Deja Yikes

The unsightly bulge protruding from Dan's tire looked menacing. He noticed it in Santa Monica, 20 miles away from home as the crow flies, but a good hour in traffic.

"Eh, I'll take it into the shop tomorrow,'' he said casually, as if referrring to his dry cleaning.

Almost home and approaching the 110 tunnel just south of the 5 - the stretch where everyone slams on their brakes and either thrusts hands in the air or wails on their horns because they consistently ignore the flashing "SLOW'' lights - we heard the unmistakable and repetitive thud of a flat tire. Again, as calmly as if pulling into the super market parking lot, Dan steered to the left shoulder and asked if I had my phone. Nope. He didn't have his. I panicked. He, of course, had changed a tire before and popped the trunk to remove the spare and jack so he could change another one. Maybe it's because my birth dad crushed his back when a jack failed but watching Dan pump up the car frightened me into nausea. That and the speeding motorists whirring within inches of his head. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to help. Mostly, though, I just stood there looking worried. I tried removing the lug nuts but, like all those screw-top jelly jars, I failed. Where was a traffic jam when you needed one? The cars slowed every few minutes, with a surprising handful of drivers asking if we needed help. Even an LAPD car inched by to see if we were ok. We smiled. Dan twisted. I chewed my cuticles.

Dan changed that tire quicker than I change the sheets. Still, it felt like hours. Lots of squealing tires and horn honks - not because of us. Just that damn tunnel. I kept thinking all it would take was one person on a cell phone accidentally veering into our lane and we'd be memories.

Fifteen miles north and twelve hours later, a suspected drunk driver hit and killed two people changing a tire on the side of Interstate 5.

DONALD DISMAY

He lisps. He spits. And he don't wear no pants. He's Donald Duck, my favorite cartoon character and one of the only reasons I daned to cross the threshold of Disneyland on Wednesday. Turns out, this vintage character is conspicuously missing from the glut of retail stores at The Happiest Place on Earth. I fought the crowds. I endured stroller wheels crunching into my ankles. Mickey-earred lollipops brushing against my shorts. Just a hat, a fisherman's hat, preferably. That's all I wanted. Something with my favorite fowl's image and possibly even my nickname stitched into the back: Donna Duck. My stepdad conjured the name in high school. My buddy, DJ, still calls me The Duck, the name which appears on his cell phone whenever I call.

Sadly, the store clerks mustered only blank stares when asked of Donald's whereabouts. I understood when the sadistically smiling Disney employee, toiling away in Tomorrowland, snapped that his store featured Buzz Lightyear for obvious reasons. But the cavernous store in Downtown Disney, the one featuring Donald's nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie hanging above the entrance, all it could offer me was a Donald-head pen or a $20-$40 plush toyl? Top-heavy pens tire my hand and I need another stuffed animal like I need more cellulite. No Donald hats? Not even a garish one topped with a plastic orange bill? A kind but clueless clerk pointed my friends and I to the back of the store where I found a fuzzy costume, complete with Donald head and cotton tail. I doubted that even the largest size - the 24-month-old - would fit. Besides, I couldn't hack off his head and sew it onto a hat. I can't sew a button onto a blouse. Thankfully, my cleaners got the blood out and button on, but I digress.

I guess I'll search the Internet, the world's largest garage sale, for a Donald hat of some kind. It's still saddens me, though. Where has my good duck gone? I may have to write to corporate about this. I had a surprisingly fun time with Jenna and Stephen at the theme park, but my disdain remains for Mickey, who hogs the store shelves and the spotlight. Hey, Mick, I've got a message from the duck: Quack off!