The Truth About Home Security System Proves to Be Alarming

The other night, at 1:15 a.m., I was fast asleep when my home security alarm went off.

I flew out of bed, panicked to hear what sounded like 8,000 cats in a FryBaby. I knew I was supposed to remain calm, but my male instinct took over, and I did what any guy would do: I bolted down the stairs half naked, and for protection, I grabbed the first sharp object I could find. (It was a slotted spoon off the counter, which I guess would have worked if the intruder were Julia Child, whom I could have ladled to death.) Then, I desperately attempted to disable the alarm, failed and ran into the frontyard to escape the noise.

Luckily, there was no burglar. But as the alarm clanged on, I rocketed aimlessly through the house, by now completely deaf, trying to remember how to stop it. It had been installed five years before, and I’d forgotten everything the installer told me. I’d even forgotten where the alarm was. Because the control panel was by the front door, I guessed the alarm was in the door--so I started kicking the door with my bare feet.

Fortunately, my wife remembered the emergency switch was in the attic, and she shut off the alarm.

“Hey, Bruce Lee, you can stop kicking now,” she called down.

Then, we waited for the response. That’s what you pay $30 a month for, right? The response. A guy who looks like Bruce Willis, armed with an AK-47, screeching up to your door in a black 4Runner.

Nothing happened. Not even a phone call.

Angry, I called the security company at its Maryland number. The woman who answered had the IQ of kale. (Imagine my shock at not finding Einstein working the night shift for $5.60 an hour.)

“Our alarm went off,” I told her. “Why didn’t you respond?”

“Your alarm didn’t go off here,” she said.

“What do you mean it didn’t go off there? Frank Sinatra heard it.”

“You must have disconnected it in time,” she said. “If it rings for less than 45 seconds, it doesn’t register here.”

“It rang at least two minutes. It lasted longer than ‘The Keenan Ivory Wayans Show!”’

I demanded to talk to a supervisor.

So Ms. Marilyn Vos Savant here put me on hold--for 10 minutes.

I seethed. I lashed out impotently with my ladle.

Here’s my state of mind: This tin-pot security company has taken my $30 a month for five years, promising me security, and now when I need it, nobody shows up. This malfunctioning alarm has awakened all my neighbors, who already hate me for sending my son out late at night to stuff our extra garbage into their cans. I hung up and called again.

This time, I got Bob.

I told him the whole story and asked why there was no response.

“I could have been killed,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Shouldn’t we be able to expect a response if we pay for your service, and you guarantee a response?” I asked.

“I would feel just the way you do,” he said calmly.

I was beginning to like Bob.

“I wish I had spoken to you to begin with, Bob,” I said. “By the way, I called a Maryland number. Where exactly are you?”

“Kansas City,” Bob said cheerily.

“Kansas City? How on Earth can you get here in a moment’s notice if you’re in Kansas City? A cruise missile from Kansas City can’t get here fast enough to save me.”

This is the modern world, you see. You pay for a home security quick response, and they route it through Kansas City or Omaha or Anchorage. And it doesn’t matter how they route it--because they tell you your alarm isn’t shrieking. You’re standing in your frontyard in your underwear at 1:30 a.m., listening to an alarm jackhammering into the night, and someone 1,000 miles away tells you it didn’t go off.

I hate technology. I’m turning this system off and tying paint cans to my front door, like in “Home Alone.” Maybe a burglar will come in and kill me, but he’ll be coated in periwinkle blue when he does it.