The Dark Side of Disney - Leonard Kinsey [9]
PARK TICKETS
Sneaking In:
It’s a warm August morning in 1995 at EPCOT. Three of us, all college age nerds, stand in front of the ticket kiosks, marveling at the ticket prices, which had been significantly cheaper just weeks before.
“Fuck this,” says Newmeyer, a longtime friend and fellow Disney addict. “I can’t afford this shit anymore!” He’s wearing a black trenchcoat, a black fedora, and a patchy beard; not exactly inconspicuous in the middle of the summer, even in these pre-Columbine days.
McGeorge, a wiry MacGyver look-alike, stares at Newmeyer. “What can you do?” he asks. “If we want in, we gotta buy a ticket!”
“I’m jumping the gate!” Newmeyer proclaims, loud enough for everyone in the near vicinity to hear. And he proceeds to stand at the gate on the far right side of the entrance (where the laundry carts used to come in and out) for a good half hour, getting up the nerve. McGeorge and I watch, knowing that this is more exciting than Spaceship Earth, at least for the moment.
Finally, Newmeyer calmly opens the gate and saunters into the park. He turns around and gives us the thumbs up. McGeorge and I look at each other with a “What the fuck? Why have we been paying for tickets?” look.
Ten seconds later two security officers wearing Hawaiian shirts walk up alongside Newmeyer and casually take his arms, leading him backstage. He looks back at us in panic before he disappears behind a façade of manicured plants. This being pre-cellphone days we simply wait outside the park entrance, passing the time by telling confused tourists that “the entire park is inside the big golf ball.”
Hours later, Newmeyer reappears, disheveled and wiping away tears. “I’m banned from the parks for life,” he sobs. “I can’t ever go back! They took my picture, they took my fucking fingerprints, they made a copy of my driver’s license, they took my social security number…. They’ll send me straight to jail if I come anywhere near here again!”
“Ah, that’s bullshit,” we say, patting him on the shoulder. “Out of all of the people who come here every day, how are they going to keep you out?”
Newmeyer is consoled, and we go back to our off-site hotel, get drunk, and try unsuccessfully to score chicks. The next day we buy tickets for Disney/MGM Studios and Newmeyer gets in with no problems. He promptly forgets about the whole “banned for life” thing.
Four years pass, and Newmeyer calls Disney Reservations to book his honeymoon, asking for a room at the Caribbean Beach Resort for him and his soon to be wife. “Hold for a minute”, the cast member says after he gives his address and credit card number.
Minutes pass. Newmeyer gets a weird nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Something’s going on here…” he thinks as he nervously chews the end of the pen he’s holding.
A different person comes on the line. “Sir, we’re trying to verify your credit card information. Did you used to live on xxxx,” asks this stern new voice, reciting Newmeyer’s address from four years ago.
“Yeah, sure,” says Newmeyer, slowly. He jolts as that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach suddenly turns into a full blown memory. “Oh, shit, you have got to be kidding me….” he whispers, feeling sick.
“Sir,” says the voice on the line, “I must inform you that you are not welcome on Walt Disney World property. If we find that you are on the property during these dates, you will be arrested for trespassing.” The connection drops abruptly, and Newmeyer is left to tell his fiancé how her dreams of a Disney honeymoon are shattered.
As my dumbass friend Newmeyer clearly illustrated, unless you want to risk being banned for life and arrested, you