by Laurie Fox
When all else fails with your Pan-Man, you must do the loving thing.
My eyes misted up until I could no longer see the line. Had Mummy forgotten to do the loving thing with Daddy? Did she regret leaving him?
The explosive chords of “Purple Haze” now blew away my thoughts; Freeman was putting on a real concert outside. And then I heard a faint pounding in between the cracks of his vocalizing. “Open up! Open up!” a voice hollered.
I ran to the front door and there was Officer America Fuentes, her club out of its holster. “The Shiva Darling residence?” she said huskily.
I nodded, machinelike, and let her in. She shambled through the living room, momentarily stunned by the panorama of the bay. Recovering, she slid open the glass door and tramped out onto the deck in her heavy police boots. Freeman rushed up to her and sang his heart out, the cord to his amp wiggling behind him like a tail.
A poker-faced Fuentes held up her large hand. When Freeman didn’t respond she walked over to the amp and nonchalantly pulled the plug. “Sorry to interrupt the creative flow,” she said. “But we’ve got complaints.”
“Shoot,” Freeman said, lowering his head like a boy who knows he has misbehaved. Tiny rivers of sweat made his chest glisten.
“We’ve also got requests.”
“Requests?” Freeman said.
“Yeah, from me. If you’re gonna play Hendrix, you gotta keep it down. But you also gotta play ‘Manic Depression’ or I’ll have to take you downtown.” She grinned broadly—even her teeth were big.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Freeman said. With his bandana, he mopped the perspiration off his neck. Then he ran into the house and returned with his hulking twelve-string guitar. Resting his hip on the picnic table, he played an exquisite acoustic version of the song: “Manic depression’s captured my soul. . . .” As Officer Fuentes fixed her eyes on the horizon, silently grooving to the music, I saw the sadness in Freeman’s eyes, the pain rushing in. Even diversions had their limits; they could only work their magic for so long. Freeman would have to deal with reality soon enough, and I hoped I could be there when it happened. I wanted to be a great partner, to do the loving thing.
XV
AFTER Berry left home, and school, a third time, Freeman and I held a powwow at Brennan’s, a working-class bar near the freeway. For a single night he joined me in my campaign to rely on alcohol to do the hard work of relationship. The truth is, I’d never made peace with my margaritas—why induce a feeling of displacement?—but I liked to buy time with a drink, and an hour of not caring appeared to be a real bargain.
It was at Brennan’s where I got the Big Idea. On multiple TV sets suspended from the ceiling, a commercial for Disneyland caught my eye. I spotted the usual suspects—Mickey and Cinderella and Donald and Doc—but in the back row and on the side was dainty Tinker Bell, waving and blinking her light. The group of old friends sang and danced in unison as fireworks exploded above their giant heads. Psychedelia for the rest of us, I mused. Freeman just shrugged, and hovered low over his beer.
“Look, Man!” I shouted, gesturing with my drink towards the closest TV screen. Using Freeman’s nickname in public always sounded so dumb, and we both took turns laughing. “Look,” I said again. “It’s Tink and she’s all in pink! Do you think ...?” We broke out in a second round of giggles.
“Whaddya think?” he replied, taking a sip of beer.
“No, I mean, do you think we could go?” I set my goblet down, and with my forearm brushed my damp bangs off my forehead.
“You want to leave already?” Freeman said.
“No,” I said. “Go. To Dizzyland!” I cupped my mouth with my hand, trying to muffle the volume.
“Aha,” was all Freeman said before he rose from his chair and made his way around an obstacle course of tables to the men’s room. When he returned I was hunched over my margarita, sucking my lower lip. “What’s up?” he said indifferently.
“The commercial. It was so poignant.” I blew my nose into a cocktail napkin.
“Mmm,” Freeman said.
“I mean it, Man. It stirred up something in me—something huge.”
“That’s the margarita talking.” He looked away; a baseball game had supplanted the Disneyland commercial on every set in the room.
“No.” I elbowed him. “I think we should go. There’s that ride, you know. I think it would brighten Berry’s spirits.”
“Does it comes with klieg lights?” Freeman said.
“Come on. It would help her make some important connections. Let’s go as a threesome,” I said, tugging on his shirtsleeve.
“I can’t. Remember, I’ve got Jumanji. But you and Ber should give it a whirl. Yeah, that would be good.” His pale-blue eyes remained drilled on the ball game.
“I will, you know. I’m going to do it,” I said with a half-baked conviction, and clinked my goblet with the beer mug resting in his lap.
* *
GETTING Berry to accompany me to Disneyland wasn’t the contest I’d anticipated. All along, she’d been nurturing a fantasy of going on the rides under the influence of LSD, just not with a parent in tow. For two days Berry lobbied hard for Cody and Drew to join us, but I finally put my foot down: “For some strange reason, honey, I pictured a mother-daughter trip with all the girly frills—you know, deep talks about art, lots of hugging and winking?” She made a face. “I did not picture taking care of three teenagers wigging out.” On this issue Berry caved when I promised that our diet would be really, really bad for us—cotton candy, gooey-sweet cinnamon buns, and fried everything.
Choosing not to cash in on the Braverman name, we flew anonymously on Southwest Airlines, and quickly settled into our room at the Cruella DeVille Motor Lodge in Anaheim. Berry wouldn’t consider any motels named after Disney heroines, and I’d had to work fast to come up with alternatives. The sad thing was, our motel’s name was the single witty thing about it; what was “cruella” was the absence of decor.
With a backdrop of perpetual traffic just outside the motel room walls, we peeled off our heavy, dark Bay Area garb and draped ourselves in thin cotton pastels—cropped pants and tank tops. We were ready to “go native.” At the last minute Ber kicked off her flip-flops in favor of platform tennis shoes and bee-striped, thigh-high stockings; she pulled a plaid miniskirt over shell-pink Capris. To cap off the look, she shrugged on her army backpack studded with Black Sabbath buttons. “It’s a theme park,” was her endearing defense. I snickered when I checked out my own theme in the bathroom mirror: my attempt at “surfer girl” was a bust, the bright white skin a giveaway. As a coda, I swept a scarf featuring the bridges of Paris around my neck. The idea of it trailing behind me on the faster rides was irresistible.
In the delicatessen across the street—the Pinocchio Nosh—Berry and I plowed into a breakfast more fit for a lion king than a puppet. Disoriented by the plane trip, the constant stream of cars, and the prodigious sunlight, we consumed large amounts of refined sugar and fat. It was here, in the deli, I realized that we were dangerously close to being companionable. The richness of our meal seemed to have a positive effect: I didn’t bring up any business about Berry living regularly on the street, nor did she accuse me of any number of wrongdoings. We were suspended in a rare moment of parent-offspring peace, made all the more memorable by the sight of a snow-blanketed Matterhorn out the window to our left.
We decided to make our way on foot, though everyone who offered directions insisted that we approach the park by car. We could see it just beyond two luxury hotels—the elegant sweep of the monorail, the blur of purling rocket ships. Disneyland was so close we could smell it.
By the time we arrived we were sweaty and eager to find shade under the roofs of Main Street. I bought us twin sixteen-ounce Cokes and giant suckers in the shape of Mickey’s head. When Berry made a bee line for a Disney character tchotchke shop, I suggested that we move on. I was afraid she might chance upon some upsetting retail item: a Peter Pan sword, a stuffed vers
ion of her great-great-grandmother.
Disneyland, I reminded Berry, was originally divided into four distinct tracts—Frontierland, Adventureland, Tomorrowland, and Fantasyland. I thought it best that we traverse these in a logical order, working our way up to the Mother of All Rides. Which is how we spent a fortune before arriving in Fantasyland. Once she bought and slipped on a “Pirates of the Caribbean” tee-shirt—she admired its outlaw cachet—Berry decided that a collection of kitschy tees was in order. I confess that I could deny her nothing, for she seemed unusually present; as far as I could tell, only Coca-Cola coursed through her veins. We spent the afternoon boarding all manner of transport: raft, riverboat, submarine. We visited the animatronic President Lincoln, the see-through denizens of a haunted house; we took in a saloon show, a jungle cruise. While Berry made fun of every uncool thing, she found certain joys and real epiphanies in all the simulations. At one point she even squeezed my hand in a show of undiluted glee. Then she caught herself and sniffed: “What amazing bullshit!”
We arrived in Fantasyland after a light dinner of corn dogs, still well before nightfall. No matter that the sun had let up on our backs and necks; we stumbled around like drunks. All that pounding blonde light, sugar and salt, and so many rowdy images vying for our attention had the cumulative power of an acid trip. I drained my last cola of the day in one obnoxious gulp, and when I accused Berry of palming a pill, it turned out to be a Motrin. “I’m having a sunstroke,” she explained as she reclined on a bench. Her childsized tee showed off her curves, its picture of Maleficent stretched to the max.
“But the teacups,” I reminded her. “We got to do the teacups or we’ll regret it the rest of our days.”
“Regret barfing? I seriously doubt it.” She rotated her tiny frame on the sticky planks of the bench. As three young men passed by, they turned into oglers—something a mother never should see.
“And here I thought you teens are really into getting all, you know, disoriented. Well, your loss,” I said before giving her right arm the heave-ho. She pulled back hard, and we commenced a tug-of-war, really a pantomime of parent-child relations. Finally I was able to cast her off the bench and onto the gravel. The good news was: she was still smiling. With the efficiency of the young, Berry brushed off her skirt-pants combination, and hoisted her backpack, now plump with purchases, onto her back. After making a big deal of pointing at her and then at the giant china vessels in the distance, I gamboled off in the direction of the Mad Tea Party ride.
“Mothership!” Berry hollered and raced to my side. “Not now,” she cautioned. “It’ll toss our cookies for sure.”
“No, honey, this is it! Your one chance to exact revenge. You can spin me as hard as you like. Or not.”
“You’re on,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
After a ten-minute wait in line, during which we maintained a fatigued silence, Berry and I positioned ourselves in a teacup the size of a VW Bug, and entrusted our lives to a buff college student. The student wasted no time: he commandeered the steering wheel and at once we were spinning, nearly unhinged, in our saucer. Berry brazenly seized the wheel from the student—perhaps her outfit scared him off—and began to inflict more damage on our equilibrium. Just when I’d had enough—the nausea I’d so skillfully suppressed was now rushing to the surface—the ride stopped and we staggered off in a cluster of like-minded people. I sat down on a convenient cement toadstool, and tried to focus on the ground.
“Had enough for one day?” Berry asked.
“I’ve had enough for a lifetime,” I answered, and our eyes locked. For months we’d avoided speaking about our stay at the hospital, and now seemed like a bad time. “Berry, there’s just one more ride I’ve got to do before we call it a day. Can you indulge your mother one last time? I swear, this is it.” This time she gave in without a fight, and we shuffled off on sore feet to one of the oldest rides in the park—the ride called Peter Pan’s Flight.
The line of people waiting to get in wandered back and forth six times around a roped partition. “It’s now or Neverland,” I said nervously. Berry rolled her eyes, too tired to openly ridicule me. As we advanced glacially to the front of the line, I began to experience a dense, cloying claustrophobia; it felt more mental than physical, although the cramped quarters were enough to make anyone woozy. Each time we took a symbolic step forward, I gripped the rope to stabilize my legs. I tried my best not to alarm Berry as her full attention would be required for the ride. When we were no farther than five yards from the gated entrance where the little pirate ships sweep their passengers away, I began to wobble, then tilt. Ultimately, I gave in and sat down on the hard earth, sipping in air between the cracks of everyone’s legs. From this position, I scanned the sky, now blue-gold and darkening, and drank in its coolness.
Berry tugged at my arm like a three-year-old, slightly embarrassed for me, but concerned too. “Mu-Mu,” she whispered, “please.” When a light breeze rippled overhead, I took a whiff and rose to my feet. By this point we were flush against the shingles of the English Tudor cottage that housed the ride. I brushed my hand against a flower box and steadied myself.
As the line inched, with increasing strain, towards the dark mouth of the ride, we were approached by a few attendants dressed in character—a pretty girl in a sailor-collar coat; a young man in tights and a tunic of felt leaves; an American Indian chief with a magnificent feathered headdress. One attendant in particular stood out: a tall, bony adult in a flashy pirate getup. His face was hidden by a comically large, three-cornered hat that was festooned with the kind of gold tassels that look best on theater drapes; his legs were encased in canary-yellow tights; and a mauve-velvet greatcoat hung open over his blouson shirt, a white muslin affair with an excess of ruffles. The shirt was laced up the front with a black satin cord.
“Jason?” I said, startled.
“Come again?” The employee scratched distractedly at the bulbous tip of his long, crooked nose.
“Oh come on, it’s me.”
“Sorry?” He looked out at me, as through a telescope.
“Wendy,” I said, hands flailing.
“Doesn’t ring any bells.” He fluffed the ruffles at his neck.
“Wendy Darling.”
“Ha!” he spat out. “That’s terribly novel. I’m afraid, dear, you’re just another wannabe. You’d better stand in line ‘cause this place is crawlin’ with Wendys.”
“I am in line, you idiot. Hook, I’d know you anywhere.”
“Of course you would. I’m Captain James Hook. At least that’s what the coat says.” He pointed to a name embroidered in bloodred thread on his lapel.
“You know,” I said between clenched teeth, “I mean Jason. Jason Hook.”
“Sorry, kitten, but you really got to get with the program.” He reached out with a lace-encircled wrist to pat me on the shoulder, which was when I felt the cold sting of a cheap aluminum claw.
“Don’t you lay a hand on me.” I stepped back as far as I could into the line of squirming children.
“Lay a hand? Now why would I want to do that?” he drawled. “That wouldn’t be very Disney of me.” He winked at Berry and she winked back, even blowing him a kiss. Surely he flirted with all the girls?
Miraculously we had arrived at the front of the line where the pirate galleons await their fares; each ship boasted a proud skull and crossbones on its lacquered black sail. As Berry and I climbed into our seats and drew back the safety bar, the “pirate” stuck his mug in my face and said, “See you in hell, darlin’!”
Before I could give his remarks due weight, we lurched forward into the ride’s thrill-packed chamber. Berry let out a throaty bark, the sort the ride deserves, and I clasped my palms together prayerfully. No sooner had she yelped than we were hoisted high in a child’s nursery trimmed with purple-striped wallpaper and white lace curtains. Great-Nana’s bedroom! In seconds we burst into a counterfeit sky above the ghostly, flickering lights of London, skimming through the cl
ouds past Big Ben. An expanse of stars loomed overhead as I watched the heartbreaking movement of tiny cars with their blinking lights down below. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Thanks to the genius of the ride’s engineers, our flight plan was a canny replication of Peter’s, that most fabled itinerary that Sir James set down on paper so long ago. As if suspended in time, our crossing of the night-sky appeared to be in slow motion—ironic for a ride that delivers its kicks with speed—and I imagined myself young and giddy, as long as I didn’t sneak a peek at Berry, whose cringing presence suggested a world of need. I clapped my hands together and let go with smart observations such as “Wow!” and “Oh, oh, oh!” Such was my rapture that I began to soar on the inside, too. But it couldn’t last: with a brutal disregard for beauty, the ship sped ahead, dipping rudely to the right as if trying to pitch us overboard. Finally we entered a more spacious chamber, dropping low over a spectacular island. We were instantly in the thrall of lagoon, forest, and a bubbling volcano. Volcano?
I exhaled, perhaps for the first time, and felt Berry’s hand relax. But the ride didn’t want us to rest: each time we made sense of the tableau before us, it betrayed us with another. A confusion of dis-embodied voices assaulted our ears—heckling and mocking us—and the background music swelled to manic extremes. I half wondered if Freeman had had a hand in it. The blunt tick-tock of a clock unnerved me and I threw Berry a cautionary look. But her face was turned away from me. With one hand cupped over her mouth, she pressed the other on my knee. She didn’t seem to be having a good time. After the ride veered sharply to the left, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
