Honk, Honk, Honk!
When the first true automobile was tested in Paris in 1769, there was no need for a horn.
There were no other cars on the road, the steam-powered vehicle moved at the speed of a French stroll, and anyone in its way simply stepped aside.
Only when the second automobile was manufactured did the need for a horn arise.
As I understand it, the second car cut the first car off and continued on its way, causing great emotional stress to the driver of Car No. 1, who was unable to communicate his rage.
He cursed, of course, but cursing in French lacks the impact of cursing in, say, Italian or Japanese, and the driver was left trembling in despair.
The car horn was subsequently developed and exists today as an essential element of highway communication and driver therapy.
“If you can’t honk,” a psychologist friend said to me, “frustration builds to undirected hostility, which can emerge in situations unrelated to the causative factor.”
In other words, a person who can’t honk could end up building his own nuclear bomb and wiping out a neighborhood.
So listen carefully. I can’t honk.
There are roughly 22,000 miles of public roads in Los Angeles County which are traversed by more than 6 million registered vehicles, often at the same time in the same lane.
Nowhere in the world is the automobile more important than in L.A., due to our historic inability to put together any kind of adequate public transportation.
But without a horn, a car is nothing.
I discovered this the day I lost my honk. It happened on the Santa Monica Freeway at rush hour. My wife, the patient Cinelli, was with me.
To begin with, I am an aggressive driver who believes the lane I occupy ought to be clear for at least a mile ahead. Any car that enters it within that distance is an unacceptable intrusion and earns a blast from my horn.
This is accompanied by a brief oral description of the driver’s similarity to a portion of the human anatomy that goes over the fence last, as stepdaddy used to say.
Predictably, on this day someone did cut in front of me. I cursed lustily and hit the horn. But while the curse rang out, the horn didn’t.
“My horn’s dead,” I said, pounding on the honk pad. I couldn’t believe it. No car I ever owned had gone suddenly hornless.
“I guess you’ll just have to learn to curse louder,” Cinelli said. “Either that, or stick your head out the window and holler, ‘Honk, honk, honk!’ ”
I stopped at a gas station. A guy who looked like a mechanic was standing around smoking a cigar and picking his teeth at the same time. It required all the coordination he could muster.
“I think my horn fuse is out,” I said.
“No horn fuse,” the mechanic said.
He was a man of few words. Eighty-eight Pontiacs don’t have no horn fuses. Also, it wasn’t no bad connection. He checked that too.
“Then what could it be?”
“Maybe the old relay,” he said.
“Where’s the old relay?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’re a mechanic and you don’t know where the old relay is?”
“Ain’t the mechanic,” he said, “waitin’ for the old missus.” At which point the old missus emerged from the ladies room and they left.
“Might check the owner’s manual to find the old relay,” Cinelli said. “It’s probably under ‘O.’ ”
I couldn’t find it, so to hell with it. We took to the road again, honkless. I felt like a man without his manhood.
Pacific Coast Highway was a mess. I cursed, yelled “honk” and shook my fist, but it wasn’t the same.
At one point, road work forced us to wait 20 minutes. When it was our turn to move, the guy in front of me didn’t. He’d fallen asleep.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Cinelli said. “Show compassion.”
“I’m not smashing him off the road. That’s compassion. Honk, honk, honk, damn you!”
I unsnapped my seat belt and was about to get out and kill him when Cinelli said, “You start a fight and you can kiss sex goodby.”
She has an interesting way of putting things.
He finally moved and I got home, but my horn still doesn’t work. It’s either take the time to get it fixed or build a bomb, kiss sex goodby and wipe out the neighborhood.
I’m thinking, I’m thinking.
