by Beth Labonte
Don’t answer that.
After Dumbo, we took her on Peter Pan’s Flight and It’s a Small World. Peter Pan she was okay with, but It’s a Small World—with its psychedelic array of multi-cultural dolls, singing in gleeful harmony—was more man-made crap than she could handle. By the time we step off the boat she’s rolling her eyes and saying Oy, please so much that I consider calling an ambulance.
“I’m supposed to enjoy watching them sing and dance, while they’re busy stealing all of our jobs?” she asks. “Oy, please!”
I’m not even sure which country she’s referring to, but I give my most apologetic, She’s from a different generation, smile to all of the families around us.
“The point of the ride is to celebrate diversity,” I say. “To show that we’re all people, no matter what country we’re from.”
“And that song,” she continues, ignoring me. “Couldn’t they come up with any other words?” She starts singing, It’s a small world after all, in a high-pitched, mocking voice. A little boy looks at her and starts to cry.
I start leading us more quickly toward Space Mountain where we’re meeting the guys. We only have to wait a few minutes before Dad steps through the turnstile with his white hair standing on end, and a euphoric look in his eye. He’s fist pumping the air and letting out these weird primal screams.
“Dad!” I say. “How was it?”
“Incredible!” he says, breathing heavily. “Incredible! It was incredible!”
“Incredible, huh?”
“That’s the word I was looking for!”
“He did awesome,” says John, clapping him on the shoulder. “He’s a seasoned professional now.”
“I always knew you had it in you,” says Eric. “Mom, you want to give it a go?”
Mom staggers back a few steps, shaking both hands in front of her.
“Where to next, Rich?” asks Graham.
“Millennium Force!” yells Dad.
I laugh. How does Dad even know about that ride?
“Wrong park,” says Graham. “Maybe next vacation. How about we hit Thunder Mountain after lunch?”
“Yes! Yes!” Dad says. Now he’s pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. Geez. I guess that’s what happens when seventy years of built up adrenaline finally gets released into your blood stream.
“Let me get you some water,” says Mom. She’s been looking at Dad like he’s some sort of hero back from war. She leads him over to a bench, and makes him lean back while she pours water directly into his mouth. Half of it runs down his chin and onto his shirt. After he drinks, he grabs Mom by the shoulders, giving her the most passionate kiss I’ve ever seen in my life. At least between my parents.
Speaking of which, gross.
When they finally pull apart, Mom is staring at him all starry-eyed and giggly, like she’s seeing him for the first time. Is that really all it took to put the spark back into their marriage? I don’t even want to think about what would happen if Dad ever parachutes out of an airplane.
“My life flashed before my eyes, Joanie,” says Dad, water still dripping from his chin. “And you were there, right at the center of it. You were all there!” He motions to me and Eric and Toto and Auntie Em. “You’ve made me the luckiest man on Earth.”
“Oh, Richard,” sighs Mom.
“I know that things have been a little dull between us lately,” he says, squeezing Mom’s hands. “But that’s all going to change, starting right now. It’s going to be like our honeymoon all over again!”
Once again, gross.
“I never thought you were dull,” says Mom. “I just have no interest in any of your boring hobbies.”
“Well, that’s going to change, too,” says Dad. “We’ll find more hobbies that we can do together, you name it! But first, what do you say we kick off our honeymoon with lunch at Cosmic Ray’s Starlight Café? It’ll be just like our first date.”
I’m not sure why Mom and Dad’s first date would have been at an intergalactic hamburger joint, but hey. I just like to see them happy.
***
After lunch, we take a break from the heat in The Hall of Presidents, which is basically a fifteen minute educational film followed by speeches from the animatronic doppelgangers of all current and former Presidents of the United States. I’ve already fallen asleep twice. I’m awakened the second time by Dad attempting to climb over me.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I need a men’s room,” he says, not at all in a whisper.
“Right now?”
“It’s an emergency! I should never have eaten those galactic cheese fries!”
Oh boy. I sink down in my seat as I hear Dad trip over the rest of the people in our row. Then there’s a brief flash of light as he finds an exit and opens the door.
“How long is this thing?” I whisper to Graham.
“Just a few more hours.”
“Very funny.”
The film finally ends, and the curtain goes up to reveal all of the robotic presidents sitting and standing onstage. They’re very realistic looking, especially from far away.
“George Washington,” reads the voiceover. “John Adams...Thomas Jefferson...”
My head is starting to nod again when I hear a door open and shut. I lift my eyelids halfway, and see one of the presidents walking slowly across the stage. Weird. I don’t remember that part the last time I was here. I suppose they may have made some updates. The animation certainly looks state of the art.
But...why is he wearing shorts and a fanny pack? I force my eyelids all the way open, just as he stops in front of Abraham Lincoln and turns to face the audience.
“Joan?” he calls out, shielding his eyes. “Summer?”
Shit.
He may have hair like Martin van Buren, but that’s no president. That’s my father.
“Richard?” shouts Mom. “What are you doing up there?”
“Joan?”
“Over here!” Mom stands up and waves her arms in the air as Dad tries to squeeze behind Barack Obama.
“I can’t see you!” he yells. “The lights are too bright!”
We watch in awed silence as President Obama topples into Ulysses S. Grant, who is seated at the table beside him. As Grant falls to the ground, he takes the table along with him, and all of the plates and cups that one would assume were bolted down, slide onto the floor with a tremendous crash. The table also takes down Zachary Taylor, who lands with a sickening thud just before his head rolls off.
In one fell swoop, Dad’s assassinated three presidents.
I feel like one of us should go up there and try to help, but I’m frozen to my seat. We all are. As the house lights come up, Graham is the first to snap out of his trance and starts making his way toward the stage. He’s quickly overtaken by several Disney employees rushing the stage like Secret Service.
“Sir! Step away from the presidents!”
“You are not allowed up there, sir!”
“I don’t even know how I got here!” says Dad, throwing his hands in the air and sending John Quincy Adams’ head ricocheting off the back wall. “The doors outside the men’s room aren’t marked properly!”
“Sir, there is no entrance to this area located near any of the restrooms.”
I bite my lip. Where exactly did Dad go to the bathroom?
It’s then that the curtain, which had begun lowering from the ceiling in order to hide the carnage unfolding onstage, lands directly on Dad’s head, engulfing him in folds of red velvet. He flails his arms around, adding Millard Fillmore to his list of casualties, before pulling the entire curtain down from the ceiling.
Amidst cries and shouts from the audience, a voice comes over the loudspeaker—Due to technical difficulties, this attraction is temporarily closed. Please exit the theater now.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” says Eric. He grabs Tanya and hightails it to the exit. I hang back to assist Mom, carefully avoiding eye contact with John and Babe
tte. A classic attraction for over forty years, and Dad’s destroyed it. Perhaps it’s best that the Hartwells hadn’t made it to Disney World any sooner.
We exit the theater along with the other guests who are excitedly throwing around phrases such as Probably on drugs and Millions of dollars in damages. I try my best to ignore them. What do they know? Dad was only on drugs that one time in Bermuda. Speaking of which, when I see Dad on a bench outside, answering questions from security, I’m reminded of the time cruise security thought he was a terrorist trying to blow up the ship. This is almost becoming a Hartwell family tradition. Maybe next year we can go to Washington D.C., and Dad can hop the fence in front of the White House.
We keep the rest of the day pretty low-key, since Dad is understandably shaken up. I would have been okay with heading straight home, but the Blendermans insist that we stay and go on some more rides.
Once we’ve squeezed in the Jungle Cruise and the Haunted Mansion, it’s close to dinner time and we all finally seem ready to call it a day. Only, Graham keeps looking at his watch and seems to be herding us further into the park, rather than toward the exit.
“Maybe we should get something to eat before we leave,” I say. “It’s going to be a bit of a car ride, and I don’t want to have to stop for fast food. You don’t want to know what happened the last time Mom and Dad ate at Sonic.”
“Uh, yeah,” says Graham, distracted. “Mom, what do you think about having dinner here tonight?”
Babette clears her throat.
“That sounds lovely,” she says. “Like something out of a fairy tale.” She shoots Graham a look filled with so much meaning that she may as well have given him an exaggerated wink.
Graham looks at his father. “What about you, Dad?”
John clears his throat. “I think that it sounds like a tale as old as time.”
I raise my eyebrows. Since when does John say things like that? Why are they acting so weird?
“Summer, dear,” says Babette. “How would you like to be our guest for dinner tonight?”
“Um, yeah. Sure,” I say. “I could eat.”
“No, really,” says John. “We’d love for you to be our guest.”
“You’re paying? Great. Let’s go.”
“Summer,” says Graham, holding out his elbow. “I would really love it if you would be our guest.”
Okay, this is getting ridiculous.
“Yes, I get it,” I say. “I heard your parents, and I’m totally onboard with consuming some food. Let’s go.”
But the three of them just stand there looking at me. I can tell Graham’s trying his hardest not to laugh. That’s when it hits me.
“Wait a minute. Be our guest? As in—” I stop mid-sentence and let my jaw drop open. “Are you serious?”
The Be Our Guest restaurant is themed after Beauty and the Beast—my all-time favorite movie—and takes reservations six months in advance. Last time we came to the Magic Kingdom it was still being built.
Graham smiles and I give him a gentle shove.
“I thought this trip was spontaneous!”
“It was,” he says. “It’s just that the grandmother of the General Manager happens to live in—”
“Sunset Havens,” I finish for him, laughing. “I should have known.”
“Reservations for eight. Six o’clock. Happy wedding, Sum.”
GRAHAM
24
So, maybe I didn’t exactly plan this day trip on the spur of the moment. Maybe I didn’t contact the General Manager’s grandma this morning. Maybe I contacted her six months ago because I needed to arrange slightly more than a dinner reservation for eight.
I needed to arrange—
Well, let’s just say that Summer is going to kill me. First she’s going to refuse to marry me, then she’s going to kill me. Then she’s going to find herself a nice, quiet bookworm of a husband who never forces her into embarrassing situations.
But, on the off chance that she doesn’t end our relationship, it’s going to be completely worth it. This is going to become one of those moments that go down in family history. The descendents will still be talking about this over Thanksgiving dinner, 2066.
It’s going to be epic.
Not a lot of fiancés would go through all of this trouble. I hope Summer keeps that in mind when she’s the center of attention and wishing I would drop dead.
In any event, it’s show time.
The costume is a lot hotter than I thought it would be. Heavier too. And it’s damn near impossible to see anything on the ground in front of me. I’m being led into the ballroom by Candlestick and Teapot. Candlestick is friendly enough, but Teapot seems a little put out. Not that I can see his face, but I didn’t like the way he bumped me with his spout a minute ago. As long as he doesn’t push me down a flight of stairs, I’m not too worried.
Summer thinks I’ve gone to the men’s room.
As we step through the ballroom doors, I can already see Mom and Dad smiling at us. They’re in on the whole thing since I needed to make sure this trip was set firmly in the itinerary for this particular day. Beauty and the Beast is Summer’s favorite movie of all-time and I’ve had this idea brewing in my head ever since I heard that the restaurant was being built. Actually, it’s been brewing ever since we watched the movie together and Summer remarked that the Beast gifting Belle with her own private library was the most romantic gesture she’d ever seen. At that very moment I vowed to one day show up that hideous man-beast by gifting Summer with something even better than a fictitious library.
Unfortunately, I never came up with a better idea. I mean, I did come up with some ideas that would have blown any woman right out of the water, but none of them were very Summer. Even if I flew her by helicopter, Christian Grey style, to some remote, tropical location, it still wouldn’t have equaled the Beast and his God forsaken library. So I did what any loving boyfriend would do—I decided that I would simply become the Beast. All I needed to do was pull a few strings, zip into a costume, and take her for a spin around the ballroom in front of a few hundred strangers. And what better time to make it happen than three days before our wedding?
Summer’s staring at her menu and hasn’t even noticed us yet. I wonder what she thinks I’ve been doing in the men’s room all this time. As I walk across the dance floor, I wave to the other guests who assume that I’m a regular part of the entertainment.
It’s pretty fun.
I start off with a very regal, kingly sort of a walk—the way I imagine a bad ass Beast might strut around his castle, in his killer blue and yellow tuxedo (I’ve got to get me one of these). But then, about halfway across, I do a spontaneous hop-skip in the air which brings a wave of laughter from the kids. Encouraged, I do a spin and then the Moonwalk. Then, because I’ve never before Moonwalked in enormous furry feet and a twenty pound head, I trip. But, I recover. I steady myself. I give a big, furry thumbs-up to the crowd and they respond with applause. Maybe I should consider a career change.
Teapot doesn’t seem to agree. He turns to me and shakes his entire body back and forth.
Right. There were a few rules I had to agree to before the higher-ups granted me permission to step inside a Disney costume, and I suppose I must be breaking a few of them. I leave Teapot and Candlestick on the dance floor, and make my way over to Summer’s table. I thought the out-of-character dance moves might have given me away, but she checks the time on her phone and glances toward the ballroom doors. She’s either wondering where I am, or doing everything possible to avoid eye contact with the costumed character heading straight for her. As I continue forward, I finally catch her attention. My beastly eyes lock onto her face and I can sense that she’s getting nervous. She looks down. She opens something on her phone. I can almost hear the words Go Away broadcasting out of her head.
I stop behind her chair and put my furry paws on her shoulders. She laughs nervously and shrinks down into her chair.
Did I mention that she hates being
the center of attention?
I put a furry paw on top of her head and gently pat it, messing up her hair a little.
She shrinks down some more.
I tap her on the shoulder. She turns her head left to look at her mother. I tap her on the other shoulder. She turns her head right to look at Tanya. I put both my paws on her shoulders again, and give her a little shake.
“I think he likes you,” says Mom. “Maybe you should turn around.”
There’s a short delay, in which I imagine Summer shot my mother a filthy look, before she gives in, turns around, and looks up at me. It’s hard not to laugh at the look on her face. But I can’t. Rule number one of getting into a Disney costume is that you must not speak. Not ever. So, I watch in silence as Summer looks up at me with the same expression of disgust that Belle gave to the Beast when she thought he was merely a repulsive, terrifying monster with no redeeming qualities.
I hope she appreciates the irony, once she’s speaking to me again. Whenever that is.
I hold out my paw, and she reluctantly takes it. I lead her—sorry, drag her—out onto the dance floor where a waiter hands me a small tiara. The lights are dimmed, and the classic song from the movie begins to play. I plunk the tiara awkwardly on her head, pushing the combs down into her hair. Then I step back and take a low, beastly bow.
Summer’s face is quickly progressing from light pink to beet red, but at least the look of disgust has melted into a nervous smile. I still have no idea if she realizes that it’s me in here. Judging by the fact that she hasn’t yet punched me in the stomach, I’m thinking that she hasn’t. I hold out my paw again, and she takes it. Then we start to waltz around the room. She falls right into step because we took ballroom dance lessons only last month.
She thought we were preparing for the wedding.
As we spin around the room, she still looks self-conscious and embarrassed, but at the same time, I can tell that she’s enjoying herself. The ballroom is an exact replica of the ballroom from the movie—above us hang three crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling painted to look like the sky. And even though it’s still daylight here in Florida, the floor to ceiling windows present an evening view of mountaintops and falling snow. Mission to create a moment that Summer will never forget—complete. When she smiles up at me, she looks more beautiful than any Disney princess I’ve ever seen.
