Story Time; Come At Me, Bro

I don't think my truck's rear windows are so darkly tinted that the outside can't see into the interior of the car. I learned this in the worst possible way.

Back a while, I was taking a couple of friends and my brother to a party up in a ranch (of rich Santa Barbara residents). To get to the ranch resident (of a particular Santa Barbara native), I had to merge from an on-ramp onto a bridge and then I'd go up a pass into the ranch (of wealthy Santa Barbara denizens).

First of all, I hate merging. If I'm so pressed to actually MERGE, I will be so careful. SO meticulous, I get a crick in my neck from the millions of times I check to make sure I can get into the next lane. After making sure I was clear, I got into the next lane.

Now, the car in front of me must've been having some problems. Because it didn't actually go with the regular traffic. The driver was probably a fan of "going at their own pace." You can do that in life, but the road isn't the best place to implement what you learned at your stress-management seminar. Naturally, I was a bit peeved, but I can get over myself. Oh, that there were more people that could just let things roll off their backs. I wish that there were more people like that on the road.

The guy behind me could not take that. No. Everyone must go at his pace. And because I wasn't willing to rear-end the guy in front of me, he honked at me. This startled me and I expressed my displeasure for the entire cabin to hear.

"What's that guy's problem? Come on!" I said, having been so irked.

All was clear-- so I get onto the pass and I start the road to get up into the ranch (of moneyed Santa Barbara townsfolk). And then, I see this grey-as-a-blob Jeep Cherokee zoom up to my far fancier bright red Ford F-150 5.4 Triton (his name is Chanteclier). I look over to see this troubled driver start giving me the bird and giving me all manner of glares and evil eyes. I wasn't gonna deal with that, so I engaged in some old-fashioned street-racing up the road and cut him off. He turned off before we could get into the lush greenery (of the ranch where flush Santa Barbara live).

I start commenting (rather loudly) at how incredibly rude and unnecessary this all was for my passengers to hear. Silence commenced for a bit and we listened to the radio. When suddenly, from out of the blue, a small voice was heard.

"Hey, are your back windows tinted really dark?" asked my brother.

"Notice how the sun has a hard time of getting through." I replied, not exactly in the mood for shallow conversation.

"No, like really dark. Like, so dark, that people standing outside the car can't see inside."

"Um… I'm not sure." I hadn't researched my car as thoroughly as I had thought.

"Oh…"

We got to the home (of the monetarily-endowed Hope Ranch homeowner) and my brother pulled me aside.

"I think I know why that driver was so mad at you."

A look of slight suspicion crossed my face.

"Enzo. Why was that guy so mad at me."

"I… well… I… I sort of did that… 'Come At Me Bro' thing. You know. After he honked."

I guess we learned the hard way that my windows aren't tinted dark enough for the outsiders to see in.