Recovering Addicts Go To Disneyland

"You's a penguin looking motherfucker." -Dr. Dre

†In the holy year of our Lord 2007, I took a trip to the holiest of holy sites, Disneyland, in Anaheim, California, home of the Mighty Ducks, Angels (in the outfield), and everything Disney or on social security, with a group of addicted associates from the prestigious Morningside Recovery. Our original purpose of spreading the message of sobriety to middle-class families on vacation was lost in favor of experiencing everything Disneyland had to offer. The ones who need the message the most are the ones who won't listen, who needs them anyway, according to A.A. anyway.†

I knew things were going south on the ride to Disneyland when I told everyone, like my uncle had told me years before, we would be close as soon as we saw the famed Matterhorn Mountain eminently displaying its snowy plastic peak. The smallest mountain in the world can be seen for miles and miles in Orange County, vaguely suggesting to those nearby that Disneyland could really be anywhere, and that to live next to Disneyland is like winning the lottery. This time, however, there was no mountainous indicator, and as my eyes evolved from fixation on the mountain to now watching street signs I should have realized that this return to Disneyland would be no such re-experience of my youth: it would be filled with an abundance of referential indicators without substance: constantly nagging me to take part is their purpose, but they know not what they do.
Instead of saying "are we there yet?" over and over addicts say, "I need a fucking cigarette so fucking badly." Therefore, upon parking, the entire van proceeds to light up, cursing and smoking and wondering what was in store for the day. Going down the line of parked cars, one could see that everyone who was not us was a family with a small child. Mini-van, Hybrid, Suburban, 15-seat Dodge van with tinted windows, Suburban, Hybrid, Mini-van. Someone had an astrological lighter which happened to be my sign, and since there is always an abundance of lighters, I got my own personalized Cancer lighter from the Time Being. Words become forbidden and then we feel old when we can use them whenever we want.
"Everyone remember where we parked!" says the jolly-faced overweight counselor who blasted the Rolling Stones all the way to the park. One time I found her birth control pills lying indiscriminately in her car and asked her if I could have some of her gum.
"Oh, I never forget those things, Grace," I said, hoping that the sincerity of my voice would relieve her of having to remember that this was Timon's parking lot, judging by the horribly dusty signs that were probably a result of the recent fires. It was true, wherever my family goes I am always responsible for knowing where we parked. In this case, the recovering addicts probably needed someone to remember for them, but none of them would necessarily trust me because my skills had not been demonstrated yet. Who wants to wander around aimlessly trying to find the car at the end of the day? Not me! Everyone wants to leave when its time to leave.
Trying to plan your trip to Disneyland can be a disaster because everyone's wants change so quickly that insistence on an efficient and effective plan can make you seem like a power-mongering tour guide. Addicts are really good at pushing the boundaries of what they're given, but it must be done intuitively, because planning is not our forte. Upon entering the park there are shops galore, with Disney characters walking around and allowing kids to take pictures of them. There were never any illusions that these characters were real in my young mind, and I always hated to think that the person under the suit was some guy working for minimum wage. You could never tell, but if I had the chance of ripping off his fake head and exposing it to everyone, I probably would have, and then ended up regretting it because there was probably some kid who really thought they were real. They can't kick you out for that can you? Do they reserve the right to refuse service to anyone? I probably would have ripped his head off and started running, and if someone tried to stop me, I would have put the head on myself to see if he knew the difference.
In this world of Disneyland 2007, everything is smaller, people walk slower, and rides are fun for their aesthetics, not their excitement value. Besides, scary rides are dangerous...ly liable.
Not many people know this, but Saint Peter actually became a Saint through his security work with Noah on his Ark. His first order of business was to contract Santa Claus to make the list of all the animals who would go on the Ark. In front of Space Mountain they have the same thing set up, except St. Peter is a paid grunt employee of Disneyland, Santa Claus gets fired because if you're even in the park you're a paying customer, and Noah, upon building his Ark, quit because no one steers an Ark that is aimlessly floating around, waiting for the flood to go away, or for that matter, a computerized roller coaster which runs on a track. Besides, he has other Arks and roller coasters to build. Still, the people waiting in line are actually animals, that much is true, and most of them are penguins, that much is very true.
When you've been around me for a long enough time, you learn to let me alone when I start digressive, random conversations with random people. In this case, when I had the extreme pleasure of asking Saint Peter about the background score for this wonderful attraction, my addict associates knew they did not care from the time I walked up to him, and quickly ran in line so the wait would not be as long.
"I heard a rumor, that Red Hot Chili Peppers did the score for this attraction?"
"Oh, that was last year, we went back to the original Space Mountain theme music."
I wanted to ask him who made that decision, but as I knew that would only expose his sense of powerlessness to himself, I decided against that. If you do not ask, you will not be told.
People walk much slower than usual when they know they're about to be waiting in line for an hour, that is when you can see their most animal nature. Penguins is really the only way to describe it: shifting their weight left and right rhythmically in what is called waddling in the animal kingdom.
"There's someone behind you," says the person who has turned around to talk to his group face to face.
"Hi, thank you," I say, appreciative not of the fact that they're letting me ahead, but of the fact that they're not explaining why I have a right to such things.
Just like I stare at the characters and wonder who is inside the costume, I look at people's shirts and wonder why they wear such shirts. One time I saw a kid at Borders who was wearing this shirt Thom Yorke was wearing and I asked him where he got it, it was such a cool shirt. It said, "No Star Wars," and clearly was attuned to the absolutely disgraceful display that is the Star Wars Trilogy. Those movies may have great special effects and an army of nerd core rappers behind them, but show me one instance when watching Star Wars when you think to yourself: this really pertains to my life: that Darth Vader character is really like my step-father who tries really hard to replace my real dad.
After about a half an hour of waiting, we enter the control room and on the main screen is a camera shot spinning in space with stars becoming more dizzying than clear. The mood is actually not that of a space station anymore, it is distinctly the space mountain control room, but my associates have not seen such things before and are looking at me very expectantly. I say, "if you take really tiny baby steps the line will go faster because you will always be moving forward," and instead of taking my lead I have to demonstrate for them. When it becomes clear that the line is moving really fast for short periods of time and then stopping, my associates start talking.
"Alex, you're holding up the line!"
"Oh, Blair, it really only appears that way, these people will have to wait all the same."
"The people behind you don't complain to you only because they don't know you."
"Oh, Blair, how can we know that? Think about how happy the people in the back of the line will be when for no apparent reason the line jumps significantly as soon as I get on the rocket."
This, "rocket," a name I had found out only due to dreadful circumstances, had a safety bar which clamped down in intervals, and I happened to be of the body width which fell directly in the middle of the intervals. I chose the looser option. As we leave the docking bay, the ride stops. The controller sitting at her computer turns on the microphone and announces over the loudspeaker that there is a problem with the ride. The entire time we are stuck I am watching a party slowly develop in the control room.
The party, composed of firemen (the generic emergency response team), line mediators, and the people who say "thank you for riding Space Mountain enjoy the rest of your day," has filled the room to the brim, and must make room for more, or so it seems. Their being behind a pane of glass doesn't keep me from noticing that there are very serious glances being shared between the operators. They must have encountered this before, but at the same time look like they are doing their best.
When you are in charge, trying to look like you're doing your best can cause panic among a populace. The king should always save his best option for last, when hopes and expectations are at a minimum and he can look like a real hero for solving an unsolvable problem.