The Happiest Place on Earth

  

I squinted in the darkness at the strip of paper Apes showed to me–printed upon it was a familiar character controlled by a corporation that would’ve never licensed his likeness for a product such as this. “Donald Duck!? Where’d you get it?”

“Wacked-Out-White-Boy,” Richard named the dealer by the crummy eponymous tattoo on his arm, which was inked above an indiscernible shape that might’ve been a goblin… “What’s weird is we actually ended up on Disney property…”

“Yeah,” Apes agreed, “we stood beneath that dinosaur outside Planet Hollywood staring up at it for, like, I don’t even know how long…”

“Good stuff? You guys still fucked up?” Though it was past midnight and the streetlight was dead, their dilated pupils told me everything I needed to know–eyes stared through the darkness with no form. 

“The craziest thing,” Apes continued, “was when we got back in the car–”

“Oh yeah!” Richard let out.

“–I started it and everything was totally quiet at first–then out of nowhere we hear, ‘ONE—LAST—CA–RESSSSSSSS!’”

I stuck myself in their shoes. “WOW! Holy shit! That’s awesome!” 

“Yeah, I guess we’d stopped the car right before that part…”

“Damn…” 

I thanked them as they handed me the two-and-a-half inch strip of LSD with the maniacal mallard printed all over it–cheap paper dipped in liquid happiness. They drove off with their Misfits-haunted soundtrack as I went back inside to Jimmy and Tess, who were staying the night. We’d gone to Ybor City to see Christian Death earlier that night and it was the worst concert I’ve ever seen… On the bright side, Mortiis had opened the show and hung baby dolls from a big cross. Rumor had it that he’d surgically altered himself to look like a goblin with his pointy ears and nose–maybe like the one tattooed on Wacked-Out-White-Boy’s arm. Hey–whatever makes you happy.

“What’cha got?” Jimmy asked.

“A surprise.”

“What’s the surprise?” Tess seconded as she cracked open another Milwuakee’s Best, the only beer we drank back then.

“Acid,” I told them. “Look–it’s got Donald Duck on it!”

Jimmy let out his crazy laugh. “Are we taking that now?”

“No…” I did have to work at the pretzel stand the next day. “We’re goin’ to Disney World!” 

A couple days later Jimmy, Mike #1, Mat, and I were all at Mike #2’s house (Sorry, Tess…). I’d procured a few passes to the park and we were almost set to go–first we had to dissect Donald and disperse him onto our tongues, though Mikes #1 and 2 didn’t partake. Once that was finished, we began our journey to the Happiest Place on Earth. 

The world twisted as soon as we sped under Disney’s giant arch on U.S. 192. A falling elevator packed with screaming faces warned of the hallucinatory horrors laying in wait, but it was just an oversized ad for the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. Fitting, since we were heading into a dimension of imagination…

The Transportation Center was empty upon our arrival–the crowd was already inside the park. We mounted the monorail with caution–as I looked around I noticed that we were the only ones on the thing–we had the whole car to ourselves! It was too good to be true… We took a simultaneous breath, waiting for someone or something to interrupt this magic moment, but no one did. The doors closed, sealing us inside the train’s futuristic dragon of a cabin like bullets in a barrel, projectiles of potential energy. Then the monorail lurched forward and we EXPLODED inside, detonating at the top of our lungs, bouncing off the walls, jumping up and down over seats and across barriers, screaming.

The lunacy was in full swing.  

As the monorail passed through the Contemporary Hotel we were guided by some sort of group telepathy–an extra, all-knowing intelligence–which told us the only appropriate action to take in our encapsulated space-aged vehicle was to pound on the windows as hard as we could while we pressed our five peckers against the glass. All the families eating brunch down below looked up in total shock… It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. 

When the sky-train stopped at the Magic Kingdom, I was certain the Disney Police would be there to pounce–surely the cartoon anvil was about to fall and spoil the fun before it had even begun. That was just the way things worked out sometimes…

But, alas, there was no one there… we’d somehow gotten away with it, dodged our fates until another day. We sprung into the park with animated glee–it was amazing. There was fun as far as the eye could see. After walking through a dead man’s nostalgic recollection of his hometown, Main Street U.S.A., our first stop was TomorrowLand, of course. The line at Alien Encounter was our first true test if we could keep our shit together, standing there in that group of tourists eager to have an alien spit at them in the dark. 

We were all giggles–everything was hilarious! We finally got inside and were shown a short video presentation starring Mr. Rooney, the principal from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, that established the premise of the ride. The famous child molestor was made-up to appear as an extraterrestrial in green-face to keep him barely recognizable from the concerned parents and children.

The alien spit was a hit. Afterwards, we delighted in the Wedway People Mover, Buzz Lightyear and Space Mountain, where I noticed a strange trend–the architects of the ride, or “Imagineers,” always make you look at yourself after the fun is over, either with a photo or in this ride’s case, through live action video monitors as you descend a moving walkway towards the gift shop. What’s the point of this, exactly? Do I really need to see myself? Was this kind of ego trip necessary in the midst of an acid trip?

I shook off these thoughts as we watched one of TomorrowLand’s self-aware trash cans zoom around. It was hard to discern these artificially intelligent mobile waste receptacles from the regular park guests. We peered at a park map trying to decide what to do next, and a surly cast member took notice of our misdirection. “Alright–so where are you guys trying to go?” he asked, impatient as he tried to “help.”

Mike #2 just said the first thing that popped in his head. “Uh–Thunder Mountain!”

The cast member hissed in disgust. “What? That’s on the totally opposite end of the park!”

We made our disdain visible as we walked away–Jeez, sorry, we were just excited, you fuckin’ prick! Shouldn’t the employees be a little bit nicer in the Happiest Place on Earth?

We weren’t bothered too much as we scuttered off to our adventure, which happened to be in AdventureLand: Pirates of the Carribean. This was before they made the ride so much less rapey... We watched the pirates commit random acts of terrorism then reward themselves with prostitues. It was pretty fun. I don’t know if it was the influence of the ride or what, but once we hit the gift shop we took on some of the pirates’ less sociable traits and started burglarizing everything in sight.

Coins, hooks, eyepatches, bandanas, treasure maps–it was all booty for us. The most popular item we looted were some rubber cockroaches, but I’ll get to those later… After that, we went to Frontierland and Mike #2 made the biggest score out of anybody: a black cowboy hat from a kiosk next to the barbaric snack stand where they only sold emu legs. He put the thing on then simply walked away, slick-as-could-be … We didn’t mean any harm, but now we looked the part of the outlaw, as well. You always need some Villains if you wanna have your heroes…

Speaking of which, we went over to the Haunted Mansion, which has always been my favorite ride. I wanted to live there as a kid. Our chemical kicked into high gear within the Mansion’s walls–our eyes stared into the darkness, but the darkness stared back as grim grinning ghosts materialized to socialize… 

Okay, I wasn’t that fucked up–I knew these spooks were just holograms of robots, but they were happy haunts, at least. The ride definitely sent its spirit home with me that day, but we were the opposite of these apparitions–we were fucking alive. 

Afterwards we finally got on Thunder Mountain, which did not disappoint. I truly felt like I’d arrived at a frontier of some kind. The most fun thing, however, was Tom Sawyer Island. We explored the caves and fort, but of course had to sneak off to the real unknown–a restricted part of the island where even the cast members weren’t permitted–so that we could fantasise about smoking pot and staying out there all night… Nothing was ever good enough.

As we exited FrontierLand we passed a Dixieland Jazz band. A little boy danced among them in the middle of the path, delighting in the music. There was a circle of onlookers gathered to watch, but nobody so much cared about the band–it was all about the kid, who bopped around, jumping from side to side with a great big smile on his face, immersed in the music, overjoyed in the jazz, that forgotten soundtrack of America. The trombone player put his horn right up to the kid’s face and issued a long, solid bleat, blowing back the hair on the blonde boy’s little head. It was magical, adorable, the cutest–a totally beautiful moment. It was–

–IT WAS THE MOST RIDICULOUS THING WE’D EVER SEEN. We completely lost any semblance of our shit. Each one of us doubled over in maniacal laughter, almost in pain, at this absurd sight–even the two Mikes who weren’t tripping. We were all practically in tears. After a couple minutes of these hysterics we looked up to notice the entire crowd staring at us, silent, sickened by the sight of the five assholes freaking out at the expense of this poor, innocent child. Their faces were Disgusted, Indignant, Enraged, their expressions like those mirror-monitors at the end of Space Mountain, showing us an image of ourselves through the eyes of others. There was no doubt in the world we were fuckups now. We fled the scene laughing like mad, cracking up harder than ever.

As we tried to catch our breaths I began to think about this thing, Disney. What was it? What began as one man’s vision was now a mass mind. It wasn’t just a network of theme parks… It was decades of calculating, cultivating, branding–in television, movies, merchandising and memories. What had started out as the dream of one man had merged with our own to transcend time, space, and reality itself. This entity was now a corporation with a will of its own, fueled by a hunger for the flow of commerce and the glimmer of gold which has tarnished to green over the years. I wondered if this sentient being had an artificial intelligence on par with those trash cans we’d seen back in TomorrowLand…

Then I saw them.  

A couple walking, the woman way up ahead of the guy. He was struggling to catch up, carrying their backpack full of bullshit. Both had on Mickey ears, but they looked like the most miserable people in the world, the most pathetic pair on the face of the planet. They were horrible, and not just to look at, but because they didn’t appear even remotely happy. Wasn’t that the fucking point of this place? After all the miles and years these bozos had traversed to get here they couldn’t seem to scrape together even the tiniest speck of that elusive substance which the Declaration of Independence deems our unalienable right to pursue? 

In a Magic Kingdom in the only country in the world which guarantees that right, these losers had lost on every account. God damn it. The couple passed and I felt my own fragile grip from the big H slip. I started weeping uncontrollably, crying like a little bitch. What’s it all worth if you can’t be happy at the Happiest Place on Earth?

After my psychedelic outlaw/pirate friends calmed me down, we started to have fun again. I tried to think of that child–that absurd, ridiculous kid dancing in front of the band. He was about as happy as you could get. Before we left we decided to spend our stolen rubber cockroaches at It’s A Small World, pelting them at the people in other boats as the manic tune played ad infinitum. We didn’t discriminate–it was a small world, after all. Then Mike #1 drank the water beneath us, just like Lisa in the classic Simpsons episode where she starts hallucinating at our ride’s Duff Gardens twin. I laughed so hard I almost cried again, but these tears would have left streaks of joy.

A few months later I attempted to recreate my Disney-on-acid double fantasy, but Donald was no longer with us. The constants from the initial experiment weren’t in place: the crew was different, as was the chemical. We had gel tabs instead of paper. Also, by this point we felt the need to bring Xanax as a back-up in case anybody freaked out. Richard was there this time and he puked right at the entrance of the Transportation Center. A disgusted father led his son away from the vomit site as a cast member appeared out of nowhere with a broom and dust-pan to sweep up Richard’s barf without a word.

I thought the game was up this time for sure. The cartoon anvil was gonna drop and nothing could stop it this time. I grew paranoid our pills would be found, so I ate all the ones I had, killing my trip. The monorail was packed this time. The rides weren’t as fun. No dancing child and no old-timey band–no miserable couple, either for that matter. I replayed many of my previous thoughts about Disney as an entity, but they were all just rehash. If I was using the scientific method and testing a hypothesis by gathering data, did I want a different conclusion or the same one as the time before? Would the results mean as much? Some people define repeating the same actions while expecting a different outcome as insanity, but isn’t trying to relive the same experience over and over again, also? What about Walt Disney, who tried to recreate his idyllic boyhood hometown on Main Street U.S.A.? Was he fucking nuts, too? I just wanted to be happy, goddammit, but I’d been happier sucking down Milwaukee’s Best with Jimmy and Tess, commiserating on the worst show we’d ever seen… happier picturing myself with Apes and Richard in Apes’s car, ‘ONE—LAST—CA–RESSSSSSSS!’ blasting from nowhere and everywhere.

On my first trip within a trip I thought I learned something about life, love, and the absurd joys of the simple things, but this second time was just an animatronic–cold, devoid of life or substance. Maybe if I was seeing through the eyes of that curmudgeonly duck the second time around, things would have been different… but probably not. I’d paid for my five dollar ride to Happiness, but it was closed for maintenance. 

The acid wasn’t the solution. Disney wasn’t the solution. Maybe it was something else–something inside of me. Perhaps that’s the reason the Mouse and his Imagineers make you look at yourself and your friends in those pictures that nobody buys and on those creepy closed-circuit monitors as you exit towards the gift shop–so you can visualize that fun part of your soul the ride shook out. That potential is the real gift at the end, and the real ride–who you’re on it with is also important. Happiness lies within but you have to shake it loose… just like that little shit gettin’ down with the Dixieland band.