We were going down the freeway in the back of my Uncle Jackie’s ’69 Cadillac convertible. I was seven years old and sitting on white leather upholstery with my cousin, our hair blowing around in the wind, when a road rage incident unfolded. There was a little swerving around from lane to lane and Jackie kept yelling at the guy in the car next to us. He was telling the guy to pull over. The guy flipped him off but took the challenge and we pulled over right behind him. I had no idea who started it, but Jackie was going to finish it.

Uncle Jackie reached under his seat and took out a butcher knife that looked like he got it from his own kitchen. My aunt started yelling when he opened the door and got out.

“Jackie! Jackie! Get back in the car! The kids are here!”

The other guy got out of his car empty-handed and they both ran up to each other so they could yell in each other’s faces. We watched them argue from inside the car, leaning our chins on the back of the front seat with my aunt yelling and cars flying by at freeway speed. Uncle Jackie gripped the knife like he meant to use it, but it never left his side. After a minute or two, they came to some kind of agreement and Uncle Jackie got back in the car and we drove on. Nobody said anything for a while but the wind kept blowing our hair around.

The sun was nice.


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