Dear Shitbag:

The date for completion of traffic school has passed. In truth, we don't give a fuck about the points on your record or the increase in your insurance. To us, you're just another zit on the ass of decent society. But in a Christ-like gesture of mercy, we're giving you one last chance. If evidence of completion of the course is not firmly in our claws by noon Monday, your fees will be forfeited, the case will be closed, the DMV will be notified of the conviction, and the next time you come to Santa Clara County, we will throw your insubordinate little ass in the cooler until you rot. Do you understand? Rot!

Fuck you,

The System

Hmmm. Traffic school on Sunday. I immediately began to work the phones and the Web for a traffic school offering driver's improvement courses on the Lord's Day. Once on the Net, I quickly found such a course -- in Juneau, Alaska.

Shit.

Perhaps, I thought, I should stick to the local yellow pages. And after more than 23 unsuccessful calls, I finally found a course being offered down in the Mission District here in San Francisco. After I spoke with the woman on the phone, two things stuck out about the course. First, it was being held in the back room of a bar called El Gordo Loco. Second, it was going to be taught in Spanish.

Now I'm as Anglo as they come. But what the hell? I had a couple of semesters of high school Español under my belt, and besides, I didn't really need to understand what was being taught. All that was required by the Santa Clara authorities was that my reckless ass sit in a state-approved seat for at least eight hours, and that I get at least 60 percent correct on a multiple-guess test. No problema. I signed up.

Sunday morning at 9, I found the bar easily enough, but the place was deserted and locked up tight. So I played dice on the sidewalk with a wino named Manu for about 10 minutes, until a car pulled up and parked in a reserved space.

"Buenos días!" said the woman cheerfully.

"Hola," I said.

"Hola," said Manu.

She unlocked the door to the bar and I followed her in and headed for the back room. After about 10 minutes of awkward silence, no other students had shown up.

"So, I guess it's just us, huh?" I asked.

"Sí," she said mournfully. She introduced herself as Lupita. "So, why are you taking the class in Spanish? You don't look like you speak Spanish."

I tried my best to explain to her that this class was my only option due to temporal necessity. Since I was the only one here, I said, could she please give it to me in English?

I may as well have asked her for a hand job and a small loan.

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