Back on
6-18 I wrote about my car, the Kyle, cheating death a number of times (two collisions, breaking down in upstate New York, lots of trouble starting, etc.) and as I left things in the last Kyle-related post, I was stuck climbing into the passenger side door while a rope held my door shut (and let in the rain, the snow, and any elements thrown at me by passing cars and trucks).
Let me backtrack: September of 2006, My girl and I were going to the movies. After parking the car around the corner, I tried to shut the door when suddenly, I was greeted with a thud, the noise of a door that did not catch. I tried again--thud. And again. Thud. I thought that there was maybe just a seatbelt in the door or something, so I checked it and then tried again. Thud. And again. Thud thud. And it was now that I realized that the damn door was just broken. The latch that holds the door shut was busted.
The next day I went to a body shop. A guy came out to take a look at it, told me it was the latch, but then he was intercepted by his boss, who upon seeing the mess the rest of my car was (the drunk driver who hit me in 2004 left a big dent just behind the door and the guy who rear-ended me in 2005--my fault--left a big dent on the back of the car) refused to even touch the car. “I don’t want to be responsible for this.” I left, annoyed, but certain that the next shop would be happy to take my money and fix the latch.
The woman at the next shop came out and looked at my car, looked at the body damage, and pretty much dismissed my problem as one that would require thousands of dollars in body work, which she claimed was the reason for my door not closing. “Sure, we could replace the latch, but it won’t hold because of the body damage.” I knew this was a lie: I had the body damage a full 2 years before this incident with the door not closing. While a cursory and superficial examination of my car might lead someone to think that the body damage was to blame for this, I knew that this was not the case.
Two places turning down my business was annoying, and frustrated me into just saying “Screw it.” I let it go…and as a result, I kind of let my car go. No Jiffy Lube, no car washes (not that I ever did that anyway), no basic maintenance, save for one oil change during Kyle’s brush with death last June.
A few months ago, a flyer was distributed in the neighborhood, on all the cars on my street for a body shop that claimed it could beat any of it’s competitors estimates. Realizing that I soon have to face the dreaded
Maryland Emissions Test (in which they climb into your car and try to determine if your car meets the states environmental standards, but in which they can pretty much fail you for any safety problems--I failed once because of balding tires) I knew I would have to get this fixed if I have any chance of passing.
I drove over there, the guy looked at it and said he could look at it for 75, and if it was just a latch, it would be another 75. Great, I thought. The only catch was that this place was Cash Only. Two problems: One, I just didn’t have 150 bucks on me, and two, I doubted the integrity of a business that does not accept credit cards. It’s 2007, for Chrissakes! Get a web-site, take plastic, do something! I left, ultimately going to a place across the street. The guy across the street took plastic, but did the dismissive “You need a new door,” thing as he started walking away. As I’ve said, I know this to be a lie. It’s a small part on a small car that was causing me more heartache than I would have ever imagined, and my problem was that Kyle and I do not look like we have any money, so body shops are unwilling to invest any serious attention to us.
I went home more depressed than ever. I made a last ditch appointment for an estimate at another body shop, but was pretty sure, given my experience with this, that any place that takes appointments would not be interested in helping me.
In my darkest hour, I headed to the warm inner place that comforts me:
Google. I literally picked to first place in the alphabet that showed up on my google search, wrote down the name and number, along with a couple other close places. I just decided that I was going to hit one after the other until someone would help me. I called them up with a completely new approach: I would position whomever I was talking to against every other body shop in town. As in, “The other body shops all are giving me this line of crap. I know what the problem is, I just want someone to give me a straight answer and help me.” It must have been at least partly effective, because the very nice man on the phone invited me down there.
I found the place on Maryland Ave, drove in to the garage and let the man look at Kyle. I kept up my spiel from the telephone about how I just really needed someone to help me, and no one would. “Can you come take a look at this?” he called to one of the mechanics.
The guy came over, I undid the ropes around the car so he could get in there, and he took a look at it. “I’m going to have to take the door panel off,” he warned, “and then I can see. You might need a brand new latch, which we’d have to get from the dealer. Or a junkyard. But good luck with finding one for a car like this.” Old Honda Civics are unusually popular with the do-it-yourselfers crowd.
The nice man said, “I’ll get on the phone with the dealer.” I felt good: things were moving. He just started to go into his office when the mechanic said “hold on a minute.” And then I saw him shut the door and I heard a sound I had not heard in over a year:
Click. The door shut! “”There was some broken plastic wedged in there, I got it out.”
Tears practically formed in my eyes as Kyle’s door was finally shut on it’s own. I went over to him, opened and closed the door myself, in complete disbelief that this moment had finally arrived. Kyle was whole again.
I thanked the men, over and over, more happy than I ever thought possible. I offered money, but they both said no. “You could give him a few bucks,” the nice man said about the mechanic, “but he won’t take it.”
Just today, I cleaned out the inside of the car, for the first time in forever. I vacuumed it, even as a light snow is falling around me. And the final touch: I
“Febreezed” it.
For now I have my Kyle back: my early Christmas miracle.
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.--my quote from 6-18
www.daveygandthekeyboard.comThese are the people who helped me:A Reliable Body & Paint Shop
(410) 727-0077
1815 Maryland Ave - Baltimore, MD 21201
