Traffic School
Out in the world there were bail-outs and wipe-outs and shake-ups that week, there were speeches and rants and debates, there were bombings and battles and baseball games. But in here, the California DMV code ruled. This is traffic school, baby, get used to it.
It was held in a meeting room just beyond the lobby of the Holiday Inn. The egg and coffee smell of a buffet breakfast wafted in the air as I wandered in, a little too punctual as usual. It was a familiar smell of hotels and conferences, but the restaurant clientele on this Saturday morning was leisure rather than business, sleepy-eyed tourists in frumpy sweats and bright white athletic shoes, people enjoying brief low-budget vacations in the last gasp of summer. I envied their freedom to spend the day as they wished. I braced myself for captivity.
We were variously in for speeding, illegal turns, or failures to halt at stop signs, pedestrian crossings, or, as in my case, red lights. We seemed collectively to represent the colorful demographics of California: there were numerous Asians, Hispanics, and multi-ethnics among us and even a red-head from Iowa, there were folks with halting accents and folks who were glib, there were old and young, the unwashed and the well-groomed, some who still felt wronged and angry, and others like myself just resigned to take my punishment. It was called Great Comedy Traffic School, but the joke was on us. We had been sentenced to eight hours in this room.
“I did get a joke or two off the internet for you,” said Don, our affable instructor, “but I hope you weren't expecting a comedian. It's traffic school, after all.”
Don was a retired Marine, which elicited a warm response from Randy, who had also been a Marine. The two compared notes during a break. “Were you in Eye-Raq? I got a nice tan in Eye-Raq,” said Randy, who seemed quite happy to be here at the Holiday Inn instead.
The rules of the road are not inherently interesting, but Don did his best with the material. He divided us into two teams and we played a quiz show game, shouting out our best guesses about different types of auto insurance, what todo if our brakes fail, and the top ten causes of driver distraction. He showed us a couple of videos, too, the earnest kind with lame music, stilted acting, and styles from the early 90s.
They emphasized the importance of watching out for oblivious children, not driving while even mildly intoxicated, and controlling our anger behind the wheel. We watched a scene in which a man with a baseball bat stood poised to hit the car that had cut him off in traffic, and just as we were thinking how stupid the guy in the car was to have pulled over, we were shown an interior view in which his hand is seen reaching for a gun in the glove compartment. Let that be a lesson to you.
“What is this road-a-rage?” asked a bespectacled Asian woman. “I don’t know this term. I don’t know why we talk so much about this term. All I do is turn when person crossing street. It take long time. I think it is okay and then officer come and give me ticket. Not even guilty.”
“I’m sorry, m’am,” said Don. “If you don’t feel you were treated fairly, you’ll have to tell it to the judge. I’m just the traffic school instructor.”
She exhibited no signs of rage, but she did retain an aura of befuddled indignation for the rest of the day.
“Moving right along,” said Don, “Any questions?”
“Anyone know the maximum range of an M-16?” asked Randy.
“I had a guy pull a gun on me,” offered James.
“I saw someone throw his burrito at another car,” said Wendall.
“You know who really pisses me off? Guys on motorcycles.In and out of lanes…” said someone else.
"Hey, hey. Watch it there," said the motorcyclist in our midst.
The woman from Iowa tapped me on the shoulder. “I never know if I should say something or not,” she whispered. “But are you aware that you have a tear in your jeans? It isn’t huge, and you can’t really see anything, but I thought you’d like to know.”
Damn it. A tear in my jeans? Again?These are my favorite jeans, too, so soft and faded from years of wear. In fact, I just recently had a patch sewn on. Damn.
Outside, the day grew warm and pleasant and we were given intermittent breaks to take a breath of it.
There was discussion about littering, trunking, tailgating, passing, reckless driving, and tests for inebriation. We heard about the meanings of colored curbs and the danger of driving with feet clad only in nylons, the nuances of the new cell phone law and what to do if you hit a parked car.
But I was doing time for going through a red light and I wanted to make sure I got the whole scoop on that. I know I am obnoxious but I raised my hand and asked for unequivocal clarification.
“Oh, you got bit by the camera,” said Don. “Changes you forever – don’t it?”and he explained that the rear wheels must be over the second line in the intersection or I didn’t make the light. My new inclination is to screech on the brakes the moment I see yellow.
Just as my sixth grade students always did, I was getting weirdly nervous about the test. “Have we covered everything that’s on it?” I found myself asking, despite the fact that I had filled up three pages of notes. Clearly I have issues.
But it was an easy test, multiple choice, and you could have passed even if you’d only gotten 6 right, and I had the impression that even then Don might have given you a hint or two and let you make a change.
And I’d like to say that I bonded with my fellow traffic outlaws or gained some brand new insight or emerged in some way better than I was.
But really, I’m just glad it’s over.
And I'll never be bad again.