An alarming episode

PETER BUFFA

They’re loud and obnoxious, like nails on a chalkboard, maybe worse.

They’re called car alarms.

But the most interesting thing about car alarms is that no one

pays the least bit of attention to them ... none, zero, nada.

Whenever you hear one blaring, honking, shrieking, you just assume

it’s been set off by accident, and you go about your business. You

avoid eye contact with both the car and the person who belongs to it,

and you just move on.

I used to be that way. I’m not anymore. I am a profoundly changed

person. Now, whenever I hear a car alarm, I start to sweat like

Albert Brooks in “Broadcast News.” Yes, it’s true. I have

post-traumatic car-alarm syndrome. This is my story.

On a sunny afternoon, not long ago, I was tooling around

Newport-Mesa doing some errands in a borrowed car, a loaner --

brand-new -- from a dealership, which shall remain unnamed. One of my

stops was Kinko’s on Newport Boulevard, just north of 17th Street. If

you know that row of stores, you know that parking can be a little

dicey in the narrow lot out front. There was only one open spot and

it was directly outside Kinko’s front door -- a pleasant, unexpected

bit of good fortune.

The door was standing open. That may seem insignificant now, but

it will become much, much more important later in our story. I

parked, gathered up the papers to be copied, got out of the car, and

pushed the little “lock” button on the key fob. I had no way of

knowing it at the time, but that simple, innocent gesture -- pushing

the little “lock” button -- was a terrible, terrible mistake. That’s

when I heard it: a quick burst of staccato “meeps” --

“meep-meep-meep-meep” -- four times, fast, just like that.

“That’s odd,” I thought.

Usually, car alarms make no sound, or go “meep” once, maybe twice

when you hit the lock button. But four meeps? That’s odd. Be that as

it may, I ignored the meeps. I shouldn’t have. I went about my

business, copied what needed copying, paid my bill, in cash, said

thank you and waved goodbye.

I walked out the door to my borrowed car and hit the “unlock”

button on the key fob. Even stranger than the four meeps, the alarm

now broke into a spasm of quick meeps that wouldn’t quit.

“So what?” I thought, “Big deal. Just open the door and put the

key in the ignition. The car doesn’t know you from Adam, but it will

know the feeling of a friendly, familiar key and everything will be

just fine.”

Terrible mistake number two. When I opened the driver’s door, the

alarm went bonkers. To this day, I can’t understand what could have

been in there to make that much noise. It was a demanding, echoing

series of blasts that sounded like a cross between the air-horn on a

diesel locomotive and the Queen Elizabeth 2 -- shrieking and blaring,

blaring and shrieking, over and over, again and again. It is at this

point, of course, that you grab the key fob in both hands and jab at

it frantically with both thumbs, desperately trying to find the right

combination of buttons. Nothing. Zip. Not a thing. Didn’t even slow

it down.

I jumped inside and slipped the key into the ignition ...

HONKKK-SHRIEK, louder than ever. I glanced through the tragically

open door of Kinko’s. Every last man, woman and child inside was

turned to the door, staring -- no, glaring -- at the large fool in

the borrowed car whose snoot was perfectly centered in the open door,

with alarm going berserk, nuts, out of its mind.

Finally, when I hit the lock button on the door panel out of pure

desperation, the alarm stopped. I sat there, frightened and

disoriented, heart pounding, panting like a hunted animal, afraid to

glance into Kinko’s, when the next problem became crystal clear. Not

being able to start the car or roll down the windows, the temperature

inside was about 175 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing, fast. I knew

the alarm would detonate again if I opened the door but I had no

choice. I opened the door and the alarm exploded, howling

incessantly.

It seemed to be getting louder.

The Kinko’s people were inching toward the door, and now there

were heads poking out the front doors of the other stores. I

frantically dialed the number of the dealership from whence the car

had come. It took a few, agonizing seconds to be connected with their

“alarm specialist,” a very pleasant woman who had to struggle to hear

me over the alarm shrieking in the background.

She was sure she could talk me through it if I did exactly what

she said. I promised I would, but asked her to hurry, because the

Kinko’s people were standing just inside the door in small groups,

mostly glaring, a few pointing.

“Mr. Buffa?” the alarm lady said, “Still there? Good. Now do

exactly what I tell you, OK? Try hitting ‘lock’ before you hit

‘unlock.’ Good. Now, open the door.”

HONK-BLARE-SHRIEK.

“OK, let’s try hitting ‘unlock’ twice, then wait about four

seconds before you open the door.”

SHRIEK-BLARE-HONK.

“Yes, I can hear that. Yes, they’re supposed to be that loud. This

time try hitting ‘unlock’ then ‘lock’ then ‘unlock’ again. That

should work.”

BLARE-HONKKK.

“Yes, I hear it.”

It was hopeless. No matter what we did, there was just no way to

stop the bleating. Just then, a woman from Kinko’s stepped outside,

hands on her hips, and a steely, scary look on her face.

“Are you doing that on purpose -- or is there something wrong with

your car?” she yelled, screaming to be heard over the unstoppable

alarm, which was definitely getting louder.

“Of course there’s something wrong!” I yelled back. “Do you think

I’m doing this on purpose?”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman at the dealership, “I didn’t hear that

last part.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Some woman is screaming at me.”

“Well, I’m just trying to help, Mr. Buffa, and I was certainly not

screaming at you.”

“No, no,” I said, “not you, one of the Kinko’s people.”

“OK,” she said. “Now try pushing ‘lock’ twice, then ‘unlock,’ then

wait four seconds then open the door.”

“We tried that,” I shouted.

“No we didn’t,” she said. “We tried ‘unlock’ twice then waiting

four seconds. We didn’t try ‘lock’ twice, then ‘unlock’ then waiting.

Just try it.”

SHREEEEK-BLAT-HONK.

It was a nightmare I tell you, a Stephen King novel being played

out on Newport Boulevard and 17th Street.

Just then, it stopped, without warning, and with no more reason

nor rhyme than when it started. I thanked the alarm lady profusely,

jumped in the car and roared north on Newport Boulevard as far and as

fast as my borrowed car would take me. That is all I have to tell

you.

The next time you hear a car alarm, show a little compassion. And

if you ever hear four quick meeps from your own car, drop the keys

where you stand, back away and ask someone to give you a ride home.

You won’t be sorry. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].