The car sits disembodied in the driveway, entrails of loose wires hanging from every opening. The backseat is gone. Moldings around the tire hubs are stripped like flesh scraped bare, exposing more wires. The remains are strewn about our driveway like a 1000 piece puzzle. I wonder how it’s possible to get it back together.

Erik is so proud of his first car, paid for in long hamburger-slinging hours at McDonald’s. It’s an imported model, a wine colored Audi in great condition. The previous owner hopes he’ll take good care of it. The first three letters on the licence plate are HFH. I call it “His First Heap!”

Erik says he needs a bigger boombox, the original stereo doesn’t produce a decibel level high enough. He wants the throbbing sounds to be heard two streets away. I think he yearns for the primal heartbeat of the womb.

I watch my nephew, his 6‘2“ frame straddled awkwardly across the gearshift, wedged between the seats. He analyzes the positive and negative connections. I wish he had as much patience when asked to do the laundry.

At some point in the afternoon, the installation turns bad. Wires cross and there’s a mini meltdown. Now much of the electrical work is ruined. I can’t bear to see Erik’s expression.

I hate to think what all the self-inflicted repairs will cost. I’m sure Erik won’t admit that every mistake is burning a bigger hole in his university savings account. If only I could spare him.

“It’s a learning experience,” he says with a sheepish grin. I admire his grit. No complaining or whining this time. For the moment he’s stuck in our driveway, but I have confidence that he has his sights set on bigger goals down the road.