Alarm Over an Alarm
Emma Buchay
When our automobile believes its being stolen, an alarm screams louder than a hundred scared rabbits. If I accidentally set off this ear-piercing yowl, the control gadget informs neighbors ten blocks away that I’m electronically inept.
Recently, I climbed in the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. The car yelled, “Thief, thief!”
I rolled up the window, opened and closed the door and punched buttons on the control. Nothing ended the high-pitched howls. Late for a dental appointment, I drove to the office, the car objecting the entire trip. Hot with embarrassment, I scrunched low in the seat, barely peering over the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. I was thankful that no policemen or other motorists confronted me, although a dozen cars surely heard my disturbing progress along the route.
I soon arrived at the dentist’s. “Dear God, what do I do?” I killed the engine, opened the door, stuck one foot out and realized. “ I can’t leave a screaming car here in the parking lot.”
I shut the door and replaced the key in the ignition. The alarm shut up.
Is it really that simple?
© 2009 Geni J. White
