Stream of consciousness or dry creekbed - New Yorker story by Donald Antrim

Donald Antrim - a name I've seen around for some time but have never for some reason read one of his books or in fact can even name one of his books - but I might do so now (read one, that is) after reading very impressive story in current New Yorker, The Emerald Light in the Sky or something like that - one of the many fine stories in the American outsider tradition, in this case a 3rd person but very close to the consciousness of the main figure, Billy, a 30-something middle-school art teacher and going-nowhere sculptor, living near Charlottesville, Va., but not in the academic circle, and coming off a horrible year in his life, parents both died and wife left for another man, a year that has pushed him into severe depression, into ECT treatment, and into a lot of dumb decisions about drugs and drinking and driving, all at once - the story finds him kind of lost on rural roads in a very old Mercedes, stuck in a rainstorm that sends him careening off the road and stupidly trying to navigate a creekbed, which is becoming flooded; surprise, eventually he's mired and a kid comes to him thru the storm, asking if he's the doctor coming to see the very ill mother. He says yes - which leads to a few  interesting twists, and also to a very moving scene in which Billy tries to do good for someone and realizes the strength in his heart and the relative security and prosperity of his position in life - a simple story that covers only an hour or so of time but gives us a very full and complex person in despair. I like the close narrative style that Antrim has worked - it's not exactly stream of consciousness but more like jumps of consciousness - each paragraph leaping to a separate thought or moment - sometimes in the present and sometimes a recollection of a past, usually traumatic, event - which I think is more close to the way a mind works (or mine does) than to the flowing-stream image or style.