Will Not Attend: Lively Stories of Detachment and Isolation Page 4

  It was about this time I realized that Sadie wasn’t having fun. No matter how hard her cousins tried to get her into the spirit of something called Mickey’s PhilharMagic, she seemed ambivalent, perhaps even confused as to why she wasn’t enjoying herself. I think she was also a little put off by the way Diane was screaming at her kids: “Get in that Tiki Room! Don’t elbow the gopher! Speak clearly to John Smith from Pocahontas!” I knelt down by my daughter and said, “Honey, is there anything special you’d like to—” She cut me off: “Can we go back to the hotel?”

  I glared at Diane, who was standing ten yards away, clapping like a baboon at a roving magician who’d just separated two silver rings. I approached and curtly briefed her that we were going back to the hotel to pack our bodies in ice. She looked outraged, as if I were walking out of her son’s christening (which I did, by the way). Lorrie stepped in and confirmed that we’d had enough for the day. I detected tension between the sisters, something I considered a personal victory. But just when it seemed the fur might fly, the magician produced a red scarf. Once again, Diane and her tribe were under his spell.

  After purchasing three bottles of water that, to my memory, cost nineteen dollars, Lorrie, Sadie, and I began our exodus from the Magic Kingdom.

  Somehow, we got lost. The only way back to the Wilderness Lodge was by shuttle or ferry boat. Traveling by boat was out of the question, as I had a premonition of a bearded man in a striped vest playing the banjo. Yet finding the shuttle proved frustrating. No one seemed able—or perhaps willing—to point us in the right direction. You’re leaving? But it’s only noon! I became so desperate I even asked Chip and Dale, but they just shrugged their shoulders like a couple of retards.

  Growing panicked, I flagged a security guard and begged him to show us where the buses were located. He gave me a glance and replied, “To the Grand Floridian?” Fun fact: The Grand Floridian is considered by some to be the “Jewish hotel” at Disney World. I guess because it has a spa. I corrected him and said, no, we were staying at the Wilderness Lodge. He scratched the back of his head for a moment, contemplating the unlikelihood of Jews in the wilderness, then gave us some complicated directions he seemed to be making up as he went along. When you’re desperate, you’ll take anything.

  What happened next, I believe to this day, was a plot to prevent me from leaving the Magic Kingdom. Word had gotten out; I was being a “difficult guest”—the Disney World equivalent of what Scientologists call a “suppressive person.” As the temperature climbed to roughly 120 degrees, our path to freedom was unexpectedly blocked. We had somehow wandered into the Main Street area as a parade had begun and were quickly consumed by a throng of frenzied zealots who cheered wildly at a procession of Disney characters led by Tinker Bell. Ms. Bell, by the way, was safely ensconced in a glittery cagelike basket, no doubt meant to keep her safe from the grabby hands of daddies and recently paroled uncles. Suddenly, a surge of electricity shot through the crowd and the place went nuts. Mickey had appeared on the parade route. He stood in an open car, solemnly nodding his giant head as he acknowledged his fanatical followers with an occasional white-gloved wave. I will abstain from making a reference to Leni Riefenstahl, but I will say I half expected to hear the sound of windows being shattered at the Grand Floridian.

  With the roar of the mob still ringing in my head, we arrived back at the Wilderness Lodge, physically and emotionally drained. Entering the lobby, we were greeted by a guy in a bear suit dancing with a broom. Sadie shrieked, “Oh God, now they’re here too?” Later I drifted off into a disturbing sleep, dreaming that I was lying in a battlefield with my stomach ripped open and my guts hanging out. A medic with comical buckteeth was kneeling beside me, delicately removing little pigs with fiddles from my body cavity.

  The next two days went by in a blur of dread and fatigue. More heat, more noise, bigger crowds, and the Mexico Pavilion. I felt light-headed much of the time and developed a rash from some off-brand sunscreen I’d purchased from a vendor who, according to the lady behind me, had played the fat kid in The Bad News Bears. (“He looks terrible, doesn’t he?”)

  By now, the tension between me and Diane was so thick you could cut it with a pickax, the kind a dwarf might sling over his shoulder before departing for work. The fuse had been lit way back at the Whispering Canyon Cafe, which was connected to the original fuse that had been lit the day we’d first met. Something was going to blow.

  There’s a phrase the old folks back home like to use when describing one’s distaste for an unpleasant task or chore: “I need that like I need a second asshole.” So it goes without saying that something called the Tomorrowland Terrace Fireworks Dessert Party would be the granddaddy of redundant assholes. Diane announced—as if it were the greatest news since they started crossbreeding pugs with beagles—that she had made reservations for all of us at the Dessert Party that evening. She was fucking with me, baiting me into battle at that very moment. But I denied her the victory. To her utter confusion, I cheerfully agreed to attend the affair and even said something to the effect of “Boy, I bet the desserts are gonna be dynamite.” Ha-ha. No, I would write the final scene in our little playlet, to be performed at a time of my choosing.

  To avoid any geographical confusion, the Tomorrowland Terrace is located in the Magic Kingdom, directly down the walkway from the Tomorrowland Noodle Station (to the best of my knowledge, the only Asian restaurant in our galaxy that serves hot dogs). When we finally arrived at the Terrace, it wasn’t a vision of the future I found, but essentially a late 1970s high school cafeteria. I kept looking around for Steve Eichhorn so I could tell him to cool it with the quaaludes and not to go to Sue Brenner’s party because he was going to drive into someone’s living room on the way home.

  The much anticipated dessert buffet lay before us, spread out on long steel tables like a Christmas party at the city morgue. And believe me when I tell you, children and adults alike swarmed that shit like crows on a dead groundhog.

  It didn’t take long before every kid in the Terrace was junked up on sugar and running all over the joint, knocking over chairs, upending café tables, and mowing down toddlers. It was like reliving the Rodney King verdict. You’d think a responsible parent or two might’ve uttered the magic words “Settle the fuck down,” but nah. Why spoil perfection?

  All at once, the lights dimmed and you could hear a pin drop. Children settled into their mothers’ laps, siblings who’d been fighting just moments before held hands, and all eyes were on Cinderella Castle, now bathed in purple light. Diane and her family soberly gazed upward, as if ready to receive the Eucharist.

  Music began. It was one of those drippy, syrupy deathbed melodies that could come only from the deranged minds at Disney. And then, a honey-bathed voice arrived from the heavens (or, to be more precise, a loudspeaker above the restroom doors).

  Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.

  A blotch of light now appeared above the castle and shot across the sky. The Kingdom erupted in cheers that could be heard all the way from the Hall of Presidents to the Swiss Family Treehouse.

  Tinker Bell!

  She was flying at great personal risk along a length of piano wire to the delight of her minions. There was a communal, almost otherworldly sigh from the people standing behind me, and I felt a hot blast of mud pie breath on the back of my neck. Funny thing though: As she flew closer to Tomorrowland Terrace, I noticed that this Tinker Bell didn’t quite resemble the pert little thing I’d seen in the parade. No, this Tinker Bell looked like a dude, and a scared one at that. He stiffly waved his magic wand a few times, trying to avoid unnecessary movement. I offhandedly cracked to Lorrie, “Wow, old Tink needs a shave.” And with that seemingly benign comment, fireworks exploded above the castle and the walls came a-tumblin’ down.

  Apparently my voice had been louder than I’d intended, because there was an audible gasp behind me and a family moved away from us.
This did not go unnoticed by Diane. As fireworks blasted and the voice of Jiminy Cricket came over the loudspeaker, sounding like Jim Jones in Guyana, she grabbed me by the arm and hustled me to the edge of the Terrace.

  “You’re ruining this trip for everyone!” she hissed. Her eyes were ablaze as mouse-shaped rosettes bloomed in her corneas.

  “What did I do?” I asked with the face of an altar boy.

  “You can’t say things like that in front of children! You can’t say Tinker Bell is a man! Besides, it’s not true!”

  With mock indignation, I responded that I really didn’t care what he was, and neither should she—he’s a human being and deserves our support.

  “You’re an asshole!” she screeched. “I fucking hate you!”

  “Well, the skin’s off the turkey leg now, ain’t it!” I replied in my best hillbilly twang.

  “I knew it was a mistake to invite you down here!” she raged. “I will never ask you to do another thing with us as long as I live!”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it, honey.”

  The word “honey” produced the desired effect, and she unloaded with a series of insults and expletives, scoring nicely with “burrhead” (God, I hate my hair), but less so with “dumb fuck” (while no intellectual, I’m far from dumb).

  She still wasn’t through, though. It was time to grill me on a litany of past crimes that she’d been stewing about for ages. I was nothing if not an honest defendant.

  “Why didn’t you come to Riley’s play last year?” she snarled.

  “I’m not a big fan of the theater,” I responded. “Especially when it involves driving five hours to watch a six-year-old pick up a hat.”

  “He had a line!”

  “Forgive me—‘I found a hat.’”

  “What about Wyatt’s sixth-grade graduation?”

  “In that case, I purely didn’t give a shit.”

  The pathological narcissist with the Ichabod Crane body and Muppet eyebrows plowed forward.

  “Why do you always run out on errands when you visit us?”

  “Because I’d rather spend three hours at the Mobile station reading fishing magazines than listen to a blow-by-blow of your latest adventures in electrolysis, which, by the way, ain’t working.”

  It all felt so exhilarating!

  A vein emerged on her forehead. Her final query was obviously “the big one.” She spoke it slowly and precisely, through clenched teeth. I remember thinking she was either channeling Clint Eastwood or having a stroke.

  “Last Christmas,” she began, “when I came to New York with my neighbors . . . and I called you from the street—”

  I cut her off. “I lied about the broken elevator so you wouldn’t come up and use the bathroom.”

  Her jaw fell and the vein in her forehead did a little dance. I almost tossed it a quarter.

  “Barb had interstitial cystitis!” she shrieked.

  I don’t know who Barb is, and I know even less about interstitial cystitis, but here’s the real story: Diane and her pals came into the city to see Mamma Mia! and needed a place to park their Lee relaxed fits until the bus carted them back to Pennsyltucky. The bathroom thing was just a ploy to take over my apartment for a few hours.

  The memory of the incident got under my skin as I grasped the sheer number of man-hours I’d put in over the years dodging and lying my way out of this woman’s demands on my time.

  I was through jousting. It was time to burn this bridge to the ground.

  I started off slowly and reasonably, admitting that while I was far from perfect, Diane possessed no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Drawing inspiration from the Honorable Minister Louis Farrakhan, I began tossing out words like “wicked,” “uncivilized,” and at one point, I believe, “enemy of God.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man staring at me with an intense grin, like the guy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest who silently urges McMurphy to strangle the nurse.

  I ended my tirade by doing something I hated to do but was necessary to topple the Diane regime once and for all: I ratted out my wife. “And by the way,” I said casually, “it was Lorrie who came up with the broken elevator. I wanted to go with bedbugs, but she said that wouldn’t be enough to keep you out.” Diane looked stunned.

  She gazed through me at some invisible spot in the distance. Perhaps, I thought, she was finally reflecting on her selfish need to impose social requirements on my family and me. Or maybe she was consumed with guilt over the number of times she had obnoxiously insinuated herself into my life and the lives of others. Or maybe, just maybe, I was witnessing a spiritual transformation before my very eyes.

  But no. She had merely been thinking of another bad name to call me. (“Piece of shit.” Yawn.)

  And with that, she grabbed her family and stormed out of Tomorrowland and my life. It all happened so quickly. The fireworks weren’t even over and a few éclairs were still left on the table.

  I turned and found myself looking to the sky. The cricket was singing over the loudspeaker.

  If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme. . . .

  For the very first time, I could hear the words. Was it really true? Had I been wishing to that special star all along?

  My family joined me on the terrace. I put my arm around Lorrie and held Sadie’s hand. And then, to my astonishment, I felt my eyes moisten. The Disney Magic had entered my body, if only for a brief moment. I could feel it deep inside me, swinging on a little hammock, saying, “Gotcha, bitch!”

  I kneeled before the castle and asked Mickey for His forgiveness. I begged Goofy to absolve me of my sins. And I pleaded with Oliver from Oliver & Company to have mercy on my soul. A fine mist swirled around me. This time tomorrow I’d be back in New York, living the life I cherished. Marching in my own parade once again.

  Like the movie says, “There’s no place like home.” (Sorry, Walt, that one’s not yours.)

  Scientology Down Under

  The subway station was packed and chaotic, but I managed to spot the sign: FREE STRESS TESTS. As I elbowed my way closer, I could make out a folding table, a stack of Dianetics books, and two fresh-scrubbed young men cheerfully trying to make contact with the averted eyes of scowling commuters. In the middle of the table sat what appeared to be a 1970s-era Radio Shack battery tester. In fact, it was the fabled E-Meter—a special device Scientologists use to measure how fucked up your head is (in my layman’s understanding). It would have been easy to dismiss or laugh off, but I was in one of those moods—the kind where I realized my brain’s done me no favors in life.

  The Scientologists received me like a long-lost brother. There was Randy, a superfriendly white guy in a polo shirt and khakis, and Tony, a superfriendly white guy in a polo shirt and khakis who was taller than Randy. They were both trim, well groomed, and energetic. I was fatigued, had a zit in the corner of my eye, and was holding a paper bag with a Bugs Bunny DVD inside. Maybe something good would come of this.

  They sat me down on a folding chair, we exchanged pleasantries, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I found myself holding two metal pipes connected to the E-Meter. I was facing Randy. Tony, who appeared to be the more seasoned of the two, stood quietly in the background, observing.

  “Adam, I want you to think about something that upsets you,” Randy began. “Maybe it’s someone you know, someone who’s caused you pain. Try to tap into the anger or negative thought patterns you experience during the course of a typical day.”

  Right off the bat, I felt like a kid in a candy store. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is bitterness, self-loathing, and fantasies of vengeance. Gesturing to the E-Meter, I jokingly said, “Gee, I hope you’ve got fresh batteries in that thing. You might want to hook it up to a generator.” I wanted to keep the mood light to offset my sudden concern that I was going to wind up in a closet with a bowl of oatmeal and holes drilled into my skull.

  “Focus, Adam,” Randy instructed.


  I realized this might prove difficult. Between blaring announcements reminding people to report suspicious packages and a man washing his feet a few yards away, “focus” was going to be a tough nut. And then there was the lady dragging the steamer trunk from one end of the station to the other, shouting, “Roy! Roy! Over here! Roy!” Thankfully that subsided when she stopped to buy a churro.

  “Think about your personal relationships, Adam. Block out the noise. Concentrate on something that invokes deep, negative feelings.”

  Again, this should have been like petitioning a dog to eat a hamburger.

  I gripped the pipes like a kamikaze and prepared to dive-bomb that fortified bunker of animus known as my head. But I was distracted by a clam-heavy rendition of “In the Mood” being banged out on a steel drum somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear.

  “Think, Adam!” Randy implored. “Think of anyone who’s ever made you unhappy in life!” I went for the low-hanging fruit, trying to envision a few of my asshole brothers. But I couldn’t muster up the requisite anger.

  “Maybe it’s a friend who betrayed you. Or an authority figure from your childhood . . .”

  I felt something bounce off the side of my head. It was a new pair of tube socks with the tag still attached. I had little time to consider the event; the guy with the steel drum was now beating the shit out of “Help Me, Rhonda,” which caused my teeth to vibrate. Randy was obliged to raise his voice a few decibels. “A DUPLICITOUS COLLEAGUE! A FORMER LOVER! SOMEONE CONNECTED TO LAW ENFORCEMENT!”

  A bony-looking man wearing a Mets cap and a Tropicana orange juice T-shirt appeared to collect the tube socks and wandered off.

  The pressure was getting to me. Lord knows I tried, but I couldn’t get the needle on the E-Meter to budge. Metaphorically speaking, I felt like those guys you read about who can’t “get hard” when they try to perform intercourse. The old-timers called it “whiskey dick,” according to my exhaustive research.