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.