I’m driving with my kid when “Summer of ’69” comes on and, just to get his goat, I sing—full volume, steering‑wheel choreography and all. He cringes, makes faces, and tells me to stop, so I double down: louder, sillier, fully committed to peak embarrassing‑parent energy. I’m doing my best Gen‑X one‑person revival tour between the turn signal and the glove box, air guitar in hand and dramatic vibrato for effect.
At the next light I glance left and lock eyes with the guy in the car beside us. He looks like he grew up on the same mixtapes: the jacket, the exact expression of someone who remembers the bridge and the chorus too well. I’m in it too far to back down, so I keep going- off tune, hands flailing, the whole thing.
For a beat it’s just me and my son’s Olympic‑grade eye rolls. Then, bless his Gen‑X heart, the guy in the other car starts singing along. Suddenly my son’s face has competition: validation from a stranger trumps parental humiliation every time.
The light turns green and we all drive off like a tiny, accidental flash mob. My son will use this story against me at some point but tonight it’s a win: I made a memory, annoyed him, and briefly united two strangers with the power of a terrible singalong. Not bad for a commute.