Kickass, the doorstop dog, says this thing between men and cars is, of course, an untreatable systemic condition, and one that women have somehow mostly put into the handy perspective of essential male nonsense. The male’s first down-the-road car—in the keeper’s case it was a 1932 Chevy with no upholstery and a plate glass windshield that Eddie Schmidt threw an apple through one Halloween. The keeper later restored a similar 1932 Chev and enjoyed its company for a time. The most recent iteration of this inexplicable male car infirmity occurred when Phyllis’s son Todd bought a Mocar from the era of his youth, obviously in the vain hope that he could ride its wheels back in time and be young again. Cars are such male symbols for everything from excessive riches to retreating vitality to restorative abilities, that it is impossible to sort through it all. Still in the game, the keeper recently bought an old Blazer that symbolizes what he has become—still able to go down the road, rattling some and riding rough, while avoiding the salvage yards and mindful of repair shop locations. It will come to something like that for Todd if he is car lucky.