Father's Day in 1968. There are two auto-flick sightings that day: one on the way to visit his uncle at the hospital.
And in the evening, another with his sister.
They come up on a man smoking a cigarette while driving a 1961 Dodge Phoenix. .

“Follow that car,” I said.
“Is this for your weirdo study?” she asked.
“We gotta see what he does with the cigarette.”
She obligingly picked up the pace and slip-streamed into the left lane, tracking the Phoenix. It was the two-door model, with the wing starting just behind the door as a pair of parallel chrome lines. Its top edge leaned inward, over the trunk, creating a surface that faced up and away from the car. The wing itself was scooped out, but when it made the finishing arc it was still facing away from the car at an angle. The whole thing looked like a long, road-hugging flying fish.
It was also an open-road rocket, and Katie had to push the Dart to keep pace. The Doors’ “Strange Days” was on the radio, a good soundtrack for logging sociological data. After a mile or so, the driver flicked his cigarette into the highway wind, and it hit the pavement in a miniature fireworks display, spraying red sparks splintering across the road.
“Now what?” Katie asked.
“Sometimes we follow them and ask them why they threw their cigarettes out the window.”
“Okay.” She took the challenge and pushed ahead into the middle lane, alongside the Phoenix.
We pulled even with the car, but we couldn’t see the driver clearly. Katie turned down the Doors.
“Hey! A**hole!” she yelled. “You threw your butt in the road back there!”
“F**k off, man,” the driver replied, giving us the finger.
Katie gave him the finger back. I lifted my right hand out of the window and gave him my finger too.
It was my first time.
“That felt kinda good,” Katie said, as she lifted her foot off the gas and we slowed to our normal pace.