How to start a morning at a California traffic school: Siempre dando gracias.  (Always giving thanks--- at least that's what the banner says in the front of the room.)  These are the places of incredible short story potential: waiting rooms, doughnut shops, and a room of chairs filled with law-breakers.

It's a Friends Church, - Quakers - "whatever that means," shrugs our instructor.  For us, it means that smokers must cross the street and keep their cigarettes off church property.  And we can't use the nice cushioned chairs in the room.

We're becoming friends, in a way.  By telling the stories of our tickets and bemoaning the state budget crisis, a camaraderie builds.  Certain people become types and characters.  Angry immigrant woman drives something like a van, big, oh what color is it... whatever, it is definitely not able to go that fast at the stop light.  She has tried.  She has children; of course she wouldn't speed past the school.  Young rebel man insists that he can drive while high.  It's never bothered him.  The police just asked him to extinguish the joint.  Military man heading to Singapore ships out Monday, won't be able to go to traffic court.  He drives a fast motorcycle fast.  All around me are college students, teachers, mothers, managers, criminals and head cases.  We gossip about conspiracies (how the state is out to get our money) and corruption, court trials (how to keep our money) and tragedies.

What may be most striking, though, is how docile the room full of us can become.  By some strange agreement, we allow this instructor to rant on her pet issues, separate antsy young-folk from their phones, and make jokes at our expense for 8 long hours.  We pay our $35 and make the most of it.  We don't make much.  The man beside me scored the tests of his 1st grade class.  I finished 2 Ken-Ken puzzles and wrote this reflection.  We were the only ones with pens in hand.