The Dark Side of Disney - Leonard Kinsey [46]
When we got back together in Tampa that summer, it was like no time had passed. We were still the best of friends, and were thrilled to have a few months to hang around each other again. But it seemed as if the outside world had changed: our parents were more annoying and demanding, our siblings were more childish, summer jobs were more tedious, and Walt Disney World was… boring. I went a few times that summer with my family, and other than Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, and the cheap thrill of seeing girls losing their bikini tops on the slides at Blizzard Beach, I was bored out of my skull. “RIP, Uncle Walt,” I thought to myself.
The summer went by quickly, though. I had a job as a cart-pusher and bagger at Publix, which I promptly quit after three weeks because the idiot manager insisted cart-pushers wear dark slacks. Any guy who has ever worn dark slacks outside in the humid Florida summer heat knows that you sweat like a pig, and the sweat drips down your back, onto your pants, and quickly forms white rings of dried salt below the band of the pants. Not to mention the soaked armpits on the knit polo shirts we had to wear. Judicious application of Right Guard stopped the stench but still couldn’t stop the actual sweat from soaking your entire body. Sweating like this and going back inside to bag groceries made me look and feel disgusting, and I felt awful touching people’s groceries and trying to be polite when I was desperately in need of an hour-long shower.
So much to my mother’s dismay I quit the grocery store job and started a band with Newmeyer and McGeorge. We played a nonsensical mix of Gershwin, The Beatles, Zappa, and death metal. I was on guitar and vocals, Newmeyer on bass, and McGeorge on drums and keyboards. We played the local coffee shop on the weekends and I made more money each weekend than I’d been making each week at Publix. “Fuck Publix, and fuck my mom for making me get such a bullshit job!” I proclaimed triumphantly. I was in full-on adolescent asshole mode. But things were going great with the band, and we’d each saved up enough money for an end-of-summer trip.
“I don’t want to go to Daytona!” yelled Newmeyer.
“Why not, you dick?” I shouted back.
“Will you two shut the fuck up?” screamed McGeorge, desperately concentrating on trying to download a single pornographic picture from a BBS over a state of the art 14.4K baud modem.
“I’m fat, and everyone will be walking around in bathing suits,” seethed Newmeyer, completely ignoring McGeorge. “I’m not taking my shirt off!”
I sighed. “Sweet Christ. Okay, fine. So no beaches? It’s Florida, dumbass! Where are we going to go where there’s not a beach?”
“Let’s go to Disney,” replied McGeorge, not looking up from his computer. “Fuck! The connection got reset! MOM!!!” He jumped up, opened his door, and started screaming into the hallway, beet red. “DID YOU JUST PICK UP THE PHONE?! I TOLD YOU TO ASK ME BEFORE USING THE PHONE!” He slammed the door. “We’re going to Disney! Now stop your bitching and whining and help me download this porn!”
Newmeyer and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“Really, Disney?” I asked, incredulously. “That sounds a bit boring, McGeorge.”
“No, wait…” started Newmeyer, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s perfect! We can stay at a fleabag motel, get our Florida discount on the tickets, and McGeorge can hook us up with a shit ton of booze through his UCF connections.”
“Yeah,” said McGeorge, not paying any attention to us. “I’m awesome. Porn.”
“I’ve already been