Luxury car comes with extras

Peter has always been a proud man. We think it is his Charlestown upbringing.

When he came into (don’t ask) a large chunk of money, he decided to buy a vehicle. Now I have just completed my eighth successful purchase of a Honda and I recommended the same. They had taken me to there and back and never left me on the highway.

No way. Not for Peter.

He had to have a Mercedes, even if it was a decade old. Part of my argument was that everyone I ever knew that had a vintage Mercedes had serious, very serious electrical problems. I never heard of that with a Honda. I said to buy a Honda, put 125,000 miles on it, then sell it.

Fixing an old Mercedes was like fixing an old BMW. Only the rich could afford it, I said.

Would he listen to me? What do you think?

He just had to have the Mercedes.

All of this became terribly relevant on Saturday when Peter took the Mercedes to the Camden toboggan races and decided to lock it, a rare occurrence. The folly of this act became immediately apparent when he decided to unlock it. This simple act set off the burglar alarm and flashing lights. This alarmed (pun intended) our Peter because he never knew the car had such an alarm.

He had to get to his friend, Mark’s house, so he swallowed his pride and drove to South Thomaston, lights flashing and alarm blaring. The benefit of this occurrence was that other drivers pulled over to the side of the road, assuming the Mercedes was on the way to some terrible accident.

When Peter got to Mark’s house, Mark feigned concern and went out to investigate the honking, flashing Mercedes in his driveway.

The prognosis was complicated by the fact that the malady seemed to be contagious, setting off Mark’s car alarm as well. As soon as one car quieted down, the other started, like two children crying in a nursery. The two vehicles sat in the driveway, side by side, flashing and honking, until both drivers disconnected their battery cables, much to the relief of the neighbors.

Peter was mortified.

When dark fell gratefully and Peter could finally skulk home, he reconnected the battery terminal and drove back to Camden with lights flashing, horn blaring and drivers pulling to the side of the road.

He pulled into the Cobb Manor driveway, completely embarrassed. Lights flashing and horn blaring. As he disconnected his Mercedes battery, I told him, again, that he should have bought a Honda.

While I was saying “I told you so” just one more time, the phone rang. It was Mark. I thought he had some miracle cure for the flashing and the honking.

No.

Mark was choking, he was laughing so hard. He admitted, finally that there was nothing wrong with his car. When he realized that Peter’s car had a problem, he set off the alarm on his own car with a panic switch he had on his key chain, just to see the look on Peter’s face.

“I was just messing with you, man,” he confessed.

Peter was at least partially relieved. But he still owned a flashing, honking, vintage Mercedes that could not be driven a mile to Fitzpatrick’s for breakfast.

I told him, once more, that he should have bought a Honda. No one ever listens to me.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.