I’ve known Kyle HICKEY since I was fifteen years old. I vividly recall seeing him for the first time because he looked unlike anyone else at our high school. In fact he looked unlike anyone else period; like he fell asleep in 1976 and woke up in 2003. He sported Poison t-shirts without irony and I’m pretty sure he wore mousse in his hair. There was a distinct Tom Petty by way of Doyle Wolfgang von Frankenstein quality to his swagger. And even though he was a year younger than me and I had at least twenty-five pounds on him, I remember being kind of afraid of Kyle. He didn’t necessarily look violent but he looked like he meant fuckin’ business; like he wasn’t afraid to hang with the shit-kickers and shit-kick those who deserved to get their shit kicked. And to be honest, I deserved to get my shit kicked when I was fifteen. As a result, I stayed clear of Kyle throughout high school . . . but I always admired him from afar. That confident gait of his (a sort of rhythmic, sledgehammer stomp) was hard to ignore in the hallways of York High School. We luckily became pals later in life and while I’m not afraid of him anymore, I still think he’s an absolute original. And he definitely continues to mean fuckin’ business. EO

theteenagehead.com

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