The plastic thingy to the left of my steering wheel was installed to save my life. In a simple flick of my wrist, I can inform other drivers of my intended direction. But the others don’t use their blinkers. The others don’t let me know. I am compelled to become an amateur sleuth and delve into their minds, hoping to predict their next move. Then, like an awkward school dance, I must interpret their body language. If the cabbie in front of me decides to swerve right, I must focus squarely on their trunk for warning signs. The directional is lost, my friends. That piece of plastic is a relic of American culture. Only the elders will remember.