How We Roll
When is a splendid, record-breaking Southern California Saturday in winter a bust instead of a boon? A privilege instead of a right? When you have to spend it in traffic school. This was my second time doing time in the breakfast club for wayward motorists (for the same offense--don't ask), and when I scheduled the date last month, I was hoping it would rain, or that the temperature would at least drop below 60. It didn't. Not even close. Eight in the morning, and the guests at the modest hotel where this school was convening were already heading out in shades and shorts, looking as if they couldn't quite believe their good luck. It was going to be a long day.
I was the last student to show. As casually as possible, I took the last remaining seat in the back row of the small conference room where Steve, the instructor, was already laying out ground rules: No cell phones, texting, sleeping, sidebar conversations, knitting, reading, swearing or drinking of alcohol. Pretty much the rules of the road.
The second major letdown--the first was that I was actually here--was that Steve was not a comedian. He had no aspirations to be one; he was pleasant and decent, but he was a retired traffic cop who mentioned church more than once and did everything by the book. Yet this was supposed to be Great Comedians traffic school. It was the sole reason I had signed up for this outfit as opposed to a million others--the possibility of entertainment. I know I was late, but I couldn't resist raising my hand to ask about the discrepancy. I felt hustled.
I got support from another woman who sat in the front. She was lively, with long nails painted a pale shade, hoop earrings and short, aggressively styled hair that resembled a pineapple. "I think this is false advertising," she said. There were murmurs of agreement.
Steve apologized, but was unfazed. He knew we were trapped, that we were all depending on him to give us certificates of completion at the end of eight hours so we could get the courts and insurance companies off our backs and get on with our lives. It didn't matter in the least if he wasn't entertaining, nobody was going to walk or ask for a refund.
We settled in, sort of. Steve spent the morning reviewing vehicle code violations and treating us to DVD's that told cautionary stories about drivers who made reckless or unfortunate decisions and ended up in wheelchairs or behind bars. Then, mercifully, it was noon, and we broke for lunch. The hotel was on a rather forlorn stretch of Century Boulevard in a retail wilderness, so I was more grateful than I would ordinarily be to discover a mini-mall next door that featured a 7-11, Panda Express, and Pollo Loco. Maybe the sunshine that I was missing but could enjoy now for 45 minutes was going to my head, but that mall looked like an oasis. I felt like I was being let out on a prison yard.
The next time I think about betting against those cameras that take photos of drivers running red lights--allegedly running red lights--I'll think harder about the freedom it costs. These days I can't afford traffic tickets, and I certainly can't afford to lose any freedom. Especially at this time of year.
