Aaaarrrrggggghhhhh!!! I knew what that sound was. Not so much from experience, but from intuition. This can't be happening. It's too late, I'm too tired to deal with it and it's too close to Christmas. Shopping after work this time of year was not a joy. It was an agony. I still had dinner to fix for the whole family when I got home and I had better get there fast. But you know how it is when things get just so bad. You get kind of giddy. Kind of like being a kid again.

     And at fourteen I was about as giddy as a kid could get. I was rebellious within limits. I was determined to prove my independence. I was also determined to learn how to drive. No matter that I wasn't old enough. Next year when I got my permit I wanted to climb in the car and drive like a pro. I'd impress my parents with my skill. I'd impress my friends with my confidence and control. I absolutely refused to be a "beginner" when it came to driving. I had watched too many new drivers lurch down our street, cars hopping like frogs and brakes shrilling their objections. I would not be one of those. Too humiliating. I was good at the things I did and this was NOT going to be an exception.

     I peeked in at my father just to make sure he was really asleep. Soft snoring greeted me. One thing about him working late, I could count on him taking a nap in the afternoon. My baby brother, too, was sleeping soundly in his crib. That meant that all of my responsibilities were tucked in and oblivious to anything that might be going on. I tiptoed back down the hall and pilfered my dad's car keys from the counter. The Mercury, after all, was an automatic. How hard could that be to drive? All you had to do was put the key in the ignition and put your foot on the gas. Any idiot could do that much.

     I peered up and down the street just to make sure no one else was out and about to see my clandestine efforts. Not a soul in sight. I smiled happily and climbed into the driver's seat. This felt good. This felt exactly like I knew it would. This was being grown up. I started the car. I could feel the power burst to life. I was almost quivering with excitement. I had never dared to do anything so outrageous in my whole life. Studying the choice of gears over the steering column, I selected R and carefully put the car in gear. It lurched instantly backwards. Panic-stricken, I tromped my foot down on the brake but hit the accelerator instead, being unfamiliar with exactly where the pedals were. I shot out of the driveway, across the street and up Mr. Humpula driveway in less time than it takes to blink. Fortunately, I changed pedals and found the brake just short of rearranging Mr. Humpula's garage door.

     A bit nonplused, it took several moments to quit shaking. It occurred to me that the terrible, unnerving shrieking seemed to be coming from the driver of my car. I closed my mouth. Beneath small whisps of smoke, long black streaks had appeared in my driveway across the stret. Surveying my location, though, I decided I had exercised some skillful driving indeed to be squarely in the middle of Mr. Humpula's the driveway and apparently none the worse for wear. "Well, OK," I said out loud to help calm my jangled nerves, "that wasn't really so bad. I think I'll just pull back into our driveway and try again." This time I chose "D" and eased the car into drive. I had already learned one thing, though and my left foot was firmly planted on the brake.

     With my right foot I stepped on the accelerator. The engine whined in its attempt to move the car but nothing else happened. Slowly I realized that I had to release my death-hold on the brake. I carefully lifted my left foot a fraction and the car lurched forward. Knowing nothing about RPMs, I couldn't recognize the wail of the engine as a warning. I stomped back down on the brake. I tried again with the same results. In this ignominious manner, I hopped home like some giant black flea, stopping with the nose of the car about a foot from the garage door and still rocking back and forth. My confidence was waning, but I was not going to admit defeat. Something in my brain was sizing up the sounds that came from the engine. OK, I could hear that now. It purred when my foot was off the accelerator. I needed to keep it purring instead of whining. I dropped the lever into R, turning to look behind me. This time, I was going to drive it out onto the street.

     I slowly released the brake with my left foot as I tried to coordinate depressing the accelerator with my right foot. I began moving slowly backward and was overcome with a feeling of exhilaration. But that feeling didn't help the fact that I couldn't actually see straight back. I could only see sort of to the right. That was OK, though, I'd just pull it out onto the street parallel with the curb. I could do this. My confidence was returning and I accelerated a bit. Being unfamiliar with the techniques of backing up, I didn't realize that new drivers often steer in the direction they are looking.

     "Bump, WHUMP!" The car was raised slightly upward with the bump and fell almost instantly with that crashing whump. The engine whined but the car had quit moving. Not only that, it was beginning to lean to my right at a strange angle. I could still see the street behind me and I wasn't there yet but when I looked forward, I found myself almost sideways to the garage door. How in the world did that happen? For the life of me I couldn't figure out exactly what was wrong. I gave up, turned off the key and climbed out.

     I guess the whump was as loud as it had seemed. No fewer than six people had come out onto their porches to see what was going on. I looked at the car with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had backed over the retaining curb at the edge of the driveway and the car was now resting precariously on the rear axle with one tire spinning round and round and round in mid air.

     Mr. Humpula was ambling across the street and Bob, a kind of simple-minded man who lived next door was already inspecting the spinning wheel with intent fascination. Hot tears stung the backs of my eyes but I would not cry!

&     "Seems like you could use a bit of help here," Mr. Humpula had sized up the situation fairly succinctly. "Thought you might when I saw you in my driveway. Bob, go get us a couple of arm loads of your firewood while I get my jack."

     "OK," Bob shot off towards their wood shed. By the time Mr. Humpula was back with his jack, a stand and a tire iron, Bob had dutifully deposited three arm loads of fire wood beside the retaining wall.

     "Good job, Bob, that's enough." Mr. Humpula clapped him on the back and Bob beamed. They piled some wood under the axle, braced the jack on top and deftly raised the car, stacking more firewood until the tire was firmly planted on wood. Mr. Humpula shoved his shoulder against the car and voila! it was back in the driveway.

     Without being told, Bob began packing firewood back to the shed and Mr. Humpula collected the parts of his jack. He put his unoccupied arm around my shoulder. "Now, sweetie, why don't you just put your dad's keys back where they belong and wait a couple of years, OK?" I did.

     Now, though, I knew how to drive. I drove an ambulance. I backed up all the time without incident often using only mirrors. Until tonight. This sound was definitely an incident. I could see nothing in my rear view mirror through the blinding rain, but I knew something was back there.

     I struggled with the door against the wind and stepped out into three inches of water. In my sandals. A man was headed my way and three people were standing in the doorway of the sandwich shop in front of me. The man didn't look like Mr. Humpula. Or even Bob. I was thinking Mr. Humpula's tire iron might prove handy as the man strode by me purposefully and I fell behind in his wake. His large, black, 4X4 pick up was there. I could now make out the dealer plates on the front bumper. I wondered why in the world he had chosen to park it there instead of in one of the marked parking places. I had presence of mind not to ask, however.

      Well," he finally declared, turning his critical gaze on me, "my truck seems to be OK." Disapproval dripped from his voice. Not unlike the rain from the end of his nose. His red-flannel shirt was now soaked and plastered to his muscular frame. His left boot tapped an irritated cadence in the parking lot, shooting spurts of water which kept hitting me in the shins.

     "Good," I managed a feeble smile, "do you want to fill out an accident report?"

     "Naw," he growled, "I don't want nothin' more on my record. I can't afford it. Even if it was your fault." He headed back to the sandwich shop.

     I didn't even look at my station wagon. Without a flashlight and with no lights in the parking lot, I wouldn't be able to see anything, anyway. I got in and headed home. Tomorrow was soon enough to survey the damage for me.

     "You WHAT?!" my husband cried, grabbing a flashlight and heading out the door. I was offended. I was standing there in my soggy sweater and my wet feet and it had been a long, exhausting day. What I wanted was a hug. An understanding and supportive Mr. Humpula waiting with . . . not a tire iron this time, I'd much rather have had a margarita. A BIG margarita. A bucket of margaritas. OH, well, that's how life is. Some days you get a helping hand and other days you only get a finger.