lucky brake traffic school
I set my purse down to reserve my space on a dark green loveseat, one of many sofas arranged in semi-circular rows at the Alliance Francais, an empty room on a busy commercial street with tall ceilings and many cabinets. A most curious venue for Sunday's session of Lucky Brake Traffic School. The punny name alone was enough for me to give them my money. I stood in line to register for the day's class and met Marcia, whom I had spoken to on the phone a few days earlier. She was exactly as I imagined: kind, warm, the type of woman who will be a spinster aunt to countless daughters of girlfriends, who wears brightly colored, parrot-printed, flowing clothes that are easy to launder. She informed me over the phone that for Sunday classes, she brings breakfast pastries and fresh fruit. I imagined warm croissants and sliced melon with berries. Come Sunday, I learned that one man's donuts and slightly green bananas are Marcia's pastries and fruit. When I paid her, she fanned out my change from wad of folded bills in her blue fanny pack. Her posture may have indicated that she was examining her belly button.
When I returned to my purse which I so optimistically left unattended, an older gentleman now occupied the seat next to mine. He wore a hearing aid and liver spots. We smiled at each other but turned back to the front of the room and awaited our savior. Our lord Don entered with his long strawberry blond hair looking like a gay lion. Don knows a lot about a lot and immediately cracked sarcastic jokes to put us at ease. All week, he teaches traffic school to the indignant, wrongfully accused. He was no-nonsense but all-factoids. Did you know that those red-light violation cameras blur out the face of the passenger due to a lawsuit? Apparently, some Speedy Gonzales was caught with his mistress and his wife received the photo ticket in the mail. This was but an amuse-bouche of the fascinating mish mash of information Don has acquired over the years.
I surveyed the room for statistics. Men: 65%, Women: 35%. Ethnicity: Mainly Caucasian (a lot of Russians) with a few Latinos, two Blacks and one Asian. There goes the stereotype. Among the motley conglomeration, a few criminals were of particular note. Peter the trucker didn't seem capable of sharing his experiences without the assertive slamming down of sentences like an emphatic hand on a table. He wrapped his head in a bandana emblazoned with the American flag and wore a yellowing Harley-Davidson t-shirt. Weirdo hippie Daniel, a private school teacher had conspiracy theories about traffic lights and city street layouts who claimed that after going 35 mph, the human body wasn't supposed to be violently stopped at a stop sign or light. He was cited by photo for not stopping at a red light. "It's like Big Brother! Where does it end?" Had his students' parents heard his tirade about the police, attendance would have surely dropped. Barbara sat in front of me, wearing a navy blue t-shirt embroidered with the city of Montreal. She wore matching red shorts which showed off her thick columnar legs and filed her nails while Don spoke.
During our first break of the day, my sofa partner turned to me and asked me if I was from Shanghai or Beijing. I immediately assumed he had an Asian fetish. As the day dragged forward, THAT stereotype also went out the window. Mr. Kriesel, as I came to know him, inquired of my ancestry because he was born in Shanghai, the son of an army man, a lawyer who eventually went on to broker the international release of all major US films in China, Japan, Singapore and Thailand. He was a fighting for anti-piracy rights in China before video cameras were even invented let alone used for bootlegging. William lived there until he was 13 and still speaks and reads Mandarin and Shanghainese. He enlisted in the army at age 17 and became an interpreter for General Stilwell. At a time when Americans were not allowed to travel to China, he was being photographed at meetings with Mao, Chou and Chiang. After his tour, he enrolled at USC to study architecture. He eventually had his own firm with 60 employees. He's been friends with Frank Gehry for over 50 years and has chided him about Bilbao in Spain (shouldn't have built it in stone) and the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles (not enough leg room.) This October, he will receive a lifetime achievement award from an architectural group. Perhaps we were drawn to our green couch by our common infraction: he too received a speeding ticket; in Coronado, California where he owns a home. He was driving back to Brentwood, too quickly it seems, where he has lived for as long as he's known Frank, in the home of his own design. He has two children, a lawyer who lives in Paris and a museum curator in Washington, D.C. Between them, they have given him 6 grandchildren. When I asked him what he thought of today's generation, he was incredulous at their collective and innate dexterity with electronics.
When I meet successful people, it is not only their accommplishments which amaze me. The standards and legacy they will leave behind are just as stunning. I sometimes wonder what I will leave behind and to whom. Will I have newspaper articles written about my work? Will websites (aside from this one) be created to track my progress? Will the photos I've framed for myself one day hang for strangers to see? The questions instill in me a sense of purpose and immediate duty. As if I am reminded when I meet another fascinating individual that I too must mold myself into a person I admire. The Shrimp has been accepted to law school at UC Davis and of this, I could not be more proud. She is a person I admire, despite her trepidation. I know that she will leave a legacy of intellectual brilliance and legal acumen. Meow Mix and I will smile and say "Isn't that nice?"
I have another 4 hours of traffic school tomorrow morning. Afterwards, I am scheduled to pick-up a few photos from the developer, one of which the boyfriend has requested so that he may hang it in his apartment. It is a gallery as good as any. In time, perhaps my walls will be covered not only with my photographs, but also with accolades and diplomas. The first of which just might be issued by the Lucky Brake Traffic School. For unparalleled introspection.
When I returned to my purse which I so optimistically left unattended, an older gentleman now occupied the seat next to mine. He wore a hearing aid and liver spots. We smiled at each other but turned back to the front of the room and awaited our savior. Our lord Don entered with his long strawberry blond hair looking like a gay lion. Don knows a lot about a lot and immediately cracked sarcastic jokes to put us at ease. All week, he teaches traffic school to the indignant, wrongfully accused. He was no-nonsense but all-factoids. Did you know that those red-light violation cameras blur out the face of the passenger due to a lawsuit? Apparently, some Speedy Gonzales was caught with his mistress and his wife received the photo ticket in the mail. This was but an amuse-bouche of the fascinating mish mash of information Don has acquired over the years.
I surveyed the room for statistics. Men: 65%, Women: 35%. Ethnicity: Mainly Caucasian (a lot of Russians) with a few Latinos, two Blacks and one Asian. There goes the stereotype. Among the motley conglomeration, a few criminals were of particular note. Peter the trucker didn't seem capable of sharing his experiences without the assertive slamming down of sentences like an emphatic hand on a table. He wrapped his head in a bandana emblazoned with the American flag and wore a yellowing Harley-Davidson t-shirt. Weirdo hippie Daniel, a private school teacher had conspiracy theories about traffic lights and city street layouts who claimed that after going 35 mph, the human body wasn't supposed to be violently stopped at a stop sign or light. He was cited by photo for not stopping at a red light. "It's like Big Brother! Where does it end?" Had his students' parents heard his tirade about the police, attendance would have surely dropped. Barbara sat in front of me, wearing a navy blue t-shirt embroidered with the city of Montreal. She wore matching red shorts which showed off her thick columnar legs and filed her nails while Don spoke.
During our first break of the day, my sofa partner turned to me and asked me if I was from Shanghai or Beijing. I immediately assumed he had an Asian fetish. As the day dragged forward, THAT stereotype also went out the window. Mr. Kriesel, as I came to know him, inquired of my ancestry because he was born in Shanghai, the son of an army man, a lawyer who eventually went on to broker the international release of all major US films in China, Japan, Singapore and Thailand. He was a fighting for anti-piracy rights in China before video cameras were even invented let alone used for bootlegging. William lived there until he was 13 and still speaks and reads Mandarin and Shanghainese. He enlisted in the army at age 17 and became an interpreter for General Stilwell. At a time when Americans were not allowed to travel to China, he was being photographed at meetings with Mao, Chou and Chiang. After his tour, he enrolled at USC to study architecture. He eventually had his own firm with 60 employees. He's been friends with Frank Gehry for over 50 years and has chided him about Bilbao in Spain (shouldn't have built it in stone) and the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles (not enough leg room.) This October, he will receive a lifetime achievement award from an architectural group. Perhaps we were drawn to our green couch by our common infraction: he too received a speeding ticket; in Coronado, California where he owns a home. He was driving back to Brentwood, too quickly it seems, where he has lived for as long as he's known Frank, in the home of his own design. He has two children, a lawyer who lives in Paris and a museum curator in Washington, D.C. Between them, they have given him 6 grandchildren. When I asked him what he thought of today's generation, he was incredulous at their collective and innate dexterity with electronics.
When I meet successful people, it is not only their accommplishments which amaze me. The standards and legacy they will leave behind are just as stunning. I sometimes wonder what I will leave behind and to whom. Will I have newspaper articles written about my work? Will websites (aside from this one) be created to track my progress? Will the photos I've framed for myself one day hang for strangers to see? The questions instill in me a sense of purpose and immediate duty. As if I am reminded when I meet another fascinating individual that I too must mold myself into a person I admire. The Shrimp has been accepted to law school at UC Davis and of this, I could not be more proud. She is a person I admire, despite her trepidation. I know that she will leave a legacy of intellectual brilliance and legal acumen. Meow Mix and I will smile and say "Isn't that nice?"
I have another 4 hours of traffic school tomorrow morning. Afterwards, I am scheduled to pick-up a few photos from the developer, one of which the boyfriend has requested so that he may hang it in his apartment. It is a gallery as good as any. In time, perhaps my walls will be covered not only with my photographs, but also with accolades and diplomas. The first of which just might be issued by the Lucky Brake Traffic School. For unparalleled introspection.
posted by Katie at 6:41 PM
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