November 16, 1999
SW Police Headquarters
7 p.m.

Here I am, back in driver safety school for the second-consecutive day. The driver safety cop, an older guy with gray hair, thick glasses and the demeanor of a plump happy grandfather is desperately trying to get the attention of an uninterested audience with corny one-liners.

The primary reason for this class is NOT to reduce points on your driving records. I repeat., the officer says and then repeats as promised. My fellow classmates, all considerably older than me, simultaneously look down at their papers to hide their guilty visages. We are all clearly present for the point reduction rather than some idealistic mission to reform our traffic habits.

Middle-aged traffic violators surround me because I too have bent the driving laws. I was caught going too fast on the wrong road back in Georgia and now must repent for my sins in D.C. traffic school. Now my day consists of a grueling six-hour class, followed by an intense 20-question exam. I have three options:

A) Actually listen and participate in the class that could make me a safer driver.

B) Crack open my trusty book, Breaking the News, and do something constructive.

C) Sleep.

Obviously that first option is not going to happen, so I compromise and take out my book. While the traffic cop is droning on and on about proper turn signals and controlling road rage, I’m absorbed in the world of Sam Donaldson and Stone Phillips.

Yes sir, that’s exactly right. Uh-huh, it’s not worth the accident, says the large man sitting next to me. Sporting a mechanic’s uniform and (ironically) a neck brace, he continues to exclaim throughout the class lecture. I look up every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t accidentally walked into a church sermon.

As I explore the implications of the political talk shows that my grandmother is addicted to (Meet the Press, Crossfire, etc.), the traffic cop grabs my attention with a Hot Wheels that magically sticks to the chalkboard. Miniature ambulances, fire trucks and tractor trailers demonstrate proper procedure in the event of an emergency, but childhood memories of mass pile-ups and explosions on my kitchen floor flood my brain. I quickly return to my book.

At the two-and-a-half-hour mark, the class is wearing on my patience, I haven’t learned a thing other than the proper distance between parked cars (3 feet), my book is giving me a headache, and I’m counting the minutes until freedom.

Three, two, one.the clock strikes 10 – my days of traffic school are just about over. I just have to pass the test, get my diploma and get home to The Simpsons. The cab drivers in the room, most of whom speak limited English, have sweat dripping from their chins. They don’t look thrilled to be taking a test that will determine their cab-driving futures.

Two minutes and 20 seconds later, I’m done. A little upset that the squirrelly-looking guy next to me finished first, I hand my test in, receive a handshake from the traffic cop and get out of Dodge. I walk out of the police headquarters realizing I just wasted six hours of my life for 10 seconds of high-speed fun. Ehh, I guess it was worth it.