A short story about Lisbon I guess

The turn from Hobblers ct onto Quiet rd is tight. Our parents have been telling us since the first time we begged for the keys. That's where Jimmy died, they say. He was my age. He died around prom. That's the only thing anyone remembers about him. That's where RJ died, too. He tried to run from the cops. A three sport star. That's what happens when we put that kind of pressure on kids, grownups said. He smoked a lot of pot, we said, Both were true, and why shouldn't they be? But that turn, that fucking turn, and now that we're grown ups living somewhere with a grid system in a city where nothing ever happens and trying to go above thirty will put a real fucking problem in your suspension, a city where you keep screaming but every scream just mixes in with so many Woooos.  We crave turns like this. We go home and we get hammered and we crank up the Hold Steady and we take that turn at sixty and we don't care and we want to die, kind of, because what's the point anymore, and why are we any better than a 17 year old who could play three sports-- THREE god damn it and I can barely approach life, and the tires scream and the cows stand there and they just blink on the corner, because they have seen it. They have seen the blood and the screaming moms and they have seen the asshole boys trying to impress a girl and they have seen people like me, and their long, long, brown eyelashes just say, what's next? And why?