Punch Buggy

Cars don’t just give you transportation, they give you experiences.

Five people are crammed into a 2012 Mazda 5 with their stuff for a four day trip to visit my nana’s family in Albany. The trip up may only take several hours, but that is a lot when you have three kids in the backseat. My parents are in the front: Dad is driving while Mom knits. They can barely hear their 80s hits radio over their children’s voices.

My sister and brother are in the middle row. They always get the middle because they’re older; the oldest kid always gets first pick. I’m crammed in the back with the stuff. Others may feel claustrophobic, but the small space comforts me. There’s something about the experience of staring out the window in a little nest of stuff that can’t be replaced.

The three of us are each staring out our own window; we decided to play a game where we try to find license plate that’s farthest away from Virginia. Over and over, we see the same couple of states. Nothing interesting was catching our eye. That’s when my sister turns to punch my brother’s arm.

“Punch buggy, no punch back!” She always was the first to see the punch buggies.

I squish myself into the corner of the car more. With my sister having started the punch buggy train, it was now a race for my brother and I to see who would see the punch buggy first. The loser would get a smack on the arm and the shameful feeling of loss.

My brother is the first to see the car, and he lightly punches my leg as my torso hides out of reach.

The punch buggy ritual is complete, and we can turn back to our windows and our license plate game.

This story was based on 256 Points.