I Don't Have a Happy Place (25 page)

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.

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
.