Lost Memories of Tomorrow Land
WDW was Originally conceived in the 1960’s. Walt Disney hoped to expand his vast imaginative empire before he died. He propositioned the state government for something akin to Papal Infallibility—complete autonomy over the southern regions of Orlando, 27,000 acres to do with what he pleased.
Situated on four dozen or so miles of mush, the land was cheap. Disney used dummy corporations to buy up the area ensuring the price would remain to his liking. The local owners were more than happy to sell.
"You cannot adequately understand the road rage that boils to the point you feel compelled to shout obscenities at some women whose morning breakfast consists of chewing down prescription pain medication and black coffee.
It’s an area just south from where Tiger Woods had the most career altering car accident any celebrity has seen this side of Princess Diana. Old People (age 65+) make up about 20% of Florida’s population and you’d think it even higher than that. The roadways are flooded with old geezers driving 20 miles per hour under the speed limit thundering head on into one-way traffic. We all lose part of our minds with age, we understand this. But you cannot adequately understand the road rage that boils to the point you feel compelled to shout obscenities at some women whose morning breakfast consists of chewing down prescription pain medication and black coffee.
The roads don’t help much. Interstate-4 (I4) was under construction back when Disney was out surveying the land. 50 years on and the highways are a mess of the same corroded original pavement. Four and five lanes of pure hell. Clueless foreigners, meth heads, and high old ding bats are scattered about traffic obstacles on this menacing express way. Grip the wheel in shock as you blaze 80 mph attempting to avoid the ever present prospect of death that is chipped gravel and drifting Cadillac’s.
The various parks and resorts are mostly situated along International Drive. Purple and red signs overhang, pointing you to your respective entertainment. My companion and I snaked our way through no less than three different guard outposts—useful for keeping the crazies from entering The roadside was peppered with advertisements for rides. Large billboard cutouts showcased a cast of terrified cardboard figures somehow enjoying large plummets to the ground below.
We finally found a place to park, but the trip had put me in a foul mood. The climate was a humid 80 degrees, with overcast skies and a faint current of air. I could feel the sweltering heat burning a hole through the soles of my shoes.
My date brought me here against my will. She was a dough faced girl with big thick hips and a busty chest. She worked in Magic Kingdom, the most popular of the four parks. The plan was to walk around for a bit before she had to go to work. I was attempting to ignore her but she seemed intent on getting her arms around me. The dumb bitch was too horny to pay any mind to the mass of terrible creatures surrounding us: river-rats, white trash, rednecks—all those vile vulgarisms used to describe the embarrassing rural white folk. All types of human deviants flocked to these lands. My people.
Magic Kingdom divides it’s parking lots up into two sections: heroes & villains. And these sections are broken down even further with a Dsieny character of respective origin such as Aladdin, Ursula, etc. We had parked in the former, under the Woody sign. There’s just over 12,000 parking spaces housed in MK alone, so you’d do well to remember your designated area.
We hitched a ride on one of the many circulating trams to carry us the rest of the way. These little oscillating worms are on a continuous loop around the various parks. It dropped us off just at the park’s entrance, or so I thought. For some reason we didn’t need to go through the spindles. My friend simply flashed her work badge as the security guard rummaged around her purse for any mischievous goods or weapons. We scurried through. I was thankful to avoid the ridiculous parking and entrance rates, but then so was she as I wouldn’t have undertaken this voyage otherwise. We boarded a ferry to reach the park’s real entrance.
Our boat lurched out over the water as the captain doled out orders over the intercom in a pitiful attempt at humor.
“Keep away from the sides please.” He said. “If you fall over I will not be going in to after you. They don’t pay me enough for that.”
This garnered a few chuckles from the crowd as police cruisers sped by. I was hoping someone would fall overboard. Perhaps I’d volunteer, give them all a real shock of excitement.
A river rat, as the name implies, is a filthy little rodent that makes his or her living somewhere on or near water. They come in all shapes and sizes, but are usually of the leprous disposition. One such cretin was eyeing me now. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd to me. He stood hunched and overweight, back towards the staircase at the middle of the boat’s front end. He wore a ragged white shirt that had amalgamated into a sickening meringue color after years of mismanaged washing. The sleeves were cut off and just below the furloughs a colored tattoo showed of a red haired buxom fellating some sort of puffer fish…the yellow one from The Little Mermaid, but I couldn’t be sure. He looked ready for a fight, ready to leap at the first insult that came his way. I didn’t belong here…not amongst these hideous monstrosities of society.
And real monsters too! We mustn’t forget the actual pre-historic beasts that call this place home. Real-live dinosaurs. They scavenge the glassy waves in search of a fine-tasting meal, hopefully one of exotic nature.
There was an uncommunicative bond between the redneck and the alligator. They understood one another…respected each other. The alligator is interested in a savory meal, one of foreign provenance, and luckily for him there just so happened to be a vast assortment of worldly delicatessen.
Orlando is the number one tourist destination in the world, attracting some 60 million or so wonderers from around the globe. There’s no change in seasonal migration for these pilgrims, they make the journey year round. Uninhibited and indiscernible—they were a complete cacophonic nuisance. Easy targets for a gator.
The boat came to crawl as it neared land. We bunched around the gangway with the other passengers. I had lost sight of the tattooed man.
A young boy next to us was eating an ice-cream cone infested with ants. Tiny black specks crawling in lines, swarming the melting sphere, soon to be dissolved in the small child’s mouth.
“Don’t eat that!” I yelled. “It’s poison!” I smacked the cone out of his hands and it tumbled to the concrete. The boy was dumbfounded. He began to cry and his mother, wild eyed with fear, grabbed him and made a mad dash for help.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you?” my friend asked.
“What do you mean? I saved that kid’s life!” I said. “Just look at the size those fuckers!” I pointed to the frenzy of ants that were scattered about the ground.
“You’re gonna get us arrested. Can’t we just enjoy ourselves?” She wrapped her arm around me, but I pushed her away.
“We need to get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
She pouted and shuffled on ahead as the line moved.
We were off. Carefully weaving our way through the throngs of hypnotized ill-begotten simpletons who scattered about like bees in search of honey. Off to kill time. Time is a precious commodity to the workers of Disney. It’s not uncommon for “cast members” (Disney’s name for its employees) to work 80 hours a week. My friend tells me some of her shifts range from 9am to 2am. Yes, that’s right. 17 hours.
This sounded far-fetched, if not illegal, but it was explained to me that there was some sort of work around when it came to interns. No time to eat or sleep when you’re an able bodied youth…. They don’t get overtime either.
"Disney princesses by day and clumsy drunken whores by night.
Disney’s College Program attracts students from all nationalities and backgrounds. They’re housed in giant apartment complexes about 10 minutes from the park where shuttles bus them to and fro. Their hedonistic debauchery is well noted in the area - Disney princesses by day and clumsy drunken whores by night. You’d expect as much from most college kids, but their daily work outfits still make it an eerie site.
I felt very uneasy throughout our trek. My friend seemed to be acquainted with everyone who worked in the park. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had had any previous or maybe even present relations with some of them… they were all just a bit too friendly towards her. It’s a big park after all, and yet she seemed to be familiar with all of them.
The certain overt friendliness that these cast members portrayed deeply disturbed me. The smiles were crudely glued onto their faces, probably by the mouse himself. It was a wide vulpine smile, like they were keeping a hideous secret—one they so desperately wanted to tell, but the musculature of their face allowed them not.
It was odd because these people wanted to be here…chose to be here in fact, at least that was the case of all the out-of-staters. And yet their faces were worn out. The long hours meant a forced glee and manufactured happiness, not a genuine smile amongst them.
It was all alien to me. I was surrounded by foreigners in every sense of the word. Yes, that was it. A stranger in a strange land. The mystical one of imagination I had so easily perceived as a child was now gone. Replaced with a grotesque callousness. The metallic behemoths and steel beasts no longer appealed to me. The park’s inhabitants were the true attraction now.
The rest of the trip was a blur. The sun, coupled with the underlying absurdity of it all, left me with some mild form of PTSD. I don’t remember doing anything in particular, or when my date departed, only the unfortunate recollections of the many faces when it was all said and done.
Disney never lived long enough to see his final project to fruition. His brother opened the park a few years after Walt lost his battle to lung cancer.
Coincidentally, Roy Disney died the very same year the park opened. The park would claim many more for years to come. It was probably for the best. No man wants to live long enough to see their dream become a grotesque caricature of itself.