by Kim Korson
Settle down, Stitch, I thought. No one cares about your slick fur and oversized eyes. No one even knows who you are! Like anyone is even here to see you—good luck with the whole autograph thing. Look around, asshole, you’re not even on a backpack or a shirt. You are not etched in the hearts of any. And we all know about your ride. So ease up with that wave and move along. And why don’t you watch how the real critters do it? Three ties, give me a break—you’re only embarrassing yourself.
• • •
My nature is tricky, my attitude rarely good. I am not a joiner or a gamer or a person who knows much about fun. Even as a kid I was uncomfortable in my skin. Hating things and sitting in the back row of math was often bait to lure other struggling kids. I wasn’t mean or anything (except for a brief spell from ‘78 to ‘80), just sad and kind of weird.
When situations get the better of me, I seek out a like mind. Just like in high school, I locate the person in the room with the worst attitude and hitch my curmudgeon wagon to their dispirited horse. Safety in numbers and all that (although the numbers are rarely high, and I can promise you we are not the group you want to invite to your costume party). Waiting outside (another) bathroom for Minnie (again), I spotted none other than Gaston himself, positioned outside Gaston’s Tavern. He was all hopped up, flexing and preening and jaw jutting. Bunches of small girls and large women lined up in the hopes of a second with this miscreant, who had his own restaurant and a prime spot in the Villains parking lot.
Lurking around Gaston was a man, sixty years old if he was a day, wearing shortish brown pants with a ragged hem, and a butterscotch-colored shirt. Rounding out the outfit was a rectangular nameplate pinned to his chest, letting us know his name was John. Observing this man on the melting sidewalk, dressed like a Lost Boy in pants he’d most probably had in his closet when he was a kick-the-can–playing kid decades earlier, I knew he showed promise. I wasn’t sure what his official job was, be it restaurant greeter or Gaston-wrangler, but he had a fabricated smile and an aura of droop. This was my guy.
The sun was a blazing spotlight on us all, but at least we had armor in hats and sunglasses and Mickey umbrellas. John was defenseless on the streets of Fantasyland, squinting and wiping the sweaty droplets pooling in the crags of his face. I tried getting his attention with eye contact but he wasn’t noticing. Probably had trouble focusing, what with the sweaty eyes and all, so I did something I rarely do.
“You look hot, John.”
I should note here that I never call a waiter by his or her name. That’s a move reserved for dads and people who say “pardon my French.” But the man refused to see me, so I was left with no choice.
“Excuse me?” he said.
It hit me that my wording might not have suggested casual conversation but more of a pickup situation, insinuating that John looked hot/sexy in his peasant shirt and Tom Sawyerish pants.
“Warm,” I said. “You look like you’re kind of warm out here.”
“Me? Oh, no,” said John, turning on the cast member smile. “Not at all!”
“Sure is hot out here,” I said, switching to a more folksy tone.
“Much better than yesterday!”
“I guess. But, come on, it’s pretty hot out.”
“Can’t get mad at sunshine!”
“Well, you can,” I said.
“It’s better than the alternative!”
“Really? You wouldn’t love a little rain or snow right now?”
The ring of sweat spread under the arms of his flouncy shirt. “Come now. It’s a beautiful day!”
“Is it?”
“Sure is!”
“Okay, fine,” I said. Well played, John.
“Have a magical day!”
Settle down, John. You won.
No matter how many lemons I pelted at John, he made a delightful and refreshing pitcher of lemonade. I was off my game. I blamed the park. John probably had been required to take some sort of malcontent’s defense course in order to get the job. Can’t wear the shipwreck pants until you pass. They must never break you, the teacher would say. Never let on anything is wrong here. Ever. If cats start getting out of bags, the guests will see that deep down, you are sad.
• • •
“Look! There’s Smee!” I said to Pluto as our galleon flew over the London sky, dipping in and out of mountains and volcanoes and Neverland and the Darling household. I wasn’t clear why our boat was flying any more than I understood why I was at it again with the crying. It’s also unclear why, upon disembarking, I was pissed at the kids for exiting through the gift shop (as you are forced to do on every ride) and breezing through without asking for so much as a stuffed crocodile or, at the very least, an eye patch.
“Let’s go on it again!”
You know who said that? Me. I said that. I wanted to ride again. And again and again. And it wasn’t just Peter Pan’s Flight. It was the Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh and Under the Sea: Journey of the Little Mermaid and Mickey’s PhilharMagic (where I wore 3-D glasses over my regular glasses and wept under both pairs). It was the clean fake streets you could eat entire meals off of, and those calm, reassuring voices that came out of magical speakers when rides broke down at scary moments. The kids were happy and Buzz was enjoying himself, all right, but me? When I wasn’t paying attention, someone put something in my twenty-seven-dollar water—possibly a Disney roofie—because I was one minute shy of pushing down my own children to secure a closer place in line to hear some Enchanted Tales with Belle. I was in the middle of a Best Day Ever.
Uh-oh, I thought. What the fuck is happening to me?
(3. bargaining)
Dear God,
Please help me.
In the spirit of honesty, which I’m guessing is a big deal for you, I just wanted to put out there that I don’t believe in you (no offense). But, on the small chance that I’m wrong (like when I insisted the Internet was a harebrained scheme no one would cotton to), I thought I’d try, just in case. If this helps, I’m not against the idea of you, or the potential collective energy thing, but I felt dopey entitling this letter Dear Universe, even though I now live in Vermont and am fine with the whole Kumbaya-and-kale business. Let me also take this opportunity to apologize for making the rabbi remove your name, in its entirety, from our wedding ceremony twelve years ago. And also for saying Oh, my God so much, or worse, OMG, which really I just do in that annoying teenager voice to make fun of others.
I’m writing to you from Adventureland. It’s an odd sort of place, a mix of jungle and desert and tropical island. To get here, you have to cross this wooden plank of a bridge, which is pretty congested and actually kind of dangerous, because people are driving their Rascal scooters at high speeds and they have no problem running over feet. Anyway, to the matter at hand . . .
I’m pretty sure I’m just dehydrated, nothing this forty-five-dollar icy Dole pineapple Whip won’t fix. I’m almost positive this treat and break is all I need to be shocked back to my regular self, but on the slim chance it’s not, this is where you come in. Lord, I seem to be one minute shy of buying a full-on Snow White costume and a Goofy hat.
Please, God, if I promise to never yell at my kids again, will you help bring back my cranky hate-everything self? What if I promise to call my mother—will you do something about all this crying on the rides? If I promise to teach Minnie and Pluto about you and all your stuff, or at the very least play them the original cast recording of Godspell, will you lend a hand? I’ll devote my life to whales and hungry people. I’ll stop judging others. I’ll do whatever it takes if you just ease me back into my comfort zone. I’m open to making a deal, too. You don’t have to bring me all the way back, just give me a slight push to the place where I snicker at my mother-in-law’s love of the fanny pack and not secretly wonder if they sell them here. Can you even hear me?
I’m all turned around here,
God. At one point today, Minnie needed a break, wanted to sit out a ride. You know what I did? I told her to man up. I basically used force to have her ride Splash Mountain with me. I don’t even want to go back to the hotel to rest like the Book said. When we got our Dole Whips, Minnie got the orange to my pineapple (both of which were dreamy, but hers tasted like the best Creamsicle you’ve ever had), and I said that I’d definitely be getting the orange kind next time we came to Disney. Buzz stopped drinking his gargantuan pineapple float and said, “Next time?!” Come on, God, this is retarded.
This is all Buzz’s fault. If he’d had a less tortured upbringing or one sleepover party at his house growing up, or even dealt with any of the above, I wouldn’t be sitting here across from the Swiss Family Treehouse, devouring this bewitching pineapple Whip (no, seriously, you have to try one). Between me and you, I can’t handle this. I’m all smiles and light and I want to participate in everything. Even parades. Parades! I don’t even care that I’m dripping to death (although if there is something you can do to turn the temperature down, I think everyone would appreciate it).
Do you have some sort of suggestion box? Because I have some ideas. Simple stuff like forcing me and Buzz to get in a fight or making me wait forever in a line, only to close the ride for repairs as soon as it’s our turn. I’d even settle for vomiting up this exquisite toxic yellow confection. If you do this for me, in return I’ll send Mickey and Pluto to a Jewy Sunday school (or is that Saturday school? Maybe an online thing? Do you do that?). I’ll go out right now and buy a seder plate and throw salty waters on a shank bone. I’ll do unto others. Just please, God, make me feel bad again before I have a full-on nervous breakdown. But first let me just see how long a wait it is to get back onto Peter Pan’s Flight.
Thank you.
Amen.
(4. depression)
I felt pretty jazzed about my talk with God.
Minnie and I barely had to wait in line for Splash Mountain, and when it broke down right at the top of the drop, in the dark before a rapid descent, instead of needing to breathe into my popcorn bag I enjoyed the cool air and the soothing voice assuring us that life, as we knew it, would resume shortly. Not the sign I was hoping for. When someone offered us two FastPass tickets to Big Thunder Mountain (Pluto’s favorite ride, one we’d already been on four times), causing a mirth flare-up, my belief began to waver. And when the four of us sat in the saloon-style theater, watching life-sized bear puppets singing folksy songs about country life and child abuse, and the slutty bear was lowered from the ceiling and I laughed harder than the rest of the audience, maybe even clapped, I lost the faith completely. God hadn’t heard a word I’d said. I was still happy. How depressing.
“I think Minnie and I are done,” said Buzz. “We’re hungry.”
Fine, I thought. Whatever.
Pluto wanted to ride the roller coaster for the fifth and final time.
“We’ll be in Tomorrowland, eating,” Buzz said. “Just text me when you’re off and we’ll meet up and go home.”
Minnie perked up at the idea of food and bed. Pluto was grabbing at my hand to get back to the haunted gold-mining town. Moments ago, I would have knocked over a few wheelchairs to board that runaway train, but now? Well, it was all I could do to get off the bench. Who cares? I thought. You go up, you go down, big deal.
“If you want,” Buzz said, before heading into Tomorrowland, “you could do Space Mountain before we go.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“I think I’m too tired, Mom,” said Minnie. “Is that okay?”
It was fine. I was used to navigating the dark alone anyway. Happy, sad, alone, together—what’s the point? Weren’t we all on a giant roller coaster in the dark, alone, anyway? I mean, really.
Pluto ran down the ramp into the phony abandoned mine shaft. “Don’t forget to hold me with your arm again. Like last time.”
I knew the drill: once safety bar is secured, use arm as extra seat belt. Wait for Pluto to test by pushing arm, hard, because otherwise Pluto is convinced he’ll fall out. I’d already done it four times.
The sun hovered above the Magic Kingdom. Using its last moments up in the sky in a show-off move, it turned orange, casting an enchanting golden-hour light across the (frontier) land. Beautiful. Naturally, I wept.
Clickety-click up the rickety track. Pluto pushed my arm repeatedly, testing my strength. We moseyed up, a mix of dread and thrill taking over. Finally, our mine shaft car was at the top. Perched. Balanced. Paused.
I surveyed the Magic Kingdom.
I seat belted my son.
I wondered how much it would cost for a time-share.
Fuck.
And we plunged.
Whoosh down the tracks, our bodies jerked and heaved, faces peeled back with the wind.
“Tighter!”
I got you, I thought. His body wouldn’t fit this perfectly in my arm forever, so I tightened my grip. Don’t worry, I got you.
“Is it over?” He’d asked me this question, on the hour, since we entered the park that morning. I held Pluto’s small hand as we exited the haunted mine. “Are we going home?”
I nodded.
“I’m a little bit sad,” he said.
(5a. acceptance)
People ooze from every spoke and hub. The Electrical Parade looms and a Lord of the Flies situation is brewing, as sweaty and frazzled guests try securing plum spots. I’d read a hundred times over to avoid parade routes, but this humdinger seems to cross every part of the Kingdom. We are surrounded.
The sky is moonless, and all around me voices sound underwatery. My scalp tingles, my skin’s damp, and I am abruptly overwhelmed with a hunger I believe is plotting to take me down. Pluto and I continue through the masses. We are pieces of well-done meat in the corporate capitalist soup. I feel all my personalities of the day seeping out of me. My mental skin is disintegrating. I am Cinderella at midnight. I need to get out.
Buzz texts me.
Buzz: Eating by the castle. Near Tomorrowland. Where are you?
In a typical Buzz move, he calls right after texting. Tells me he is at a place called Cosmic Ray’s. I vaguely recall seeing a Jetsons-style eatery earlier and head in what I think is its general direction. I yank Pluto, pretend it’s a game.
I text Buzz back.
Kim: In the restaurant. Where are u. (I have a brief fight with myself for spelling you with a u, but quickly let myself off the hook because the situation is dire.)
Buzz: On castle side.
I don’t know what he means. That damn castle is on every side. Except in the restaurant I am in. I see no castle. I see no castle.
Kim: I am freaking out. Don’t know where you are!
Buzz: Relax. At Cosmic Ray’s. Bay 3.
Kim: I don’t know where that is!
Buzz: Where are i.
Buzz: U.
Buzz: it’s at the my race of Tomorrowland.
(What is he even saying?)
I find my way to the Jetsons place and stand by the ordering counter.
Kim: at ordering counter of Jetsons place.
Buzz: entrance of Tomorrowland. Go to nay 3.
Buzz: bay 3.
I smile at Pluto, and probably look like an insane clown. I don’t know what the hell Buzz is talking about with the bays. I am helpless all of a sudden. In the paper bag people can’t find their way out of.
Kim: I don’t understand the bays!!!!
(Four exclamation marks. I despise the overuse of these things. Officially losing it.)
The phone rings. I am in one of those kidnapping movies all of a sudden and have been up for six nights drinking coffee with Ray Liotta waiting for a call from some creep who stole a kid. I don’t even say hello when I answer. I am Harrison Ford gone mental, awaiting instruction.
Buzz speaks loud and slow into the r
eceiver. “Ask someone where Cosmic Ray’s is. We are in bay three.”
I don’t want to ask anyone for directions, but if I don’t, Pluto will have to scrape me off the floor when parade-goers trample me. Lady in hairnet tells me where to go, and I grab Pluto’s hand for the last time. Power through.
Minnie sees me first. I am pale and clammy. She hugs me. “I. Need. A. Coke.”
“Ew, Mom, really? Soda?”
I want to knock her down but I let her lead me to the table instead. I stare into nothingness until Buzz returns with a red sticky tray. On it sits a large Coke, a basket of undercooked fries, and a gorgeous thirty-seven-dollar hot dog.
(5b. acceptance)(ish)
On the monorail, to the shuttle, to the Heroes parking lot, Buzz was back on his iPhone, Minnie reminded me that she was exhausted and how long until we were at the hotel because she had to go to the bathroom, and Pluto cried because he wasn’t allowed to open his Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Ion Pulse Cannon and Target Set to save the Galactic Alliance from the Evil Emperor Zurg until we got in the car. Not yet at Simba 111, and the Disney tingle was wearing off. I didn’t feel well. I got into a small fight with myself.
Knock it off, I thought. It’s not like you had the best time in the world or anything. Disney tested your malcontent mettle—it was a fierce opponent. Chalk it up to a brief lapse in personality, a chink in the armor and all that. Anyway, it’s not like you have to tell anyone what happened. Just go home and take a Silkwood shower and scrub off all the pixie dust the park threw at you. No one has to know. Ooooh! Look! Fireworks! Awwwww, so pretty. No! No, no, no! Look away. Be gone, Magic Kingdom. We don’t need your kind around here. You, Disney, are a big bully. You, Disney, are a date rapist.
I walked off that monorail with my head (sort of) held high. I never did end up riding Space Mountain. I couldn’t go around fixing all my broken baggage. Plus it soothed me knowing many handles and zippers were still busted. And, in my quiet moments, I still contend that at least, at the very least, I didn’t buy that darling tiara.