Only problem? It had a manual transmission, and I only knew how to drive an automatic.
"Not a problem," my dad said.
He got the keys from the salesman and we went for a test drive. My dad pulled into a cemetery that had a big, empty road that winded throughout the grounds. He stopped the car, turned it off, and got out.
"Okay, Brett-os. Your turn."
So began my initiation into the high art of stick shift driving.
I stalled out the first time I tried to get the car started. Then the second time. And then a third time. My dad just sat there and chuckled silently to himself, while offering some fatherly pointers. Finally, on the fourth attempt, I got the little truck going. When my dad saw that I could stop and start the Hombre consistently and shift gears without grinding the clutch, he gave the okay for me to get the truck. And off I went, lurching into my new freedom.