On Saturday, I went back to school. I woke up at 6:30 a.m.,
packed my old
”
Duck Tales
”
lunchbox, threw a couple notebooks and pens in a backpack and
arrived just before the opening bell.
On Saturday, I went back to school. I woke up at 6:30 a.m., packed my old “Duck Tales” lunchbox, threw a couple notebooks and pens in a backpack and arrived just before the opening bell.
OK, so I didn’t bring a lunch pail to the eight–hour enlightenment otherwise known as traffic school, and there was no opening bell. We did take three breaks, which were sort of like recess. Well, not really.
Who am I kidding? This was no school. It was eight hours of detention – 17 Hollister residents paying the price for breaking the rules of the road.
Of course, to long-time residents of Hollister, traffic school is nothing new; it’s just part of the culture. But to me – being six months new to California and previously spoiled by Wisconsin’s less-consuming methods for speeding ticket exoneration – this was the DMV School of Hard Knocks, like getting caned for stealing candy.
Back home when someone gets cited for speeding or other violations, it’s common procedure to show up on the court date before the judge and follow one of two strategies: plead innocent (in other words, lie) or say sorry and beg for mercy.
Usually the judge appreciates the effort and either lowers the fine or gives back the driving points. It’s about an hour of lost time and a handful of lost pride, but worth it nonetheless.
As much as I tried to be positive about Saturday, I failed miserably, ultimately subdued by the combination of dreadfully boring videos, bad coffee and dragging time.
Immediately upon walking in and seeing a variety of ages and cultures seated at rows of tables, I thought of that 1985 movie, “The Breakfast Club,” about a diverse group of high school students in all-day Saturday detention. The students became close and turned a normally monotonous day into an adventure.
That turned out to be “Kollin’s Overly Optimistic Thought of the Year,” which is not an easily obtained honor. The traffic school “students” – unlike in that ’80s film classic – didn’t share the deepest secrets of our lives or cause a ruckus by rampaging through the halls of the Ridgemark Tennis Center.
Many others were veterans of DMV detention and had probably developed an array of strategies for quickening time. I, on the other hand, had only one tool to curb my boredom – a reporter’s notebook, which I kept hidden out of fear others would think I decided to take notes on the class.
For a small portion of the day, our instructor, Milt – a retired CHP officer – rehashed memories of his escapades in law enforcement. I would have enjoyed his stories if the sunshine wasn’t glaring through the room’s towering front window, a constant reminder of “life on the outside.”
There’s a reason prisons don’t allow sunlight. It’s so inmates don’t go insane and attempt escape. After an hour at traffic school, I had given up on several potential getaway plans – which included the likes of a dummy, firecrackers and hypnotism.
I settled in for the long haul. Fortunately, I had learned from a summer job at a factory that keeping my wristwatch out of eyesight prevents further mental damage, and a constant supply of gum can be invaluable.
We watched several safety videos – their outdatedness evidenced by the narration of TV stars Craig T. Nelson (“Coach”) and Scott Bakula (“Quantum Leap”) and rap star Hammer.
At the end of the day we graded our own 10-question “exit tests,” which I passed with 80 percent correct (What can I say? I’m honest). And Milt handed us our certificates of completion – which, needless to say, I will not be hanging from the wall.
But at least I learned a lesson from traffic school: Next time – if there is a next time – I must be better prepared for an escape.
