Traffic school -- that’s the ticket

It’s a Tuesday morning on Pico Boulevard, and I’ve just been cut off by a guy in a black Escalade, cellphone wedged between his chin and shoulder, slicing across three lanes of traffic to make a right onto the Fox lot. Things like that happen all the time in Los Angeles, and normally I’d go through a set of stock reactions, hitting my horn or swearing, as if this were a personal affront. Today, however, I just sigh and turn to my 10-year-old son, Noah, sitting in the front seat next to me, while making sure to keep both hands on the wheel.

“That’s some unsafe driving,” I say, and we both laugh as he supplies the punch line: “And you should know, since you’re a graduate of the Internet Traffic School.”

What makes this funny is that I’m not generally a two-handed driver. I like to push the bounds. I’ve never gotten a ticket I didn’t try to weasel out of, and (according to my wife, anyway) I can be a moving hazard -- fooling with the radio, noticing that crazy guy there (didn’t you see him?), speeding through yellow lights.

Perhaps it’s most accurate to say that I play the odds, knowing that, like everyone, I can break traffic laws dozens of times daily yet only get caught in the rarest instances.

That’s how I ended up at traffic school, by rolling through a stop sign in West Hollywood, rushing to a meeting. I knew I was nailed the second I heard the siren bleating. I didn’t even try my usual “What did I do wrong?” defense, just listened as the motorcycle cop lectured me about residential streets. The whole time I was planning how to fight it, thinking I’d plead not guilty and then ask for the latest possible court date, hoping the officer wouldn’t appear. At best, I might entirely dodge the ticket, and in any case, I’d put off dealing with it for a few months at least, which is a sort of moral victory right there.

The problem was, when my court date finally rolled around, it was I and not the motorcycle cop who forgot to show up.

To maintain my insurance rates, I had to petition the court to reopen my case. I got a lecture (from a judge this time: “How old are you,” she asked. “Forty-three,” I replied. “Don’t you have a datebook?” she said.). I spent days wound up in red tape. Eventually, I was allowed to enroll in traffic school, which, in a last-ditch effort to work the system, I decided to pursue online. Imagine my dismay when I logged on to the home page, only to find out that the electronic “curriculum” had been set to timers to ensure that I spent the hours required by law learning about driving safety.

Of course, I waited until the last minute to begin my reeducation, about a week before the certification was due. And yes, I scammed the system where I could, getting up from the computer for a snack while the program was running, letting the timer tick until I could move ahead.

Even so, something peculiar happened: I learned a thing or two. How long does it take a car going 55 mph to come to a complete stop? Two hundred and twenty-five feet, which is a compelling argument against tailgating. How many fatal accidents take place within 25 miles of home? Three out of four.

That detail got to me. I began to think about driving as a matter of intention, about my real responsibility for myself and everyone else on the road. Despite my cynicism, traffic school turned out to be less punitive than practical, an unexpected left turn.

I’m still not the safest driver. I find myself slipping into old habits, passing in intersections, cutting through alleys, pushing to make up time. Yet I also find myself looking a little longer before turning, hanging back when a driver wants to merge. And so far I haven’t rolled through a stop sign, not even on the most deserted corner, at the stillest moment of the night.

It’s the least I could do, as a graduate of the Internet Traffic School.