I wouldn’t say I was outright mean as a kid, but from a young age, the potential laughs I might get from a behavior or remark almost always outweighed the consequences. At a day camp at age 12, just as my then-best friend Andrew Lee was beginning to sit while also drinking from a thermos full of fruit punch, I pulled a folding chair out from under him. He didn’t just spill sugary red juice all over his white T-shirt, but also hurt his back as he hit the concrete floor.

He was rightly furious. I uttered apologies and tried to explain how it had been a joke. Ha ha.

The next morning, his mom, who always seemed to me the epitome of a warm, caring and engaged mother, dropped him off at camp. He emerged wearing a back brace, and his mom got out too, staring daggers at me. I must have stammered a heartfelt but no doubt insufficient apology. I don’t remember her words, but she stood up for her son and made me feel appropriately bad about myself.

My conscience grew a bit that day. We are better for the smarter people in our lives, the ones who can mete out harshness and understanding in equal amounts.

Change for the better was a glacial process through my teens and early 20s. I may have left physical pranks behind, but I left no hypocritical or pretentious statement alone. A friend once called me David “Anything for a joke, even if it hurts my friends” Jasper. I was proud. It was no compliment, but that didn’t stop me from taking it as one. In my mid-20s, one of the editors at the alt-weekly where I started my journalism career observed my ability to be quippy in print — and to be honest, the quips were usually at the expense of whoever I was writing about.

At the time, I took that as a crowning achievement. No wonder I never won a Pulitzer.

Fortunately, being a smart-ass has lost some of its value, personally and professionally, since the ’90s. Having a wise spouse who takes no guff and is herself kind to a fault has inevitably influenced me too. It was clear from the time we met she valued things like conversation and consideration over an acid tongue.

There exists today a sizable contingent of people who like to dismiss other people’s feelings. Perhaps they aren’t even as miserable as they seem. Either way, I do care, and just as I still feel guilty for pulling the chair out from beneath Andrew, I feel bad about cutting remarks I’ve made. I’m sure there are others I’ve forgotten making altogether, and some I was never aware how barbed they were in the first place.

I’d like to think I’m nicer now. Once in a while the universe gives me a sign, such as a month ago, when I made a point of alerting a friend about a skate session at a private bowl we sometimes skate. Upon his arrival, he came up to me and said, “You know, as someone who’s a (jerk), I gotta say …”

Here he paused dramatically, and I thought something mean was coming next. Because at some level, the semi-retired jerk in me believes I have it coming. When I was 26, his age, I would’ve probably followed such a setup with at least a mild dig if not a fully charged one.

Instead, he said, “You’re the nicest guy.” This, simply for letting him know about the session, and for giving a “heart” reaction after he texted back that he’d be there shortly.

His words made my day. I would even have liked to believe them. However, I got in my van to drive home, and the truth made itself known: Whatever mean and immature impulses I’ve buried deep always come burbling to the surface the second I put my van in drive. And I know I’m not the only one because I’ve ridden as a passenger in other people’s cars, and it seems like a healthy percentage of people I’ve known also go from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde when it comes to being behind the wheel.

Column: My love affair with an aging minivan

Greater minds than mine have plumbed the psychological depths of anger and driving, but it seems obvious that we’re operating these rather dangerous vehicles that require us to be alert and reactive, because of all the others on the road, while at the same time each of us tasked with our own needs, burdens and responsibilities. In a 2019 survey, half of the respondents said their commutes were stressful. And a 2020 Gallup poll found that 60% of us feel stress on a daily basis.

There’s that saying about how it takes a village, except that modern life means we are not functioning at all like a village — we’re each stressed, busy and tired, and crowded roads just feel full of village idiots.

You know them: The people who don’t know how turn signals work, for instance, or the ones who make dumb and dangerous U-turns after they miss a turn. The ones ahead of you who don’t go when there’s a gap in traffic you would’ve pounced on. The way I persist in turning my lights on and off when I encounter an oncoming car with its lights off after dusk, you’d think I was the dummy — and “dummy” is not the word I’d actually use while driving, but newspapers exist in a weird parallel universe where we pretend it’s the 1950s when it comes to language.

I have often encountered advice about using drive time as an opportunity for calming, mindfulness and deep breathing. The part of my brain that has encountered said advice is immediately dispatched when I’m in traffic. To be honest, I’m skeptical as to whether anyone has ever successfully taken deep breaths while driving.

I’d better start trying their methods, though. Verbally speaking, I take the idea of defensive driving to new heights when dealing with others on the road. It’s unlike actual road rage in that the only person who suffers is me. Well, me and whoever is riding with me. Lately, my wife keeps telling me our daughters hate driving with me. As much as it hurts my feelings, I get it. I kind hate riding with me, too.

But as long as no one else rides in the car with me, there’s a possibility people will still think I’m nice.