It's About Time

It’s About Time… To Go To Traffic School by Suzanne M. Schweikert M.D. Copyright 2004 All Rights Reserved Comments, thoughts, and personal experiences on time related topics are welcome. Email: Dr.Schweikert@WritersMonthly.com

I recently attended "The Breakfast Club" of traffic schools. But this story really begins on a sunny day in Orange County, so I will start there.

Back in October 2003, I found myself tooling along a toll road, in no particular hurry. Perhaps it was the beautiful day, or the song on the radio, or simply the fact that I was returning to San Diego and wanted to spend no more time in O.C. than I had to. Or maybe it was the force of gravity, pulling my four cylinder vehicle into the jaws of the O.C. highway patrol, who was waiting patiently at the bottom of the hill. Whatever the case, I found myself being clocked at 91 mph (at least that’s what they told me).

One might think that, having written several columns on why we should improve our driving behavior, and the virtues of slow, safe, sober, and humanistic driving, that I would be immune to vehicular violations. Well, one would be wrong. As a doctor, my innate tendency to drive fast became even more deeply ingrained. A few 2:00 a.m. trips to the hospital to drag a distressed baby from an over squeezing uterus will do that to a person.

Once snared, it took little time for the officer to write my ticket and send me on my way, without any effort to lecture or chastise me. At the time, I considered muttering under my breath that the toll road fee was the worst three dollars I’d ever spent. But I know from past experiences that I don’t mutter as quietly as I should, so I kept my mouth shut. I was released, full of apologies and sad looks, but delayed only a few minutes. In fact, it was all so fast and easy that, once home, I barely remembered it had happened, like a dream forgotten in daylight. Until I got my summons.

At first, I spent the better part of twenty minutes trying to figure out how much money to send, as I knew this was what they were after. But not finding an amount anywhere on the papers I had received, I gave up and called, and spent another twenty minutes waiting to talk to someone. I eventually reached a surprisingly friendly woman, who pointed out that my ticket said, "mandatory court appearance," a phrase I had somehow overlooked.

"But," I whined, "I have an important job (sort of), in San Diego (the truth), and is there any way that I can just write a letter, tell them I’m a busy doctor, and pay the fee by mail?" I’m sure the woman had heard similar versions of this story a thousand times, but she was nice about it anyways. "Look," she said, "you can write a letter, but I don’t think it will do you any good. However, I’ll give you an extension until January 5^th, so you can think about what you want to do."

Relieved to have a court date that seemed so far away, I was grateful and hung up. And then, as she suggested, I thought about what I wanted to do. I did not write the letter, as part of me knew that it wouldn’t work, and another part of me knew it was not the truth. As a part-time doctor and a part-time writer, I have more, shall we say, "downtime" than I used to. In the old days, it would have been impossible to break free of my patients and on-call responsibilities to go to court. But now, I was faced with the reality that I did have the time. And to top it all off, I was actually speeding.

As the weeks passed, and the holidays gripped our nation, I thought about my upcoming court appearance from time to time, but made no real effort to get myself there. Not a procrastinator by nature, I nevertheless found myself, at 6:00 a.m. on January 5^th, winding my way up to O.C., cleverly avoiding the toll road. I had to arrive by 8:00 a.m., or I would be in contempt.

After standing in line with three hundred of our finest citizens, and being ushered into a crowded courtroom, I found myself standing in front of the judge, having flashbacks to episodes of People’s Court. I have never lived in the south or been in the military, and so the word "sir" does not exactly come tripping off my tongue. But when the judge asked if I wanted to go to driving school, I answered, "Yes, sir." And that is where he sent me.

Several days later, after paying a large fine and vowing to avoid all future toll roads, I discovered that the O.C. court does not accept internet or video traffic school. I actually had to show up. I imagined it would be something like the driver’s ed class I took in high school, only more boring because I already knew how to drive. Going down the list of traffic schools, I settled on the Improv, as it promised to be "light-hearted and funny."

On January 16, eight of us straggled in to the Best Western conference room, mostly expecting to endure, not enjoy, eight hours of torture. Our instructor was a curly haired, bouncy, and up with people guy from Louisiana, who quickly let us know that we were once again in the second grade, and school was supposed to be fun. He was a real stand up comedian. He ordered us pizza. And he gave a lesson in humanity that I had never expected. Yes, you did, Uncle Steve. Coincidence? I think not.

In the first few minutes, we were divided into two teams and told to meet our fellow "violators," a term that both defined and rallied us. On my team, there was D., a retired gentleman who was studying to be an amateur photographer. He was found parking at a view point after sunset. The sign that said "no parking after sunset" had been knocked over, but this was apparently not an important fact to the officer

My second teammate was J., a 22 year old kid from New York by way of Virginia, who seemed distant and shy, sitting in the far back of the class. But he gradually opened up, and we learned that he was new in town, and was trying to get a job at Camp Pendleton. His offense was making an illegal U-turn. Although he seemed a bit lost, often staring at his cell phone as if his best friend would appear on the screen, he was also soft-spoken, funny, and intelligent. In the end, he got a perfect score on the final test (which I did not).

The last member of our team was our captain, K., a real estate agent who defies anyone’s stereotype of the typical realtor. While she did have the definite competitive edge of a realtor (and led our team to victory in the first five challenges), she was genuine and nice, and had the ability to enjoy the company of those around her. Her offense was swerving into the carpool lane to avoid being sideswiped.

The opposing team was yet another cross-section of society. First there was G., a dental office assistant and mother, who laughed easily and openly. She was in for a rolling "California stop." Next to her was B., a mild mannered family man who works nights. Like me, he was caught speeding, and like me, he felt that slow drivers in the far left lane are the cause of road rage. Their third member was R., whose first day losing streak was actually a reflection of our teacher’s cheating, rather than any limitation on his ability.

And finally, there was B. Jr. — a 23 year old with low-rider pants, a low-rider car, and a vocabulary that made the rest of us look around quizzically, as we often had no idea what he was saying. He had been cited for everything from headlights too close to the ground to squealing his tires, and was under the impression that the police targeted him because of the way he dressed. Given the fact that he was so sweet, I had to agree with him.

Overall, there were four speeders, and four "other" moving violators (although we all agreed that D’s view point ticket was not really a moving violation and, if anything, he should have been sent to parking school). The division in personalities also went along these lines. The speeders believed that a slow car should move out of the way when a faster car wants to pass, while the other violators believed that tailgating was a crime. This was a rift that I feared would not mend itself in a mere eight hours.

On our first day of school, we learned several things. For instance, we learned we were saving upwards of $15,000 by going to traffic school (according to Uncle Steve’s creative calculations). And, it is the law that one must turn one’s blinker on for at least 100 feet before turning. Personally, I have always assumed that if a blinker is on for that long, the driver has forgotten about it. We also learned that the average person breaks about 2,000 laws before getting caught, so in a fatalistic world view, this was simply our time.

On the second day, we discussed our crash experiences, debated various scenarios, and heard a few Cajun jokes. But something else happened, without my even realizing it. By the end of the second night, bleary eyed, hungry, and exhausted, we had bonded with one another. In a short time, we had shared, argued, shouted, laughed, been shushed, played with, and listened to other people, more than we usually do in a month.

As I lingered outside, not ready for this fellowship of the violators to come to a close, I found D. saying to me, "Hey, maybe you won’t tailgate people in the fast lane anymore." To which I replied, "I won’t have to. Because you’ll be getting out of my way."

And the funny thing is, both statements could be true. The next time someone drives too slowly for me, I will think of D. and know that I would never want him hurt in an accident caused by my impatience. And hopefully, the next slow driver I meet in the fast lane will get caught for some "other" violation, and he too will end up in Uncle Steve’s traffic school. As I drove home that night, going a careful 75 mph , another unexpected thought occurred to me. That toll road fee just might have been the best three dollars I ever spent.

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"He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends."
Oscar Wilde