We were somewhere in North Dakota when our paths crossed.
Him: middle-aged black father leaning against a mini-van, impatiently waiting for his wife and kids to finish peeing at a rest stop.
Me: well, I was me. A white slob pulling his Prius into the next space, listening to NWA and smoking a cigar, wearing the same black gym shorts and t-shirt I'd put on in Seattle. When I opened the door, my car belched smoke and probably dog funk, and a Diet Coke can fell to the ground.
He stared at me quizzically. He didn't say it, but I heard it resoundingly nonetheless: "Seriously?"
That morning, I'd left Missoula at 4am. I was scarcely out of my motel's parking lot and driving the deserted streets when another car raced on top of me. He tailgated me dangerously, blinding me his high beams, for two miles on a multi-lane road. I slowed down to 10 mph below the speed limit, hoping the psychopath would pass, but he would not. When I finally got on the freeway, he did not, and I saw that it was a cop. What King Shit with a Badge's game was, I can only guess, but his aggression was inexcusable. "Asshole," I thought as I drove down the freeway.
Soon I was thinking about what a privilege it is to know he's an asshole. Were I a minority, I'd have to sort through all manner of chaff on my radar. Sure I would allow that he might merely be an asshole, but I would never know for sure. This, I thought, is perhaps my favorite white privilege: knowing with confidence that this cop is a dickwipe.
As I entered Minnesota, I was passed by another black dude. He was driving 90 in an Escalade. Now impervious to speeding tickets, I swooped in behind him, setting my cruise control to 90.