A friend and I buzzed at the doctor's gate.
The cafés along Corso Umberto I buzzed with life.
If I had a jar I could not open, I buzzed for the elevator.
If my toaster oven caught on fire, I buzzed for the elevator.
On a couple of occasions I buzzed for answers before they'd finished asking the question.
I buzzed him in (the baby was sleeping); he came upstairs and handed it over, then lingered in the doorway, clearly wishing to be compensated for returning it.
A psychedelic placard marked the entry door; I buzzed the intercom and walked up a flight of stairs.
He rang the bell and I buzzed him in, then went down to the front door, where several boxes were already stacked on the doorstep; Julian was across the road, unpacking more boxes from the van.
But it was during the first month of my freshman year, when my fellow students and I, buzzed on a pervasive summer-camp vibe, were most creative and expressive — unsurprisingly, and looking back, rather unfortunately — about two subjects: hooking up and getting drunk.
I buzzed an intercom two doors down from a tiny corner cafe, and was greeted by Arian Mostaedi, a 30-something publisher of coffee-table design books, who guided me through his modern one-bedroom apartment, with a glass kitchen table set for dinner for two, a sparkling bathroom with a glass shower stall, and a queen-size bed.
I buzzed in with the right answer.
