BarbecuingPeople.com 
If there was ever an absurd activity designed expressly for the punishment of grown adults, it has to be traffic school.
Earlier this year, I made the fatal mistake of switching lanes too quickly sans blinker and cutting off another driver. This is not uncommon on the traffic-congested freeways of Silicon Valley. But, when there is a county sheriff two cars back, well, "stupid is as stupid does."
The sheriff, with his pseudo-cowboy twirled moustache, gave me a verbal lashing I had not experienced since I was living with ma and pa back on the farm. (To be sure, this would not be the last time I would feel treated like a child.) He calmed down after blowing his stack, but not before issuing a citation for "unsafe lane change" (Cal. VC 22107) and "unsafe speed" (Cal. VC 22350).
I'm quite tempted to plead my case to you, the understanding reader, but I've written and rewritten it at least four times now, and it only comes out as whining and moaning. The reality is that everyone breaks the vehicular code every day, it's just that most of us are intelligent enough to not do it when the fuzz is around. Or at least when in a better mood ... this sheriff must have just had a vasectomy, he was not having a good day.
So, a few months later, I have to appear in night court before some commissioner and plead my case. This was the most painless part of the justice process, and yet could have been the most brutal. In a packed courtroom, filled with teenage moms and yuppie speed demons, my name was called, I walked up, said "guilty" and "traffic school", paid eighty-eight dollars and signed on the dotted line twice. I was out of there in an hour.
So, I was assigned to two nights of traffic school, hosted by the National Institute of Traffic Safety, to absolve my sins of this dastardly deed. Eight hours of hell, more like it.
I kept a sort of diary of the entire experience, so I could transcribe it here. Enjoy.
6:22 PM: I ran a yellow light because I was late getting out of work. Traffic school is being held at a local high school that offers adult education in the summers and evenings.
6:25 PM: It didn't dawn on me the full implication of the class being held at a high school. Blackboards. Posters encouraging safe sex and espousing all the advantages to graduating. Tiny desks, covered with pencilled graffito and featuring integrated molded plastic chairs. When I sat down, my entire frame was contorted and crunched, solid material was forced to become pliable and soft, and what little padding I had for comfort was spread thin across a cold hard surface. All my memories of high school encapsulated in that small desk.
6:26 PM: Get me the hell out of here.
6:30 PM: The class has filled up with "students". The "teacher" informed all of us to take a workbook and to read pages 3, 4, and 13, and to fill out pages 6, 8, and 11. There are twenty pages in this booklet. In the first sixty seconds of the class, the instructor has assigned over 25% of the work. Now this is reminding me of college.
6:32 PM: Take a gander at a sample of these questions:
6:38 PM: The instructor announced that the class was going to begin. He writes his name on the blackboard, except he scribbles it too small to read. No one complains. Then, he apologizes that the real instructor is late, and that since it was ten minutes past the official start time, he was going to start in his place.
I smell bullshit here. Each and every student was sent a purple letter, giving instructions on attending traffic school. In big, bold letters, we're threatened to not show up late or to forfeit our enrollment fee. I guess the instructors are getting paid regardless.
Funny thing, the purple letter had a whole slew of warnings and threats all over it. "If the room number or time has been altered, you will forfeit your enrollment. Photo identification is required to be presented to the instructor to be admitted to the class." My God ... what sort of idiots are we breeding in this country? And why the hell do they have driver licenses?
6:40 PM: The instructor calls roll, and as he says your name you have to acknowledge with a "here", walk up, and pick up two different forms, both of which are piled on the podium he's talking from. One guy doesn't give the verbal acknowledgement but picks up the forms anyways.
This is verboten, and the instructor stops reading, looks at him straight in the face, and says "are you here?" Honest. I started to wonder if I was going to need a hall pass to get rid of the Coke I drank on the way here.
6:50 PM: The instructor will not let us fill out the forms on our own. Once everyone has their set of forms, he steps us through the process. One is triplicate, with the California DMV seal-of-approval and looks as bureaucratic as all hell. The other is mimeographed on recycled stock and looks like it was designed with a ruler and a 1953 Corona typewriter. This sheet is produced by the high school, something for their records. We walk through this one first: "where it says 'last name', go ahead and print your last name. Be sure to print it carefully. Now, where is says 'first name', print your first name." The tortures have begun.
The other form, official as a death certificate, the instructor just wants us to sign the bottom line. That's it. This thing is triplicated, individually numbered, sealed with a watermark, blank lines to be filled in all over, and we're just supposed to sign it and pass it forward.
7:01 PM: Everything's been filled out, we're ready to go. I glance through the workbook and read the introduction. It's the largest crock of shit I've ever read. First, it states that "scientific research has been conducted" that "indicates graduates experience lower rates of both accidents and citations." What scientific evidence? I'd like to see the study that proves this and know how much the "scientists" were paid by the NTSI to come up with this evidence. I mean, it's cliched to say that statistics can prove anything, but this is one easy assertion to prove with numbers. And since they don't show any numbers ...
Well, they do show some numbers. The next paragraph has a chart showing how traffic accidents in California have been drastically rising over the past sixty years. Gosh, here are some statistics that would make one think the NTSI's program is not very effective.
7:22 PM: Now, the instructor has us introduce ourselves, one by one, and confess our heinous crime for all to hear. For some reason, the instructor wants us to write down everyone's name and crime, and makes some subtle hints how this will be important later on. As it turns out, he never makes reference to it again.
Most everyone was busted for speeding, not a wild stretch of the imagination. Some people were caught for the euphemisitically-named "California stop." It makes me realize how vain Californians are, to think we originated the practice of rolling through a stop. Like we're just living on the edge, us big-city folks with fast cars and fast women. The rest of the Union must think we're assholes.
When it's my turn, I explain my little incident, but leave out the colorful commentary I was tempted to include. For each person, the instructor asks if the ticket was "just" or "unjust". Just? Justice? Traffic violations have little to do with justice. Justice is when a wrong has been righted, that those perpetrating a dastardly crime are convicted by their peers and sentenced to a fair and deserved punishment. No one in the class did anything that wrong. Going 70 MPH in a 55 MPH zone, when everyone else is averaging 65 MPH, is not a great crime. Technically, yes, it is breaking the law, but so is the babysitter down the street charging five dollars to cut your children's hair when she doesn't have a hairdressing license. Big deal.
Justice? Was justice met? Why not ask if this whole ordeal has been one big pain in the ass? Yes, it has been. Thank you for asking.
8:34 PM: Incredibly, Show and Tell takes an hour to complete. It's agonizing and torturous, but it also enforces that this exercise in futility has little to do with learning traffic safety.
Part of the problem was that the instructor kept jumping in and babbling about reasons why we were pulled over. He has about three hundred rules of thumb that explain why the police chose to cite us for our violations.
First, he explained the magic colors. That is, if a car is painted red, black, gold, silver, or white, police are somehow magically attracted and will ignore all others, even if Charles Manson speeds by on a Harley Davidson smoking weed out of a gasoline-powered water bong. Doesn't matter.
Of course, this doesn't hold up for very long. People in the class were driving beige cars, blue cars, pink cars ... didn't matter. He had other rules that explained their predicament. For one, he coyly explains, cops are naturally drawn to sports cars.
Well, I'll be damned. Boy, I'm sure glad he imparted that valuable piece of advice. I never would have guessed that. I wonder how he found that out? Must know the secret handshake or something.
And then there those who weren't driving sports cars. Oh yes, well are you driving a truck? Uh huh. And does this truck have fat, knobby ties? Ah ha! That explains it.
The next non-patterned criminal: no truck? No sports car? No magic colors? Where were you driving? Morgan Hill? Of course! Highway 101 from San Jose to San Luis Obispo is one entire speed trap! Why, you had it coming to you!
I mean, jesus, how about some useful information? Those two cities are three hours apart. Why not just say "you were caught speeding? Were you driving a car? Well, there you go!" It was turning into a type of horoscope, where everything was explainable, and if it wasn't, the postulate was bent to meet the situation.
9:10 PM: We stop and take a break. The room clears in a fraction of a second. It takes me a little while, because the bloodflow to my legs stopped. I have to beat my legs with my fist to get the circulation moving again.
In the back of the room are four Apple ][e computers. Apple ][e ... my God. How can our educational system be this neglected? What a geek I am to be fretting over the lack of computing power available to the students. Kids smoking crack? It's only drugs. Teenage pregnancy? The responsibility of a newborn will add character. 6502 CPUs with 64K of RAM, daisychained to a single low-density 5 1/4" floppy drive? Great Scott! Are we not barbarians for stranding our future generations on a precarious foundation strung together with 8-bit processors and low-resolution graphics?
Everyone was milling around outside, smoking their dinner or having a Coke. The instructor slaps his hands and everyone files inside.
9:30 PM: The instructor, obviously looking to fill up the last forty-five minutes of time, whips out a Disney cartoon. You've probably seen it before, it's the one where Goofy, average working stiff, gets behind the wheel of a car and is transformed into a raving lunatic capable of cutting off ambulances and hit-and-running grannys taking too long in the crosswalk.
That's why this instructor treats us like children. He's deluded himself into thinking this cartoon is a documentary, and we're all just like Goofy, only we don't know it.
This class is starting to get surreal.
10:12 PM: He lets us go. Boom, people are out of there so fast the rushing of air to fill the vacuum pops my ears. Some of the guys jump into their beefed-up cars and start doing doughnuts in the parking lot. Humans are so fucking predictable.
6:27 PM: My God, isn't one evening enough?
6:32 PM: We go through the rollcall rigamarole again. Everyone has to be present before he begins. It suddenly dawned on me that on both days, he didn't ask anyone for photo ID. I could have paid some schmuck fifty bucks to take my place. Damn!
6:48 PM: The instructor starts the evening with a lesson in the workbook about driving attitudes. Specifically, "Driver Values + Driver Attitude + Driver Behavior" ... that's it. Apparently, all these factors don't equal anything.
"Driver values are important beliefs, moral, and ethical philosophies." What? I don't recall Nietchze mentioning driving in his texts. Maybe it was Kant ...
No one in the class (including me) says anything about this. We just let him forcefeed this crap to us, we just sit and smile and act dumb. The fewer questions asked, the quicker the class will go by and the quicker we're all out of there. Gosh, just like high school.
7:02 PM: There are no important ethical beliefs for driving. There is only one belief: I'm late, get out of my way, you're going too damn slow.
7:08 PM: Now we flip to a page on drunk driving. The workbook looks like someone spilled a bag of MADD clip-art all over the page. The standard "hard liquor = beer = wine" chart. The blood-alcohol content chart, which only proves to me that, with my weight, I can put away four beers in an hour and still sneak past the cops.
7:23 PM: We're supposed to break up into smaller groups and answer some questions on a page he didn't assign before. This is immensely uncomfortable, because although we're willing to waste two evenings listening to this guy's blather, we surely do not want to actually converse with another human being.
Our group has to answer this question: "Is driving a privilege or a right?" After the usual mumbling and evasive eye manuevering, someone volunteers an answer to get the ball rolling. Someone else mutters in disagreement. The first guy quickly takes back his answer and mumbles something about "it's just what I think ..."
People finally loosen up, and the general consensus is that driving is a privilege. I don't agree to this, and firmly mutter it. Everyone just looks at me like I'm nuts.
7:42 PM: The instructor goes around the room, asking each group for their question and answer. No one is paying attention to the answers, of course, because everyone is deathly afraid that they might be called on next and actually have to voice an opinion that someone else might disagree with.
Some girl up front, she must be eighteen or so, is actually quite pleased to be called on. Her workbook is neatly filled out, in that swirly-perfect bubble font that only women can perfect. I'm sitting behind her, so I can see the cherry-red ink and the i's dotted with little circles. My God, I'm really back in high school. In a manicured voice she carefully states the question and explains their answer. I could have sworn she curtseyed when she was done.
7:50 PM: Our group has to go. Someone else volunteers to answer, and explains how most of us thought driving was a privilege. The instructor asks if someone in the group actually thought driving was a right. The volunteer just swivels on his feet and looks at me. The two of them have an expression on their face like they want to lock me up.
I just mumble "that's what I think." The instructor uses this bullshit strawman argument on me: "so, if someone is insane and goes on a killing spree with his car, when he gets out of jail, they should give him back his license."
Well, the second amendment guarantees the right to own a gun, and even the NRA isn't stupid enough to protect a convict's right to bear arms. You go to jail, you lose some fundamental rights for the rest of your life. The right to drive doesn't mean we go handing out licenses to twelve year olds or lunatics foaming at the mouth.
I point this out, but he doesn't want to hear any of it. He buries me with "yeah, right, sure" and moves on to the next group. Asshole.
8:15 PM: Time for a break. As I wander around the school, I see that some of the classrooms have been cannibalized for adult education classes running in the summer time.
What is adult education? They aren't "real" classes, like calculus or algebra or world history ... they're Thai cooking and learning to speak German and how to cater weddings. If we need to retool our workforce for a more productive future and protect America's interests into the next century, it's not through a comprehensive battery of Asian cooking techniques.
8:35 PM: We watch another video, this time it's something the local NTIS chapter cooked up. And does it show. The acting is as stiff as my butt after sitting in these godforsaken desks for too long.
The idea is that this guy is promoted to Vice-Assistant to the Midwest Sales Manager (or somesuch bullshit title) and is going to celebrate appropriately. The video spends way too much time detailing all the drinks this bozo consumes with his friends. Talking about alcohol to a classroom of adults who would rather be home drinking to forget is like eating a big bristling bowl of Cap'n Crunch to demonstrate to kids how bad breakfast cereal is. The message is lost in the Pavlovian desire to smother yourself in the forbidden fruit.
Predictably, the gent is caught swerving on his way home. He's appropriately incarcerated, thrown in the drunk tank, has his day in court, etc.
First things first. The highway patrol and traffic schools both make the mistake of trying to scare the hell out of you. It doesn't work. Television has desensitized the population so effectively that these cheeseball attempts at thespianism are not taken seriously. The highway patrol also produces these video masterpieces called "The Red Highway" or something, where they show real traffic accidents, gore and all. This has too much entertainment value for most people to be a deterrent to speeding or drunk driving.
Why is this room filled to capacity with people who would rather be home passed out? If I had chosen not to take traffic school, I could have paid a simple fine and went on my way. The reason I'm here has nothing to do with the justice system, it's that traffic school keeps the violation off my driving record. Mr. Insurance Man therefore knows nothing about it, and my rates are merely exorbiant, and not extortive.
Here's a hint to the traffic school and highway patrol people: Don't scare us. You can't scare the general populace with these ooga booga! tactics. You can scare people by demonstrating how shit-poor they will become if they get caught. Add up the numbers and present them as how much must be paid, up front and in cash, as a result of our malice. People will shut up, sit down, and start to take things seriously.
9:28 PM: Almost outta here.
9:35 PM: Apparently, the California Department of Motor Vehicles doesn't trust the traffic school any farther than it can throw it. We have to do a test of thirty-odd questions. They aren't simple, and most of them weren't even covered by the instructor. Stuff like "All children under the age of ____ must be in a child's seat or be fined $____". I guess on a third of the answers.
The clock on the wall began to melt like that painting by Dali. This entire experience has been unreal, and now it was becoming surreal. I scribbled faster and faster to complete the test, but I could not seem to produce cognizant answers to the questions. And then the test was over so quickly, it was the only thing that was done in a hurry the whole damn time. The instructor walked up and down the aisles, collecting the tests. I completed the last question just as he snatched mine away.
By now, the indoor-outdoor carpeting on the floor has turned tied-dyed and there are pelicans roosting on the florescent lamps above. The instructor notes the time (how he can read the clock is beyond me) and says he'll let us out early. My fingernails are digging into the pressed wood desktop out of sheer horror. I can't get out of here fast enough.
Somewhere, Pomp and Circumstance starts playing, and the instructor is now wearing a black robe and a mortar board on his head. He calls names, one at a time, and hands each person their diploma. He's calling in alphabetical order, which means I have to wait for a while.
Time unknown: He calls my name. I pull my fingernails out of the desk, unlock my knees, and stand. The room is spinning like a broken ride at a carnival.
For each person, he smiles and says "Now, I don't want to see you here again, okay?" I would think by the time he got to me, the twentieth person to leave, the joke would have lost some flavor. Apparently not.
I snatch the diploma and look at it. It's the official-as-all-hell certificate we signed before, but now the blanks are all filled in. I wheel around and run, run as fast as my blood-deprived legs can carry me, run until I get to my truck. I jump in and skid out of the parking lot.
I take the long way home. I drive through a seedier part of San Jose, where all the dive bars and strip clubs and adult bookstores are at. Flashing neon and all-night Greek food everywhere. Five more minutes drive, and I was at a late-night computer bookstore, filled with hackers and nerds. A coffee store across the street had a jazz band blaring, people milling about drinking piping hot caffeine to keep them up all night.
I order an iced coffee and sigh in relief. This is the surreality I have come to know.
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