I've only driven one car, one time, in my whole life.

It was 1997 and I was 21 years old and I had just moved to New Orleans in the middle of June because I didn't know any better. I was staying at the Prytania Inn, which was a small privately-owned guest house in the Garden District. I hear it's gone now and that isn't all that surprising. It was an old antebellum mansion, shabby, but full of character. The reception girl, Carmen, was around my age and we became fast friends.

I had been there for less than a week when it happened. It was a swelteringly hot night, the air thick with humidity. The kind of night where the second you cross the threshold off whatever airconditioned place you were in, you instantly started to sweat. The kind of night where the only thing one...

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