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... in which we learn how a Well-Known Family Theme Park can suck... I have just returned from Disneyland. It is the only thing one can do if one finds oneself there. How I got there in the first place… I can’t remember. I think that subsequent trauma may have erased the memory. Or maybe I was under an evil spell. Or under hypnosis. Or under the weather. Or under pants. But being under something wasn’t really the problem. It was being on something that was the problem. Being on two things, actually. Being on that Oh Most Cursed Of All Tortures Devised By The Evil Mind Of Man: The “It’s A Small World Ride.” And being on some of the finest hallucinogenic drugs ever made. Now what, you may ask, would compel someone to push the already-surreal limits of Disneyland? Well, the answer is simple. Peer pressure. No, not pressure to take drugs – that was my idea. Pressure to go to Disneyland in the first place. (Ah, it’s coming back to me now…) And most of all, pressure to go on The Cursed Ride. You see, I used to work at Disneyland. As what? You ask. Was I a little Snow White, singing and dancing for the kiddies? What do you think, stupid? Of course not. I was an animal trainer. At the time there was a “Circus” themed show going on at a stage right next to the Oh Most Cursed, etc. But, I thought confidently, that would be no problem. Because I was only going to be working at night, after the park had closed, with the animals. Once they were ready to perform the show would be handed off to some beautiful buffed and bronzed Disney person in a ridiculous costume. But, I would be the Disney Free Spirit! No dress codes for me, I thought, looking over the dress codes book that had been sent to me, I was sure by mistake. There was no way that they could expect me, working from midnight to 5 am, training chimps and elephants and a parrot, to wear “skirts below the knee but no more than four inches below the knee; panty hose or stockings in a neutral color; shoes (dress shoes only, no sport shoes) with a heel at least ½ inch high but no more than 2.5 inches; fingernails at least to tips of fingers (no torn or broken nails) but no longer than ½ inch, neutral polish only; professional makeup in neutral shades; hair no shorter than 1/5 inches and no longer than shoulder length, conservative styles only; shirts with button fronts, buttoned to top or second to top button, no pullover shirts; one ring and one bracelet per hand maximum…” Well, I could probably manage that last one. So I show up for work, dressed to work with animals: jeans, work boots, polo shirt. And am told by Officious Flunky that I have to conform to the dress code. I point out that the park is not open to the public; no one will see me. He primly responds that it doesn’t matter; the dress code applies to all. I ask him then why isn’t he wearing a skirt and heels at least ½ inch but no higher than 2.5 inches and neutral colored panty hose? He sighs and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh, you’re not going to be one of those women, are you?” I gape, openmouthed, and then calmly walk away. The next day, a letter arrives at my house (by messenger, no less). The letter states that due to my “special circumstance” I will not have to wear a skirt, hose, and heels, but will instead by “permitted” to wear “pants that can hold a crease” and “appropriate footwear (without laces).” I iron a crease in my jeans, pull on my Doc Martens with easy zipper access, and off I go. I bring out my animals and put them in the holding area next to the ring. Yet another Officious Flunky arrives and asks me why I am not conforming to dress code. I tell him (funny, it’s always a ‘him’) that I have permission to dress more appropriately for my job. He asks to see the letter. Yes, that’s right, boys and girls – it seems that I was required to carry my Letter of Special Dispensation everywhere I went. (Now you know why it costs $50 to get into Disneyland – they pay people to prowl around the empty park in the middle of the night and measure employees’ fingernails.) Finally, clothing hassles settled, I bring out the elephants and get them walking around the ring. (Some ungodly tie-in scheme has dictated that we have two elephants, three chimps, and a parrot.) Elephants tend to get into a groove and want to stay there, so once they are in the ring and moving around at a steady clip, it’s time to figure out what to do next. I have the parrot on my shoulder; he’s supposed to ride on the elephant at some point. (Because, hey, parrots from South America ride around on the backs of elephants from Africa all the time. The parrots fly all the way across the Atlantic Ocean just so that they can ride on the elephants. They sit on the elephants’ backs and put their little wings in the air and do the ‘Wave’ …) So the elephants are doing their thing, the parrot is on my shoulder, the chimps are in the holding area. And right then… the park starts testing “It’s a Small World.” The song blasts out of the speakers, which are right next to the stage. The elephants are still circling, determined little troopers they. But the monkeys start jumping up and down and screaming. It’s four in the morning. The sun is just rising. Elephants, circling. Monkeys, screaming. Song, blaring. Sun, rising. Elephants, circling. Monkeys, screaming. Song, blaring. Sun, rising. Elephants, circling. Monkeys, screaming. Song, blaring. Sun, rising. And suddenly, right in my ear, parrot, squawking, “Small World! Small World! Small World!” So I have some latent Disneyland trauma.
See Disneyland, Part II to discover how this oh-so-compelling drama plays out! (also useful as a moral lesson to small children.) |