17 November 2007

The Bump


I walked through Buckingham last night, away from the vast bulk of Big Pink and into Little Salvador to try to let some of the anger boil off in the cool air. I almost did not bother to lock the door, based on my conversation earlier, but force of habit made me put the key in the door. Force of habit, and exercise helps to focus the mind, and I needed it.

I wore my old letter-jacket against the chill. The old comfort of the heavy cloth and leather made the crispness pleasant enough, and the white sleeves might give me some protection against the hurtling commuters. It was so dark, though early, and the tail end of the rush hour through the neighborhood was still screaming by.

The high clear light of the late afternoon had drifted off to the West as I read the latest note from the lawyer. The whole thing was preposterous.

The events that led me to Big Pink and a presumed safe harbor were actually still very much in play, and the emotion was quite overwhelming. I was replaying the demands in the letter as I walked past the chain link around Buckingham Village III I came out of my reverie.

The empty window apertures, blacker than the night, made the sad block into a line of leering skulls. I could see blue, white and red lights flashing from the direction of George Mason Drive.

I could not see what the activity might be, though as I neared the intersection I heard a siren kick in, and the sound stretched thinly away, toward the hospital in North Arlington.

I got to the end of the block at Pershing and was able to look to the north where the lights flashed.

Multiple vehicles were parked akimbo, all flashing white and blue and red. With the fading siren, it had undoubtedly been a personal injury accident.

I walked briskly, on the lookout for personal injury lawyers lurking in the bushes. Across the street, two of the looming town-house blocks on the former Buckingham II have fully risen, the first already clad with brick and ready for the locks and hardware to go on the doors.

It is going to be a densely populated when they finish the rest, and there are more to come on a parallel demolished block of garden apartments to the east. Yet more will replace the low brick buildings I was walking past on Buckingham III. They are still occupied, the developer wringing the last revenue from them as the demolition proceeds behind them for the two enormous new apartment buildings.

They say they will be “in historic context,” which means that they will rise only four stories and have a bogus colonial cupola on the top.

I suppose it is all a good thing, these new gentry accommodations that are going to abut the remaining slum. The interaction between those who are staying and those who will come will be interesting to see, and since I read the latest from the lawyers, it is unlikely that I will have the bucks to go anywhere else for a long time. With Arlington Cemetery just down the road, it might very well be eternity in this Zip Code.   

Walking toward the Barrett School, the cars pass so close to the sidewalk that it makes you flinch when they go by. There are only inches of clearance between the walkers and the motorists, and a stiff curb.

George Mason used to end at the school, a “T” intersection marking the northern edge of Buckingham. It was a purely ornamental drive, with fairly radical curves to break up the sight-lines of the village. The speed limit is thirty, though it should be less, and traffic moves at least ten miles faster than that.

What with the old people who navigate this way from the Culpepper assisted living center, it can be pretty colorful on George Mason.

I crossed Henderson Street at the point that the driveway to the old mansion had been years ago. Just at the edge of the school property I could see the cops and rescue vehicles clustered at the point where Park Street lets traffic out of The Forest and into Little Salvador.

There had been a wreck, clearly, and as I approached I could see it was a late model SUV, reflecting the flashing lights in blood crimson.

It was crumpled at the base of the stone retaining wall that holds up the playground. I wanted to ask one of the cops just how you can slam a vehicle with that sort of force on what is supposed to be a quiet neighborhood street.

Was the driver fleeing a crime? Hooked a tire on the curb and flipped with talking on the cell phone?

The door gaped open where they had torn the driver out, and the cops seemed preoccupied and not disposed to talk.

Someone had been hurt and on their way to the hospital. They were still alive, if the siren was any indication. At least not pronounced. When they take people away from Big Pink or Culpepper, there are lights, but no sirens and no urgency.

I walked up the gentle hill and cut diagonally through the Lubber Run Recreation Center that replaced the Henderson mansion in the middle 1950s. It is pure Arlington, an ugly block brick building that could pass for a cousin of the school across the street. The people from the Village use it extensively, an island of Salvador in the tidy and well-kept Arlington Forest neighborhood.

The County wants to knock it down and replace it with something newer, but there is nothing in the budget.

I walked across the silent parking lot toward Lubber Run, puzzling out how the SUV had managed to hit with such a bump.

I had been here earlier in the day after a trip to the locksmith on Wilson Boulevard.   I needed a new key for the mailbox, since the one I have needs a stiff turn to open the little brass door and the brass blade is starting to fail and will undoubtedly shear off one these evenings and leave a desperately needed check on the wrong side of the door.

That is what had led me past the scene of the accident. I normally get replacement keys at Ayres Hardware, in Westover Village. It is the only alternative to the Home Depot on Route 50, which scares me a little. Better said, I just can't deal with the intimidation of all the Chinese screws and tools. It has nothing to do with the fact that the DC Snipers took out a woman in the covered parking lot. When I have to go there, I make a practice of not walking by the parking space where she bled-out. I am not as intimidated by terrorists as I am or all the aisles of possibilities in home improvement.

Westover Village is the Bizzarro Universe version of Buckingham. Located just across the concrete moat of I-66, it remains gentile. Residences in the neighborhood are modest, pre-World War II single family homes, though they cost an arm and a leg now, and Westover Apartments are garden-style low-density units built just a few years after Allie Freed's project. Being in North Arlington, the County Fathers never allowed them to go to seed.

Ayres can do a lot for you, but they cannot get me the right blank to cut for the mailbox. I tried twice and failed, which accounts for the week-day afternoon stop at a professional locksmith, who resolutely closes on the weekends.

Brian was the little guy behind the counter. He had a ball-cap jammed down on his head and a day's fine stubble in his cheeks. He moved like a jockey, or at least like a man for whom nimbleness was a stock in trade.

The phone on my hip went off as I tried to explain what I wanted, and since I was working, I took the call. I disclosed more than I wanted to Brian, and there was an unnatural air of intimacy established as I explained what I wanted. He handed my key off to his associate, who apparently was new, and stood in front of the impressive array of different key types.

Brian told him where to find the right one, and I asked him if they could cut a “bump” key for me.

Brian smiled, and said he could. In fact, he could cut me a bump key for just about every lock older than five years for anything in the County. He didn't mind; he lives out in Reston, and doesn't bother to lock his door. He figures his best protection is his 90-pound German Shepard.

I'm oblivious about a lot of things, just like you. Having professionally spent a lot of years behind locked doors, the news had caught my attention. Some Puerto Rican thieves had been flying into Dallas-Fort Worth for more than a year, knocking off whole apartment complexes for lap-tops and jewelry.

The whole thing was a mystery, since the residents would return home from their jobs and find the front doors closed, but not locked. No sign of forced entry. Quite mysterious, and of course the suspicion fell on the maintenance workers first.

The local Sheriff happened to be married to one of the apartment complex managers, and knew the staff. He figured it must have been someone using the bump technique, and eventually they busted the Puerto Ricans in the act.

That is the good news story, but it masked the worse. With The Bump, only special high-security locks provide any protection at all.

Brian told me, matter-of-factly, that all the key-locks in America are worthless. That includes the ones on my doors and yours.

It is not a secret- there is a clip on uTube if you want to see how it is done, and locksmiths have known about The Bump attack for years. There really is no need for a pick set anymore. All keys with flat blades are vulnerable. All you need to do is buy a blank and have it cut to the deepest channel at the point where the pins are located in the lock cylinder.

Brian said his brother was one of the best at it, and rarely has to use anything else. He just inserts the key into the lock, pulls back two detents, turns slightly to bring tension, and then strikes the back of the key gently with a screwdriver or small hammer. "Voila!" the locks open.

I talked to Brian for about a half hour. The Bump does not work on some of the new high-security lock-sets, the ones that have angles cut on the teeth, or groove patterns cut in the side like fancy European car keys. Duplication of those keys is tracked, and the blank keys strictly controlled. You have seen the ones with “DO NOT DUPLICATE' stamped on the tope, and may have one on your key-ring and feel good about it.

Of course, the instant the patent on the design expires, the blanks become available to all comers, and there is nothing in the slightest illegal about it.

My jaw dropped in amazement. Brian was joined behind the counter by Bob, who lives in Loudoun County because he can't afford to rent in Arlington. He was eager to talk about what was happening at the job sites to which he was called, and the Embassies and fancy new condos. No sign of forced entry.

The Bump.

There is a crime wave in progress, but it is lost in the noise. Gangs are operating out of the District, and they now have free access to just about anything they want, even most of the new construction places. I'll be interested in the locks they put on the new town homes.

I'm betting a high-security lock with a patent more than a few years from expiration is going to be an option.

As to Big Pink, the keys for the access doors have not been changed since Speaker Albert lived in the place. That means there is nothing to stop thieves or lawyers from gaining access, and once in, bumping anyone's front door.

The fierce argument that caused Mrs. Hitler to hit Uncle Bill at the pool deck last August over the locked door to the elevator in the garage was all wasted breath. The only people who are going to be stopped by a lock anymore are the residents who forget their obsolete keys.

It was an interesting session, very educational, and it almost took my mind off the other crap. Walking back toward Big Pink in the dark, I took the shortcut through Culpepper Gardens rather than walk along George Mason with the hurtling cars at my back.

I didn't want to take a chance on anything else going bump in the night, and crushing me against a wall.

Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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