Driving Anxiety

By Jaric Sarmiento

​Content warning: Suicidal ideation

1. Lyn called at 3:00am and told me that she was going to kill herself. She lived sixty miles away and I didn’t have a license. 

2. Our feet waded in the rising flood. The professor asked why it seemed as if everyone nowadays has driving anxiety. Clock kept ticking. Nobody raised their hands. Pagliacci sat in the corner and cried. 

3. The grand voyage is as follows: I’ve only been relearning how to drive for a week and I have to drive 2000 miles from Old Home to New Home, where I’ve been living for the past few months, where my new life is—“teach” is the wrong word because it wasn’t so much that she was teaching me how to dance or that she was teaching me how to cook, it was more that we were just dancing, we were just cooking, we shuffle the letters, ensuring they’re all face down so that it would be random, we shout “split!” and flip them over, and to the best of our ability, rearrange them into poetry, she asked if I was staring at her because I couldn’t find any words or if it was because I already had—her name is Beth. 

4. My favorite show is about a dystopian intergalactic racing tournament; it is never explicitly stated what the winner gets, if they even get anything.

5. It is monsoon season in New Home. A storm is always impending. 

6. “I thought you were happy there?”
“I am. I don’t think that’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just miss it here.”
“You were miserable here.”
“True. But here I don’t have to fucking drive.”

7. I swerved, crashing the car into the tree, and a storm of dry leaves pelted the car. My head hit the steering wheel and split my eyebrow. In one swift motion, before anyone else could even realize what happened, I unbuckled the seatbelt, twisted my body, and started beating my father. I was screaming. I don’t remember what I said; I don’t even know if I knew. But, whatever it was, it was the truest thing I had ever said. The blood draped over my left eye.

8. A student raised their hand and said, well, like, around 40,000 people die in traffic every year, I mean, I guess that’s not that much now that I say it out loud, you know, compared to the amount of cars that are out there, but uhh, teach, uh, my hands, I can’t feel my hands, teach, I can’t feel my fucking hands, I think I need to go home, no, stop, just stop, leave me alone, I just, uh, I need some space, sorry, but, it’s just, I’m under, like, a lot of pressure from the popcorn ceiling in my studio.

9. “Many such cases,” my therapist said, eying the gaps of her window blinds, “when depression alleviates, anxiety increases.”

10. She told me to follow the music but I didn’t really understand what that meant, so I just followed her. It was my first time dancing, if you could call it that. I stepped over her feet, dropped the food we were cooking, and slammed my head on the raised kitchen shelf. Still, Beth looked at me like no one ever had before and I felt what I could only assume was “belonging.” I asked if I’m dancing well, she said yes, and she said we should do this again, and I was happy, and I said maybe, but I wanted to say always, and the winds slowly chipped away at the walls.

11. Fuck cars, anyway.

12. Calling it a “grand voyage” is, of course, amusing because in essence it’s just going to be 30+ hours of me sitting on my ass going 70mph, occasionally pointing out cattle to my mother and sister, saying shit like “that’s gotta be in the top five rocks so far,” and taking pictures of various state welcome signs while I do my best to keep the McGriddles from spewing out of my throat.  It is also, of course, accurate.

13. “All we’ve ever talked about was getting away from here.”
“Maybe here wasn’t ever that bad.”
“You’ll never convince me of that.”
“Maybe everywhere is always that bad, just different flavors.”
“I would die to try a different flavor. I almost did.”

14. Lyn hung up. I panicked. I checked bus routes but they were all done for the night, I checked my rideshare app but I couldn’t afford it, I tried to call friends but no one picked up. I called 911 but the phone electrocuted my hand, causing me to flick it, breaking it into pieces.  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t really make out what Lyn was saying over the choked tears. The only definitive words I was able to make out were “flood” and “bye.” Not enough to call the cops over. For all I knew, she was saying “bye” as in “I’m done talking on the phone.” But no, I knew her. Or, at the very least, I knew where she was at. I knew what “bye” meant. I only had one option left, the last resort, the worst of the worst: ask my parents for a ride.

15. A student raised their hand and said uhh I mean, it’s probably like, or at least in part due to, you know, social media or whatever.

16. After Lyn, it was clear: I needed a license. 

17. I was having a panic attack inside a parked car inside a garage. I only needed to drive fifteen minutes to get to my therapy appointment. The irony wasn’t lost on me so I couldn’t help but ask myself the question: why even bother? It’s clearly not working. 

18. Okay, well, the show isn’t really about racing. It’s the story of a boy saving his best friend by connecting with him the only way he knows how: a death race governed by fascist aliens.

19. I supposed that my father’s idea was that if my body was somehow marked then I would remember the rules of the road. The bump on the back of my head: look at your blindside, dumbass; bruise on my hip: signal next time or you’re spending the night outside again; the cut on my nose: touch your hair while you’re driving one more fucking time and I’ll take the fucking wheel and drive both of us off the goddamn cliff. If only he would promise.

20. “But,” my therapist turned away from the window and found me fidgeting with the useless box on the table, “no reason to let that stop you.”

21. Seriously fuck cars. Every car guy is secretly a fascist.

22. I wake up, it’s five in the morning and the flood swallows me whole. I’m falling. Smothered by opaque viscous sludge. I feel nothing. Only the soothing cold. At the bottom awaits Pagliacci. Their blue eye shadow accentuates their bloodshot pupils, their gloved hands grow to the size of trucks and they approach, slow, looming, deterministic, they’re coming for me, my nails are clawing at the ethereal black and they’re coming for me. I hear the laugh of a demonic clown. The hands grab me and they hold me up to their face. They don’t say anything. “Let me stay here,” I beg. They don’t say anything. “Please.” They squeeze their hands together and crush me and I’m strapped in the driver’s seat, my luggage in the trunk, my mother and sister with me; the grand voyage begins. 

23. A useless box is a box that switches itself off whenever you switch it on. 

24. In Old Home, the waters are rising. Soon, it will all be underwater.

25. “I prefer the flood.”
“Shut up, that’s not how it works.”
“You’ll see. One day you’ll escape the flood and you’ll see.”

26. If aliens ever found our planet from galaxies away with some kind of super telescope and they made out the general landscapes of our civilizations, they would think that the Earth’s apex predators are cars.

27. I could barely see out of my left eye; the thick oxidized blood weighed my eyelid down. My mother was begging me to stop from the back seat. I finally did and my father looked back at me in what I remember and hope to be horror, in what I dread and expect to be impressed. I regretted it. I should have kept going until the blood on my knuckles solidified into documented fact.

28. I failed the license test a few times and was ready to give up until I got to this flashback episode of the show. Before the tournament, the hero was driving a 1957 Fiat 500 on the side of a mountain. He drove until he got to this lookout, where he climbed through the sunroof to the top of his car, lit a cigar, and watched the ocean. There was no dialogue, or music, or anything except the sound of the ocean and the crackling embers of the cigar. Tomorrow he will enter a death race, but today, it’s just him and the car. That’s what the show is about. All I wanted to do since watching that episode was to recreate that scene. I passed the test soon after.

29. “What is it about the ocean?” asked my therapist; there was a bruise on her fingertip where the pen rested. I was eyeing the gaps of her blinds; the waves are crashing just outside the door. 

30. A student raised their hand and said, I mean, what did you expect, really, isn’t driving anxiety just the natural consequence of the death of God, the death of the planet, the death of the future, and the death of giving a fuck. It’s like, yeah, teach, let me take the scenic route up the west coast while I watch the asteroid slowly approach the Pacific Ocean, let me turn up JPEGMafia, burn gasoline and look for a safe place to pitch my tent tonight, forage for mushrooms and magazine listicles ranking the four horsemen on who would give the best head, go fuck yourself, teach.

31. I was slicing peppers and Beth’s voice snapped me out of an automated trance. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her face drooped with genuine concern which took me by surprise because “oh, I’m so happy,” I responded. “Okay. Are you sure? You look tortured.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to cook tonight.” I knew that. “I want to cook. This is like my favorite part of the day. Doing this for us.” She nodded, it was almost imperceptible. “I’m telling the truth.” I was. “I know.” She kissed me on the cheek; the sound of thunder pounded on the window; my skin buzzed with electricity. We smiled at each other as I kept slicing.

32. And, honestly, we should probably tell the aliens they’re right. We stand a better chance of them not obliterating us if we tell them that our king is the 1957 Fiat 500.

33. “Breathe,” Pagliacci said, stifling their horrifying laugh, “the fate of the world doesn’t rest on you driving this fucking car.” I was still in the garage, trying to recover from the panic attack; the smell of gasoline mixing with the Southern California air. “Okay, but it does though,” I snapped, “it fucking does.” They stared at me in silence for a minute. “That’s right,” they finally said, “it does. So drive, motherfucker.”

34. “So it’s either the storm or the rising water?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Don’t they usually go hand in hand?”
“Yes, exactly.”

35. The first time my father locked me out of the house, it was raining and flooding. That’s when I met Pagliacci; they were watching the lightning flash from inside the clouds. They were crying. I asked them if they were okay. They said, “don’t you feel it?” I did. I was crying too.

36. I take an exit and we enter a neighborhood completely submerged in water; the past falls and accumulates in mounds of sand; the car sinks into the dirt, headlights flashing like it’s desperate to stay awake. My mom opens the door and tells me and my sister that the hotel is only a few minutes away from here. On the way there, she gestures to the left and tells me stories she’s reminded of; gestures to the right and does the same. They’re all familiar stories; familiar because I’ve heard them before, not because I remember being in them. I look at my sister and she nods to confirm they’re true; she wraps her arms around my elbow. My mother looks back to me, crying. She asks if she’s been a good mother. The sand continues to trickle from above. She apologizes for the fact this is the only neighborhood around here that she could afford a hotel in. My feet are sinking into the dirt. I tell her that I’ll visit her often. She smiles. “I’d rather visit you,” she says.

37. In the climax of the show, the hero swerves off the track and the car almost flips over. There’s a tornado in the middle of the road. His coach is talking to him via headset. “It’s over, kid,” she says, smoking a cigarette, “let’s go home. No dead racers.” The hero smiles. “Come on, old lady. My friend is waiting for me.” Silence befalls the coach. “Why are you in this race? Are you only in it to save your friend? Or to save yourself?” The hero laughs. “Are you stupid, old lady? I’m in this race because I’m the hero. Simple as.” He readjusts himself, shifts gears, and stomps on the gas; the car plunges straight into the tornado. 

38. I kept playing with the useless box, ignoring my therapist’s question. “I’ll be here once you’re done with that,” she joked. You’re never done with the useless box, that’s the point.

39. Blood pooling beneath my head, I was lying under a car, staring at its mechanisms. My parents were out searching for me; I was dizzy from the heat, and I laughed. It was finally over. There was no coming back from that. I was free. I just had to wait it out, however long it took. Until my parents gave up. Then call Lyn, stay with her a few nights—she called me back the morning after she said “bye” and she assured me that there was nothing to worry about. She said she’ll drive over so we could talk. We hung out in a parking lot, sitting atop her car to stay above the flood, smoking cigarettes. “Are we ever going to get out of here, you think?” she asked. I said, “Let’s” —drop out of college, start a new bank account, fly back to Japan, stay with an old friend, work kitchen for the rest of our lives, be free. “I’d love to,” she said, “but isn’t Japan underwater right now?”
 
40. A student raised their hand and said, well, I was being taught how to drive by a man who would assault me every time I did something wrong, and at some point he knocked the glasses out of my face and I’m basically legally blind so I panicked and tried to park the car immediately but I kinda crashed it on the curb instead and then he started yelling at me for crashing the car and you know what, I can take being hit, but he didn’t just hit me, right, he hit my glasses out of my face while I was driving and he endangered everyone else on the road because now I can’t fucking see, so I mean, why wouldn’t I beat the shit out of him, why did I stop beating the shit out of him, why did my mom tell me to stop beating the shit out of him, can I be dismissed early?

41. The invention of automobiles and its consequences have been disastrous for the human race. 

42. “So we’re just fucked?”
“Yes, exactly.”

43. The day I got my driver’s license, I drove to the beach. I didn’t have a 1957 Fiat 500, I didn’t have a cigar, and I didn’t sit on the roof of my car. But I smoked a cigarette and I watched the ocean speak. It was everything I ever wanted. I thought about taking a dip into the ocean to cool down but I didn’t want to leave where I was. I was enjoying myself. There were dark clouds in the distance.

44. I’m having a panic attack in the middle of the highway, I can’t feel my hands, my mother is freaking out in the back seat. My sister takes the wheel from the passenger side, telling me that all I had to do was to keep my foot lightly pressed on the gas, and she ushers the car into the emergency lane. She asks me what’s happening. I don’t know. My body is buzzing again. “We’ll stay in the emergency lane however long it takes,” she says, “we can stay here forever if we have to.” Cars are passing us by; headlights and brake lights pan the car interior. “This is what this lane is for,” she says.

45. My father was driving me back home. The car was silent. The bleeding stopped, water dripped from the air-conditioner vents. “If you ever do anything to my sister, don’t think I’ll call child protective services. I will just kill you.” I admit that I shouldn’t have said that. That was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

46. I pressed on the lever a little too much and the useless box broke. 

47. The hero blazes through the finish line and steps out of the car; his whole body is covered in mud and grime and his car is dented beyond repair. Everyone is cheering his name, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it. There is only one person on his mind and he approaches him. Pagliacci is crying. “After all that, still with the waterworks,” the hero says. “How did you survive the tornado?” Pagliacci asks. The hero smiles; Pagliacci already knows the answer. That’s what the show is about.

48. The teacher wiped her eyeglasses clean and put them back on. “You’re all kind of downers,” she said, “just fucking drive, it’s not a big deal.”

49. “What was the answer?” 
“That he’s the hero, obviously.” 
“Well, there you go then. Is that good enough for you?” 
“No. I’m no hero. I’m just a dude who can’t drive.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Still, you should go back there.”
“I’d rather just spend my summer here.”
“Well, I’m not going to be here for the summer.”
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“I’m not really sure. I think I’m just going to drive and see where it takes me.”
“What inspired this?”
“I figured if you could leave then why can’t I?”

50. My mother and sister are dropping me off at my apartment; this is the first time they’re seeing New Home. The night is silent and cool, the ground is still wet from recent rain. They both give me a hug and say goodbye; their rideshare is waiting for them. Before my mother enters the car, she looks back at me and says, “you’re happy here, I can tell.” She’s right, I am. “It’s been a long time coming for you,” she adds, “not everyone gets the same opportunities.” She gets into the car and they leave. I enter my home and I’m hugging Beth. I’m tired, and I’m anxious, and I’m overwhelmed, and my body is still buzzing, and I just drove 2000 miles, but I’m hugging Beth and I am happy. 

51. “A car’s a huge responsibility,” my father said, showing me how to check the tire pressure. I was only half paying attention, “it’s not just gas, you know, and that’s already a lot of fucking money, but it’s maintenance. Constant maintenance. There’s a reason we never break down on the road. And it’s because we always take care of this car.” I nodded my head and he shook my hand. “I wouldn’t give this car to you if I thought you couldn’t take care of it.”

52. “So you wanted to save Lyn?” my therapist asked. Time was running out on our session. “Of course,” I answered. “Then how come you were only able to get your license after watching that show?” I scratched my head. I really didn’t know. “I guess she never really needed saving; I guess there’s never really anyone to save.” My therapist laughed. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. Time was up. She left ahead of me; she didn’t want to be late to her second job as an emergency response team member.

53. I’m teaching Beth how to drive. We’re just going around the block, the streets are still drying around this time of month, nearing the end of monsoon season. It’s hot but the sun is starting to set. I turn up the AC. Beth’s anxious. She’s breathing erratically. But she wants to be able to help me, swap places with me whenever we need to go on long drives. So she asks if she’s driving smoothly, and I say yes, and I say you’re beautiful, and I say you’re amazing, and I say I love you, and I say try not to slow down when you’re transitioning lanes.

54. I finally raised my hand and said, “but teach, I can drive.”
​
55. I slammed the gas and the car broke through the garage door. Pagliacci was laughing in the passenger’s seat; the speedometer couldn’t keep track of our speed; everything around us turned into a blur. We were going so fast that we started to outrun the rain; I pressed harder and harder on the gas pedal, doing everything I could to make the tires lift off the ground. The ocean was on the horizon, but we were set to drive through it.

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​Jaric Sarmiento is a multi-genre MFA candidate at the University of Alabama and co-creator of 108webnovel.com, an interactive multimedia digital novel. His writing is featured in No Contact, The Other Side of Hope, Southword, and A Velvet Giant. You can find him on Instagram: @anflowcrat