Traffic School, Where Learning Is Easy

I was, of course, blameless. The fact that I was cited for speeding three blocks from my house cannot possibly have been my fault. I was driving down Linda Vista at what I thought was a seemly pace when I noticed two uniformed men standing by motorcycles on the other side of the street. I thought, “Isn’t that nice? They are sharing the camaraderie of their work, their challenges, their dreams.”

What they were sharing was a plan to trap this one-woman crime wave in her high-powered Chevrolet. As I approached them, I noticed that the one in front was pointing a hair dryer at me. Odd, I thought. And when I was closer, he motioned me over to the curb. Then he said, “You’re not wearing your seat belt.” Worse, I was exceeding the speed limit.

Regarding the seat belt, I had some throat surgery a few months ago. I’d like to say it was to correct a pulled muscle that I sustained while performing as a trapeze star high atop the yellow and white striped tent of the Royal Vienna Hippodrome Cirque. I took too many encores on the number where I swing by my teeth and swing the flags of all nations from my hands and feet.

That’s not the truth, but the real reason for the surgery has no class. I wear my seat belt when I think of it and am feeling strong-necked. The designer of the seat belt in my car chose a strapping that has a saw-toothed edge you could use to cut proscuitto.

The Pasadena motorcycle officer was quite right to give me a ticket and he wound up by asking, “Would you like to see my radar gun?”

I declined with thanks, drew the pliable “saw” across my throat and drove slowly down the street.

Then I went to the Pasadena City Hall, which I always find uplifting because of its wonderful tiled, arched, domed, balustraded and balconied architecture. I stood in line with the rest of the miscreants, and when my turn at the window came, I asked if I might go to traffic school in order to preserve my insurance rate and my good householder image, and the woman said, “Twenty-four dollars.”

I summoned my threadbare courage and asked in a squeaky voice, “What’s that for?”

“Administrative costs,” she snapped, and, having been administered, I shuffled out carrying the list of traffic schools in the Pasadena area.

The concept of traffic school seems as though it should be somewhere between a fun cruise and a cinch college course, with the stress on entertainment. There were several with business-like titles, but also on the city’s list were Comedians Plus-Learn From Us, Less Stress Safety, Hi Tech-Witty Instructors, Lunch and Learn at Fine Restaurants and Lettuce Amuse U-Laff and Learn. I winced at the Lettuce Amuse U, but it is held in a library, and I thought that would have the right tone for a literary person like me.

It was an impressive, memorable day. Our instructor was a pleasant-looking, curly-haired young man named Matthew Kahler from Georgia. He is in California to look for work in show business. He has done improv and commercials, many in German. He has a wonderful German accent and a funny sense of humor.

We ended the day with a convinced awareness of the importance of seat belts, the dangers of speed and the importance of recognizing highway and traffic signs.

First, Matthew asked us our names and what we did. First names only. We described ourselves as: a truant officer, a physiotherapist, a member of the United States Navy, a cartoonist, a biologist, two students, a drummer, a mother of three, a painter from Huntington Memorial Hospital, a nurse, a civil engineer, a computer programmer for a large utility company, an accountant, an engineer, a retired account executive who is now a full-time mother, an investment counselor, a movie director, a stockbroker, a corporate secretary and a nanny.

For one exercise, Matthew broke us up into teams. I was with the attorney, the painter and the mother of three. Then he told us a story of a young man who was doing some heavy drinking, drove around and picked up a bunch of boozing buddies, invited them into the open bed of his pickup, and rolled, killing eight people and escaping harm. We were asked to set his sentence and explain our reasons. I was the fiercest. I wanted to hang him in the public square.

More compassionate heads prevailed, saying what would we gain by wasting his life, too. The painter suggested three years’ imprisonment and we decided to have him work in an emergency room by day and return to the cell to sleep. The other teams came up with similar sentences but, of course, ours was the best.

Once during the afternoon, a small boy peeked timorously into the room and indicated his desire to go to the men’s room, which adjoined our classroom.

Matthew invited him in and then held his hand in front of the little boy’s eyes and walked him across the room, saying: “Don’t look at these people. They’re all traffic violators.”

And so we were. But no longer. We’re saved, Lord, saved by the good and intelligent graces of that young man from Georgia. I hope he gets a show-business job soon, and it will be the Lettuce people’s sore loss.