The following is no amusing anecdote, no cheerful parable on life.

The following is a warning. A dark glimpse into a dark side of myself - one I hope never sees the light of day again.

For one fateful half an hour, I became a true New York driver.

Let me tell you my tale. I take us back to...

August 22, 2017

I was on a film set once more! Pineapples were not the currency this time, but actual solid currency! Cash me ousside how bow dah. 'Twas a good shoot. Brief, relatively non-sweaty, perfunctorily smooth. My fell deeds were of no noteworthiness, save for a demonstrable bout of strength in which I held a large lighting pole, GOD, I'm jacked.

The shoot came to an end. I applauded with the others at our good fortune, happy to be alive in this swell.

"YO, Sweetpete!"

The producer - a dear acquaintance of mine - had summoned me over. I prepared myself for any task, the zest of a day well done marinating over me.

"I was wondering - could you drive the cars back here with me?"

Not that task. Oh God, no. I knew the world of New York drivers. I had witnessed my Ma, my grandma, my pa, other mas and pas and their grandmas - hell, throw some wet uncles in the mix - cursing with aplomb at other drivers upon the road. It was a world I'd never seek to join.

"Erm...to tell you the truth, I don't have any driving experience in the city. I only drive upstate, really."

"Ah, you worry by the morrow, old chap! Tis only four blocks, round Canal Street! Up Wooster, Wooster, Wooster!"

She wasn't having my weak-ass excuses. Besides, a potentially lucrative partnership was at stake. How could I say no?

"...I...I suppose I can lend a hand - feet, rather - my old friend. L-let's go."

While the sky rang blue, my footsteps rang with doubt. Already, I could hear shouts, screams, honks, fuck youse, screeches, beeches, plops, flops, and motherfuckers! A cacophony of sound that was yet to come, yet to swallow me in its fiery pit!

"Wait tree minutes, and we'll give youse ya car."

There we were, in the parking garage. Shit, you know how I could tells bad omens were in my way? My producer friend and I got separated pulling out of the garage!

There I was - Dante, without Virgil! Joe, without Barack! Raven, without Chelsea! My real foot shaking, I pressed on the gas, sputtering out of the parking garage like a snail futilely trying to crawl out of a pan whilst being cooked by a smug sous chef.

No later than a second when I got into the street, the beeps began.

An onslaught. Nay! An ambush!

It pulled me into the vortex. I saw wild hand gesticulations, middle fingers, people of all genetic makeups thrusting their hate towards me! I tried brushing it off, optimistic person I am. They're just angry. They're just agitated. But every inch of that car's wheels trotting forward were received with the sheer opposite of love. That's right: hate. Then it happened - I felt a surge of freakish energy and it happened - my hands and eyes were no longer mine.

Suddenly, I was swallowed...spat out! And when I existed, it was a new existence -

I had become a New York driver.

For maximum immersion, please read the following passage in a Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens or Manhattan accent. Screw Staten Island.

EY, there I was, finding myself in a big freakin' line of traffic. Little o' this, little o' that, you got your Lexus, your Maserati, your Dunkin' Donuts pickup trucks and maybe the occasional Chipotle motorcycle with that kid from Bay 19th. One point I shot outta the street, too fast, bada boom, ended up my two front wheels on the sidewalk. Must've killed a hundred fuckin' mini critters. I backed out, not unlike one does when strolling backwards down the Gowanus Parkway, my head spinning so fast I couldn't even process the shouts and the screams behind me. What was this, musical theater improv, come on.

I looped out onto Canal, amazing, tree hundred points to Gryffindor. Next, I find myself driving myself next to a bicycle. But not your normal Manhattan cyclist. This stunod is weaving in and out! I say

"I'M DRIVIN' HERE!"

He spins around, his suit flappin' in the wind, and says

"I'M BIKIN' HERE!"

"I'M DRIVIN' HERE!"

"GET LOST, JERKOFF!"

Little did I know, in my confusatory state, some of the pedestrians are flipping me birds like we was in a bird sanctuary I visited when I spent the weekend with my brother and his girlfriend, youse know?

What was this? I got the folks walking turned against me too? What's next, the freakin' sky's gonna start slappin' me upside the head like some sorta meteorological phenomenon you witness in the Netherlands? Fuggedaboutit. I cursed 'em out, reversed that car like a visit to church reverses your sins, and drove onto the main road. Tree more roads. I could do this! I could do dis.

I ain't been this sweaty since I was of a bigger complexion and paid weekly visits to my local bakery for some gannoli. As I was toinin' the corner, some ungodly screech ripped tru the air, goin' like

"EY! WHADDYA TRYIN' TO DO, KILL ME?"

Oh, Jesus Christ. There she was. An old grandmuddah. Sweaty, carrying a bundle of pastries for her niece's nephews, no doubts. Shakin' some big old meatball fists at me. Prayin' something like I should burn in the seven fires of heck. I had no words, like one of them mutes. My tongue flapped up and down in my mouth, with the teeth, and the wordlessness, and the unwillingness to raise my voice at this old lady, who was now walking across the street and SHOULD HURRY UP AND GET TO BINGO, BEFORE I

I snapped out of it. My God...what have I become?

I had never driven so slow, not even during my road test. This duel image of myself began to fade into the shadowy recesses of my mind. Cleaning house, finishing the rest of my on-set duties, I mechanically meandered about as I told myself the dark driver of my mind could not touch me. He will not.

I beg thee, dear reader. If the act of commandeering any vehicle in the five NY Burroughs can be avoided, do so.

Or else we'll all find ourselves as old grandmuddahs in the crosswalks of a sweaty, sweaty fate.