, as if you actually knew anything about the opioid crisis. (You read about it, in a Jack Reacher thriller, once.) Murmur about friends of yours, who are also addicts, and who have really struggled. (How do you solve a problem like Maria?) Think of Julia Roberts, in "Ben Is Back," and Amy Ryan, in "Beautiful Boy": The season of the addict! The season of the flawed and relatable--and struggling--parent!
(10) Your instructor will say, "By the way, I'm sorry I have such a deep voice. It is off-putting to some people." Do not say: "It's not your deep voice, it's your palpable anxiety. That's the problem. It's why you should choose a new career." Also, do not say: "I am sorry for being an entitled, prissy, white gay man." You have listened to the drug story; you have done your good deed for the day, maybe? Anyway, you are tired.
(11) The lesson has ended, and you maybe still lack driving confidence, and still lack a basic knowledge of parallel parking. You have now surrendered ninety dollars. Thank your teacher at length, because that is what you have been taught to do. Go back to reading about your favorite abductions, your favorite disappearances, your favorite murders.
(2) Call the American Auto Academy and demand a quote, so that your instructor cannot fleece you. Obtain the quote. Meet your instructor. Recognize that he is fleecing you. Pay him, anyway; perhaps he has a hard life.
(3) Your instructor will have an anxiety disorder, and each order he gives will be restated three times. "Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel. Turn the wheel." Find yourself murmuring: "Actually, I heard you." And: "Easy does it!" These words will have the opposite of their intended effect.
(4) Ask your instructor: "What do *A* and *I* mean, on the road test results?" And the man will say, "A: Good. I: Bad." Recall that, on your failed road test, you received all Is, though you seemed to have made only one error. But some of the I boxes have one kind of hieroglyph, and other boxes have another hieroglyph. Does a check mean one thing, while an X means something different? Does an X in an I-box mean "not I"? In other words, is an X in an "I box" really, in fact, an "A"? You will never know. Ask Kafka.
(5) Grumble through several achingly slow "parallel park" efforts; feel yourself awash in boredom and self-pity. Dare yourself not to look at your watch. Make whiny remarks about "the shitty steering wheel," then wonder, silently: Is this what I have become? Am I really thirty-six?
(6) Your teacher will seem to relax, and he will request that you stop parking and just drive. Apparently, the teaching portion of the morning is over. Now, your buddy will unburden himself. His past has, indeed, been difficult. He mentions to you that he has had a son in Iraq, though this information is unsolicited. Mumble something sympathetic, and begin to recognize the journalistic possibilities here. If only you could take notes! You could be like Edna O'Brien, spinning narrative gold from the suffering of others!
(7) Your teacher continues. "My son is a loser," he says. "Loser son. He came back from Iraq with PSD." (What is PSD? Resist the urge to correct, here. You are not in the first-grade classroom anymore. Resist--also--the temptation to say, "Go easy on your son! He fought in a war!" Maybe now is not the time.)
(8) "My son," says the teacher. "He does not show up for jobs. Cannot hold a job. Drinks, takes drugs. I drank, and then I stopped. I stopped! My son. He cannot be in the house anymore. He cannot be in the house anymore. He cannot be around my daughter; she is the good one. She cannot be tainted. She will be a doctor, or a lawyer. I tell her, Do not be a lawyer. Lawyers are assholes. But I will not get in the way."
(9) Murmur something about life's intractable difficulties. Murmur, now, about the opioid crisis, as if that's relevant, as if you actually knew anything about the opioid crisis. (You read about it, in a Jack Reacher thriller, once.) Murmur about friends of yours, who are also addicts, and who have really struggled. (How do you solve a problem like Maria?) Think of Julia Roberts, in "Ben Is Back," and Amy Ryan, in "Beautiful Boy": The season of the addict! The season of the flawed and relatable--and struggling--parent!
(10) Your instructor will say, "By the way, I'm sorry I have such a deep voice. It is off-putting to some people." Do not say: "It's not your deep voice, it's your palpable anxiety. That's the problem. It's why you should choose a new career." Also, do not say: "I am sorry for being an entitled, prissy, white gay man." You have listened to the drug story; you have done your good deed for the day, maybe? Anyway, you are tired.
(11) The lesson has ended, and you maybe still lack driving confidence, and still lack a basic knowledge of parallel parking. You have now surrendered ninety dollars. Thank your teacher at length, because that is what you have been taught to do. Go back to reading about your favorite abductions, your favorite disappearances, your favorite murders.
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