Free Walt by Ian Stoba

horrible smell of burning rubber filled the garage, and in the mirror I could see blue smoke pouring out from the back wheels. Through the rapidly thickening cloud of smoke I saw Jose open one eye.
    Just then, fortunately, oh fortunately, the wheels got a grip on the pavement and we were gone. We shot out onto Sacramento Street. Just a few car lengths ahead of us was the stop sign. I jammed on the brake and the clutch, actually managing to come to a stop several feet before the white line. The shifter was still in first. I sat at the stop sign for several long moments, thinking.
    Nob Hill is, of course, a hill. It is a tall and, even by San Francisco standards, rather steep hill. I realized that my species does not possess enough feet to properly execute the maneuver I was now presented with. I needed to simultaneously use the clutch, brake, and gas pedals. Unfortunate me, I had only two feet.
    I decided just to try it. I took my foot off the brake. The car immediately started rolling down the hill.
    I had to divide my attention between trying to make the pedals work and steering out of our trajectory parked cars and other obstacles. We had now rolled back about half a block and were rapidly gaining speed. I screeched on the brakes. At least, I thought, reduce our velocity. I was having horrible visions of rolling into Chinatown backwards in a stolen Ferrari totally out of control with a Tristanian lobster fisherman as my accomplice.
    I let the clutch out as I stepped on the gas, not so hard this time. When we got to the top of the hill, I blew off the stop sign, making a left turn past Grace Cathedral and the Fairmont Hotel without even slowing down. One block away, on California Street, I made a right and we were on the Drive.
    Walt enjoyed riding in the car tremendously. He naturally understood the rhythm of traveling. He adjusted to the pace of the Drive, knowing exactly when to look for the next sign.
    When we got to the Palace of the Legion of Honor we stopped to get out and look at the Holocaust memorial. Of all the epic statuary to forgotten glories in the City, this simple memorial is by far the most effective. I have no idea if the Second World War involved Tristan de Cunha, but Walt knew nothing about it. I explained to him a little bit of the history and why people felt memorials to be necessary.
    By this time it was getting on towards later in the day. I have very fair skin and I constantly have to worry about getting sunburned. I thought that by now, with the sun reaching a lower angle relative to the horizon, it might be an excellent time to put the top down on the car.
    We found the catches for the release and released them. I took hold of the leading edge of the roof and pushed it towards the rear of the car. This all went very smoothly until the roof was about halfway down. Then it got stuck. We pushed and pulled and prodded and cajoled the roof, but we could not get it to go down any further. When we tried putting the roof back up, we found that it no longer fit properly. We had resigned ourselves to driving around with the roof stuck half open and half closed.
    Walt got in the car first. It was than that he noticed a metal bar running underneath the fabric top. Further investigation revealed a way to remove the bar. When we had done this, the top went down the rest of the way effortlessly.
    I stepped back several steps to admire our handiwork. Something still did not look right. The top was still attached to the rear portion of the car. I examined this and found that it was attached to the body of the car with a series of snaps. It took much pulling and grunting, but these, too, finally gave way.
    I was beginning to like the Ferrari. We drove off in more style than I had ever imagined possible.
    I felt that my competence was rapidly increasing. I was not afraid of the car as I had been just an hour or two before. Even the shifting was becoming familiar and easy. The only problem was that I had never had a