Imagine he’s sitting in your passenger seat. In his shortsleeved dress shirt and tie. Hair receding in front. With his clipboard on his lap, clicking his ballpoint pen open and closed, open and closed.

Mr. Conklin of the DMV. The guy who fails almost everyone on their first try. Imagine he’s there with you now. When you’re heading to work, hoping against odds to hit only green lights between your house and the freeway. When you’re trying to find a parking space near the gym so you can get in and out and still make it home before your wife. When you’re late to your gynecologist appointment and you feel like cutting off the stupid guy in the Tesla that just cut you off. Mr. Conklin’s there, with you. Or he should be.

Because you’re probably like most drivers. You’re stressed out because of traffic, because of life, you’re jaded because all the other drivers are maniacs so why shouldn’t you be, and you’re doing things as a driver that you know, in your heart of hearts, are wrong, mean, selfish, and downright homocidal. That’s why Mr. Conklin should be there. In your head. As if he were sitting smugly in that passenger seat and watching every little thing you do going from point A to point B. Because if you can’t follow the simple rules of the road and be as good a person behind the wheel as you are in front of it, then you better start taking Mr. Conklin with you wherever you go. Because if you think he’s a tough examiner, wait’ll you see how his boss, Ms. Fate, scores cocky little applicants like you.