“Driving makes me anxious. I’ve avoided it all my life. Errands only. And I certainly have never left Suffolk County. It was never a problem until my son decided to have a fucking kid. Ellie Rose is her name. Absolute delight. But she lives three hours away. So me, Chucky Bologna, pronounced like the city, not the lunchmeat, at the age of sixty-five, has to drive on the Cross Bronx Expressway if I want to see my granddaughter. It’s a nightmare. I get nervous even thinking about it. The first time I made the trip was right after the birth. I studied the route beforehand. Memorized all my exits. I refuse to use GPS because I can’t handle the lady talking to me while I’m trying to drive. My husband packed the car. We put my dog Lyle in the front seat for emotional support. But that backfired because he sensed my anxiety and started licking my hands. My girlfriend Annette told me: ‘Chucky, you’ll be fine. Just own the center lane. Find the center and stay there.’ So that’s what I did. That minivan was not changing lanes for any fucking reason. Three straight hours. Didn’t even stop to pee. I lost eight pounds of water weight from all the sweating. But I made it. When I got there, I felt so victorious. Empowered. Like I could drive anywhere. But I haven’t, of course. Way too scary.”
