by Kim Korson
My backpack was heavy with sunscreen and rain ponchos and healthful snacks and water and printouts and tear sheets from the (heavy) guidebook (although I also brought the heavy guidebook) and Ziploc bags, lest anything get wet on a ride. Stuck in a holding pattern, waiting to get our bags inspected for weapons, I noticed that a good portion of the early-birders came dressed in Mickey attire. The getups ranged from garden-variety Ts to intricate headgear and even a few full-on costumes. There was no shortage of grown men in Goofy caps, with which I quickly became obsessed. A baseball-style hat showcasing black and white vacant eyes, a flesh-colored brim with a nose at the tip, and requisite long black dangly ears.
“Is it at all weird to you,” I said to Buzz, “that so many people are wearing Disney clothes here?”
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Where else are they gonna wear it?”
• • •
There is no situation where I feel at ease in a crowd. I get frazzled knowing that if need be, I cannot make a swift egress. One of the first things I do when I get into a place is plan how I might get out. In order to escape Disney, I’d have to take down hundreds of autograph book–wielding children, packs of families in matching clothes, and a number of girthy people on Rascal scooters. This idea did not relax me. As we waited to get our bags checked so that we could gain entry to the entry of the park (which was still closed), I kept my eye on the security man and his line, just like I do at the airport, to determine which guests were up to no good and whom to avoid on the Pirates of the Caribbean. Finally, our turn, and a happy fellow rifled through my bag, returning it unzipped but cleared for entry. He looked at me with his cheerful face and said, “Have a good day, Princess!”
Fuck you, I thought.
• • •
“Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys!” said a voice from an undisclosed location. “Welcome to the Magic Kingdom!”
Music pumped in, people cheered. We were now just outside the main entrance, all staring at the railroad station above our heads, waiting for someone to let us in. A man appeared, shouted “Good morning!,” and the crowd parroted greetings back. This was the Mayor of Main Street. Dressed in a straw boater and old-timey shirtsleeves, he could have been moonlighting as the fourth in a barbershop quartet or a hipster barkeep from Brooklyn. The mayor was sent in as a warm-up act to get the crowd good and buttered before they were let loose into the wilds of the park.
In case we needed more, he unleashed some citizens of Main Street on us, out-of-work actors forced to dance a jig in some old-fangled costumery. As they hopped around, I felt a rumble under my feet. This is it, I thought, terrorist activity. Something had exploded in those underground tunnels they didn’t want us to know about, resulting in Sleeping Beauty guts on walls and ceiling. I was just about to alert Buzz, when a train pulled into the station and a smattering of characters jumped off—Snow White and Cinderella and her Fairy Godmother, Tiana and Tangled. Some old-school folks also showed up. Donald and Honest John and the sexy white cat from The Aristocats. I thought that was it until the very last two scurried off the train: Chip ‘n’ Dale! The life-sized rodents of my youth! I gasped. Audibly. I loved those guys.
“Who’s they?” said Pluto. “Those two bears near the talking guy.”
Who are those guys? Only two of my all-time favorite guys. “Chip ‘n’ Dale!” I screamed in his little ear. “They’re chipmunks. What is that weird thing with the giant eyes and ears?” I asked.
“Which thing?” said Minnie.
“The gray thing on the end,” I said. “What is that?”
“That’s Lilo & Stitch,” she said. “Do not go on that ride, Mom. It’s all dark and they poke your neck and then someone spits on you.”
Even Minnie had secret tips and information.
The mayor began a group countdown. The citizens of Main Street were sweating glee.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .
Minnie balled up her fists. Pluto hugged me. And, just like that, I wanted in.
. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .
No, I didn’t. How is it I’m here? I am not here.
. . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
Listen here, Disney, just so we’re clear: You don’t get me, okay, I get you.
. . . one!
Fireworks! Music! Applause! The mayor shouted, “Let the memories begin!”
I closed my eyes and thought of England.
(2. anger)
“Who is this elephant again?” Pluto asked.
I adjusted my backpack straps. “Dumbo.”
“Is this ride scary?” he said. “What is this ride? His ears are too big. The music in here is making me a little bit sad. Like when I saw E.T., remember?”
“Do we have snacks in the bag?” Minnie said. “I have to pee.”
We’d left our parked car at least an hour ago and had yet to board a ride. Was Dumbo the best choice? You never forget your first ride. Was a flying elephant the way to go?
“Do we even want to go on this thing?” I said.
Buzz sighed.
“Well,” said Minnie, “it doesn’t look that great.”
“Who is this elephant, again?” Pluto said.
“I kinda have to pee.”
Buzz closed his eyes.
“Maybe we shouldn’t start with this one,” I said.
When Buzz is set on a plan, he does not like to veer. “Don’t even give them the option,” he said.
I examined the serpentine line crammed under the big top. An hour wasted there was an hour we could be doing something else.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We can do better. They don’t even know who Dumbo is.”
We were let out of line, single file, escorted through the back of the tent.
• • •
The digital clock above Peter Pan’s Flight let us know there was a thirty-minute wait. I squinted, debated, weighed, wavered, and looked around. Buzz, on the other hand, went rogue, fleeing the group to push the button at the FastPass kiosk. Out slid a ticket, allowing us to return to the ride and board, via a special no-line entrance, but not until 12:50 p.m.
It was 9:30 a.m.
“What have you done?” I said, narrowing my eyes.
“What?” he said, an innocent all of a sudden.
“We didn’t discuss the FastPass.”
“No big deal,” Buzz said, putting the four tickets in his wallet. “The kids wanted Peter Pan and now we can go on it.”
“In three hours!” I said.
“So? We’ll just walk around, do other stuff and whatever, then come back.”
I wanted to shove Buzz and his new laissez-faire attitude over. This is a man who always requires, and adheres to, a plan. This is a man who, while eating breakfast, needs to know what’s for dinner, so he can plan lunch.
“You can’t just wander and do stuff and whatever,” I said. “Otherwise we won’t maximize our time at the park.”
“Now you care about maximizing your time?” he said, keeping an eye on the kids as they window-shopped. “I thought you were all get in, get out, and nobody gets hurt.”
“Why is it,” I said in a growlish whisper, “that when you have a plan we all need to snap to it, but when I have one you do whatever the hell you want?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Buzz said. “What’s the matter with you right now? It’s just a freaking FastPass.”
“It’s not just a freaking FastPass! It’s a prison sentence. Now we have to stay in Fantasyland for like three hours. Even if we don’t want to!”
“We can go wherever we want!” Buzz said. “We just have to be back by 12:50.”
I took a cleansing breath. “First of all, we now can’t get another FastPass until this one expires. Second, the Book says we should never get a FastPass if the line is thirty minutes or less. Peter
Pan said thirty! And now we have to run around like lunatics and be back here at the exact time I wanted to go back to the hotel to rest so no one starts freaking out! That’s what the Book says!”
“Dude, you need to relax.”
I should note here that being told to relax is the gateway to having an aneurism; don’t even get me started on when your husband calls you dude.
“Let’s go on Pooh,” said Pluto, returning from his walkabout and pointing to the ride.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go on Pooh.”
• • •
The LED numbers over the Hundred Acre Wood read forty-five minutes. Had Buzz not been an overzealous Press Your Luck contestant earlier, slamming buzzers before he knew answers, we could have FastPassed Pooh. Instead, we joined the line.
The Imagineers had built interactive stops along the queue to keep kids busy as they waited. What these Imagineers failed to create was a separate line for dueling spouses or a penalty box for freewheelers with itchy FastPass fingers who went around jamming buttons like it was nothing. I gripped the straps of my backpack, eyebrows scrunched together. But I wasn’t alone. If I scanned the line or the stores or walkways or streets, it seemed like I had all sorts of pissy company. Husbands everywhere were sparring with wives, mothers were shouting and grabbing at children, children were whining and crying and melting down. Sure was a lot of discord at the Happiest Place on Earth.
I made a mental note for my friend back home, the one who couldn’t wait to hear how I’d fare in this happy place, to let her know I was just fine, actually kind of among my people. We, the disgruntled, together under one fake roof, breathing in the phony vanilla–scented air. The place seemed riddled with turmoil and anguish, and for that I was thankful. I uncurled my shoulders. The line moved swiftly. We were locked into our honey pots in under thirty.
“You see?” Buzz said. “Those times are bullshit. We’re gonna sail through this thing no problem.”
• • •
It’s a Small World is a musical boat ride, originally built for the UNICEF pavilion at the World’s Fair (sponsored by Pepsi) as a tribute to the children of the world. When the attraction was conceived, it was decided that each country would be represented not only by a creepy doll in traditional dress but by its respective national anthem as well. Walt, however, found the whole thing cacophonous, so he plucked a team of brothers from his staff to create one catchy, easy, translatable tune to worm its way into the ears of millions.
The Sherman Brothers presented a song that had legs but ultimately was too slow and sad and Cuban Missile Crisisy. They were asked to pep it up. And while no one is truly against world peace and unity, the iconic song could quite possibly land you in a mental institution, and the sluggish ten-minute-and-thirty-second boat ride is enough to make you want to stick a fork in your eye, but it was a time-honored tradition (said the Book), one you felt obligated to embark on if you’d bothered to get yourself all the way to the Kingdom.
We entered the grand doors of what appeared to be the International House of Salt Water Taffy—after no wait at all—and sat four across in a boat. As we set sail and I began to hear the song, I forced myself to have a good attitude for my children and the children of the world. Plus, it was the least I could do for the UNICEF kids, a payback of sorts for the Halloween I dressed as Fonzie’s chick and collected change in the orange box, promptly spending it all on Dubble Bubble instead of turning it in to Mr. Bowker.
It seemed that the bottom of the fake lake was covered in coins. Rummaging through my wallet, I produced two quarters and a plastic dinosaur. I handed over the money for chucking, figuring it might give Minnie and Pluto bigger ticket wishes.
“Here, you guys,” I said.
“Why are you giving us dimes?” said Pluto.
“Throw it in,” I said, pointing to the water. “Make a wish.”
They peeked overboard to see the glint of coins for themselves.
“Whoa,” said Pluto. “There’s like a thousand hundred forty-eight dollars down there.”
The kids spent most of India and part of China thinking up a wish. Minnie finally plinked hers in. Pluto said he was no way telling his wish but that it was to have another “light saver—a bad one this time” and to spend more good time like this with his family, except next time bring the dog.
We were three minutes and fifty-seven seconds in when it happened. I was sitting in the boat, minding my own business, when I noticed I was not feeling hostile. I immediately began making excuses for all light and airy feelings I may or may have not been experiencing: Those dolls are only trying to get my attention, they’re so damn proud of their heritage and clearly spent a great deal of time getting dressed; the frosty air is undeniably pleasant; the kids are pointing and shiny-eyed. It all came to a head when I realized that the song was not only not eating my brain but causing me to sing along—toe-tap in the boat, even. And, somewhere around the South American rain forest, there were tears. My own. Right there in the stupid boat, my eye sockets filled up and I had to look to the pseudo sky to keep them from spilling out all over the jungles of the world.
I turned my back on the family and faced the dolls, knowing full well that if Buzz caught on he’d never let me live it down. I’d be in for a good ten years of how I broke down in phony Uganda. The guy is a pit bull with jokes and mockery. I chewed the inside of my lip until I tasted blood, hoping to jar my nervous system. Was this how Linda Blair felt before she turned green? Do you get signs first, or is it an immediate transformation to pea soup and salty talk? I tried to hide it, but there was a hideous truth lurking in the Small World boat: I was not hating it.
Get it together, I said to my pulled strings. This here is not Sophie’s Choice or Schindler’s List, it’s not even Rudy. You didn’t cry at The Champ, so you don’t cry here. This is simply a Benetton ad underscored by a song that would make anyone in their right mind lose their will to live. Yes, the air conditioning is a boon and the kids seem to have that stupid magic in their eyes the commercials swear by, but come on, man, remember who you are! Stop making eye contact with the dolls. Don’t look at the kids. And, for God’s sake, turn a deaf ear to that music. Yes, it’s a small world—no one said it wasn’t.
• • •
I don’t want to blame Minnie for what happened next, but really, who else in the world had such a puny bladder? And what was with Pluto, peacemaker all of a sudden, giving me the business about how you can’t help it if you have to go? Why bother studying the Book and mapping out a day if all members of your group have to step off your plan every twenty-eight seconds to find a bathroom? Why even make an itinerary the night before, if this is how everyone is going to treat it? This is exactly why I never studied in school.
Also, wasn’t Buzz constantly yammering about having a crackerjack sense of direction? Well then, how was it that the bathroom search he took the lead on veered us so off course? I didn’t just blame Minnie, I blamed the whole lot of them. If they hadn’t been so cavalier about the plan, then we would have been standing in line for Ariel’s Grotto instead of Keystone Copping through super dull Liberty Square, ending up exactly where the day started—on Main Street, USA, where the fake sidewalks were suddenly jammed with camera-ready guests. And then, the music piped in.
Fuck me, I thought. Here comes a parade.
It started, as all parades do, with the low-hanging fruit. A bunch of wannabe summer stockers, dressed in head-to-toe turquoise or red or yellow polyester outfits topped off by shiny white vests, waving and sashaying and smiling like freaks, mostly following the Dr Pepper–commercial choreography. I stood on my tippy toes to see what was coming next and also to note how long we’d be stuck there, because good luck escaping a parade in those parts. The Book said not to even try. I leaned against a pretend mailbox to wait the thing out like a bad storm.
I hate a parade. I don’t even understand what a parade is
. Who needs all that waving? The world gets all hostile when you admit to hating a parade, like there is something wrong with you if you don’t see the charm. People scrunch up their faces and tell you to take off your cranky pants. These are the same types who yell, “Smile! It’s not that bad!” if you walk down the street with a plain face. I could see Mickey in the distance, high atop his float, again with the waving, but there was no end in sight. Meanwhile, my kids were waving like maniacs, too, in the hopes of getting character attention. They could not have been more pleased about our whole life-is-what-happens-when-you’re-busy-making-plans moment. Kids are dumb, I thought.
I was so focused on trying to see the end of the procession, I almost missed what was right in front of me: Chip ‘n’ Dale! My guys. They waved and danced their rodential hearts out, swinging their short arms and tapping their feet. They were pretty graceful for chipmunks. Chip, as always, was the brains of the operation—you could just tell from his dancing and the way he could connect with the crowd. And Dale? Well, he was a moron, but man, did he love a good time.
They still possessed a strong work ethic, not only as rodents but also as showmen. Unlike a certain princess, who shall remain nameless, totally phoning it in with a limp wave and, if we’re being honest, kind of a grumpy face. Stitch, meanwhile, must have sensed the sheer professionalism of Chip ‘n’ Dale, because there he was with my boys, really trying to put it on with maniacal waving. He had a bad walk, if you could even call it that. It really was closer to something between a waddle and a lumber. And when he waved, he did this whole rotate-his-arm-over-his-head maneuver, but without any verve. Like he was stretching. Plus he was wearing three ties. He didn’t even make any sense.
