As we were going under the overpass near Exit 14, Jessica shouted, “Oh, my God.” I slowed down. It is hard to dodge stalled vehicles and look. On the left, there was an elderly man and a woman who were being hassled by ten to twelve young punks. Now at a dead stop, I put my hand on my .22 rifle.
The leader seemed to be this skinny, tall kid. He had a Mohawk haircut. He was unshaven, and he was clothed in dirty blue jeans, work boots, a flannel shirt. I saw that he had a 9mm gun. Two others also had guns. One was a short man. He seemed meek in nature, and he stood about five-foot-six.
The other gave off vibes like an angry bitch, consumed by some injustice forced upon her person. She was almost as tall as the skinny man but a lot heavier. Easily weighing 190 pounds, she had a short haircut, and wore no makeup. Her outfit was made up of a black leather jacket with silver buttons, loose dungarees, sneakers, and a condescending attitude.
The elderly couple drove up in a yellow Mustang. The old lady showed no fear. She was scolding the leader. Decision time, I thought. I had a responsibility to my daughter and Vivian. I also had to come back alive to sustain my son and wife. Two neighbors were also counting on me. What a quandary. I needed to show my daughter and Vivian that I was in charge. I needed to show confidence, but the moment was filled with fear and indecision.
We were on the other side of the highway. The old lady and the leader were in a heated exchange. At the next moment a chill ran down my spine. The angry lady in black leather slowly turned her head and looked at our car. I held my .22 a little tighter. My adrenalin started to run.
God sure worked in mysterious ways. At that tense moment, Jessica called out and tugged at my coat. “Dad. Hey, Dad.”
“What Jessica?” I never let my eyes off the angry bitch.
“Dad, let’s keep going.”
“We are on the wrong side of the road. We’re on a mission,
remember?” “You’re right.”
I started to go slowly forward, the whole time keeping an eye on the angry bitch.