"Well I'm not bragging babe, so don't put me down"

A pink learners permit folded and crumpled at the edges sits between 15-year old boy and his parent as they wait together at the bottom of the hill in suburbia. The boy sits on the left, his hands are tightly gripping the steering wheel. With his left foot jammed on the clutch and his right poised to dart between gas and brake, he nervously prepares another go. Slowly letting out the clutch, he slams his foot on the gas and the engine revs its disapproval. Startled, the boy pulls his feet off the pedals and the car lurches to a stop again. After the neck bouncing ceases, a discussion of feathering the clutch, of feeling for that point when the depressed pedal is ready to pounce and unleash a life of cruising for Big Macs and open road, occurs. The left foot raises slowly and the right foot does not jam on the gas, it depresses the pedal inversely of the right and the car rolls to life. It sounds simple enough, though the boy doesn't really know anyone else going through this ordeal. Automatic transmissions, the go-karts of the adult world are what his friends ride. The boy does not have that option. It's either manual in the little red Saturn or the mini-van. If he can just get this now, freedom awaits. Freedom to avoid steep hills, especially at the light on Troost where he imagines the cars lined up behind him and honking as he struggles to find that point on the clutch under pressure, but freedom all the same. This will not be the last day of practice, but the neck snapping, car lurching cannot go on forever.