The Ballad of Kyle

My car, the Kyle, has cheated death more than once. After three years with him, he has survived two very serious challenges, as well as a few smaller ones.

The first came two years ago, when I broke down in upstate New York, on my way back from recording “Prepare to be Keyboarded” in Massachusetts. As I cruised down the Taconic State Parkway, idly doing an Andy Rooney impression (“don’t you hate when your car coffee cup holders are…just a bit too small?”) suddenly the engine began revving, and revving, the RPMs going off the scale, the shift light coming on, even though I was already in 5th gear. By the time I reached the top of a big hill to limp into a “scenic overlook,” I knew I was in trouble. Hours later, as the tow truck came and took me to Red Hook, New York, little did I know that this would be where he would stay for 3 weeks as I debated whether this was the end for Kyle until the mechanics finally got around to putting in my new clutch.


A few months after that, I was rear-ended as I was driving in the rain while rocking out to a Bad Religion song. This caused my trunk to be permanently shut. Then sometime last year, my radio was stolen as I was at work--I mean, who the hell steals radios anymore? And then at some point last year my driver’s side door latch broke, causing the door not to shut and making me use rope to hold it while I am stuck climbing in the passenger side.

And lately there has been the problem of Kyle not starting…which is what led to the second major challenge to my ownership of him. As the car sat, not starting at all, in its spot in front of the house, I made calls and inquiries about other cars, assuming that Kyle was dead (or at any rate, too expensive for me to bother with anymore). The next day, for the sheer hell of it I tried to start him up…which he did. Confounded, wondering what to do, I decided to drive him to the local service station. Ever since the “rope holds my door shut” thing, I’ve been hesitant to take him to any mechanic, for fear that he would laugh at me and tell me he didn’t want to bother with my little piece of…Kyle. But he looked at him, and figured out it was the main relay and now he lives. He lives!

I guess I love this car because I feel sorry for it. And yeah, I know it’s gay to call your car a boys name. Shut it.
www.daveygandthekeyboard.com