At five-eighths the size, Disneyland is a re-creation of all facets of life on earth—Disney-style. Every continent, every body of water, even the highest and lowest points in the world are all represented just as Walt wanted them.
Employees of the park all attend a special school to learn the Disney policy (“We get tired, never bored”). Even the anxiety of waiting in long lines is eased through the deception of a mazelike series of right-and-left turns that gave a guest (never the word customer) a sense of accomplishment. Disneyland today is a study in absolute, almost eerie perfection. Today, many years after Disney’s death, the place is still run as if Walt Was Watching.
There was one last lecture, from Vice-Principal Ray Connors, as his students prepared to enter the Magic Kingdom.
“I don’t want you getting into any trouble out there tonight. If there’s any problem, you tell them to come find me, but I don’t anticipate something like that happening. Have a good time, and we’ll see you at five. And thanks for leaving your contraband behind.”
William Desmond had a pint of tequila stuffed down his pants. Tim Copeland had two grams of cocaine in his wallet. Many others were armed with joints to smoke on the People Mover. Some had fruit injected with vodka.
There were five separate inspection points at which to enter Disneyland on Grad Nite. Three security guards were installed to pat kids down at every station. To the far right of them was the chaperones’ entrance. There were no security guards posted there.
William Desmond began to panic. No way he’d get by with a pint stashed down his pants. No human penis was that big. He stood there at the entrance looking for a bathroom. A trash can. Anything. His only hope, he figured, was that his peach-fuzz beard made him appear older, above such shenanigans as booze smuggling. Desmond was right.
A teacher from another school tapped him on the shoulder. “You dropped your chaperone pass.”
Desmond turned and saw he was being handed that most golden of Grad Nite items—an all-areas-access chaperone pass. It was fate!
“Thanks a lot,” said Desmond. He grabbed the pass in a hurry and breezed through the special chaperone entrance with a mature nod to the agent.
Damone and The Rat passed through the other guard station and into the crush of kids who’d come from all over the western United States in their gowns and three-piece suits.
“It looks like a C&R Clothiers convention,” said The Rat.
“Where do you want to go first?”
“Let’s get our pictures taken.”
“We can’t get our pictures taken yet.”
Disneyland provided a free old-fashioned sepia portrait taken by a booth photographer on Main Street as a Grad Nite service. “Every jock in the world is waiting in line to get a picture. We’ll go later.”
“Well,” said The Rat. “Where do you want to go?”
“The bathroom. I think my tie’s screwed up.”
They pushed their way through the hordes of kids and larger-than-life Disneyland figures, toward the first bathroom they could find.
“I can’t believe it,” said Damone. “Grown up men dressed like Mickey Mouse. What a hell of a way to earn a buck.”
In this, the first of 500 Disneyland bathrooms, there were twenty more guys just like The Rat and Damone, shamelessly and meticulously adjusting their hair and ties until just . . . right. Some even had hair spray and cologne.
“What’s that?” asked Damone.
It was a strange grunting sound, getting closer. A moment later, the bathroom was filled with even more guys. This group did not speak with each other, but instead communicated through fingersnaps and signals. They, too, waited for the mirror, shaping their hair and making furious tongueless sounds.
“Hey guys,” came the voice of William Desmond. “I got a chaperone pass, you guys!” Desmond entered the bathroom and was showing around the pint he’d smuggled in, and his pass.
The deaf-and-dumb contingent paused in admiration.
Then they communicated furiously among themselves again.
Desmond, the wrestler-columnist, ducked into a stall. Rat and Mike looked at each other and tore ass into the ocean of teenagers. They were the picture of sophistication in their three-piece suits. They were ready to experience the gamut of human emotions in the next seven hours. Grad Nite.
Inside Disneyland two things were instantly noticeable: Every male in sight wore a gray cardboard gangster hat. It was the only souvenir. Everyone had them. Second item was The Voice.
That mellifluous, folksy Voice. Most people probably thought it was Disney’s own voice, that good old Wonderful-World-of-Disney chuckly voice. Well, ’ol Sparky, you better git, boy! It was as omnipresent as Mickey Mouse, as familiar as the voice of Time. You couldn’t get away from The Voice of Disneyland.
Damone revealed the basic strategy for the evening. Disneyland, he said, was a matter of hitting the most popular attractions first, while everyone else was still wandering around. In the meantime, of course, there was the unspoken quest for girls.
Damone and The Rat chose Pirates of the Caribbean as their first ride. On the way, Damone told The Rat the story of the hidden Jack Daniel’s on Tom Sawyer Island. It would be their secret of the night, for use only after they’d found . . . babes.
The Rat felt good. He hadn’t even seen Stacy tonight. She’d gotten on another bus, and that was more than okay with The Rat. One thing he had to say, when he was through with a girl, he was through with a girl. He still hoped he wouldn’t run into her, at least not until after he’d found another girl.
The Rat and Damone, armed with the secret of the Jack Daniel’s, took a place in line for Pirates of the Caribbean. Directly in front of them in line were Stacy and Linda Barrett.
They turned around. “Oh, hi! Hello, Mike! Hello, Mark!”
“Hi, you guys!” It was all very gracious.
And then the voice from behind. “Hey hey hey. I was looking for you!”
William Desmond had found them again.
“Hi, William.”
“What happened to you guys? I finished whizzing, and you guys were gone.”
“Nice shirt,” said Damone.
“Thanks,” said Desmond.
“Was it hard getting the come stains off it?”
William ignored the joke. “Anybody have any cocaine?”
“Why don’t you shut up, William.”
Some other kids joined them in line. They were bright and rosy looking.
“Hi,” one of them said. “Where are you from?”
“Ridgemont. It’s outside Oceanside.”
“Wow. We’ve heard of you! We’re from Notre Dame in Riverside!”
“Isn’t that a Catholic school?” asked Damone.
“Yes!”
“Tell me something,” said Desmond, addressing one of the girls in the Notre Dame group. “Why did they call the Virgin Mary a virgin if she slept with Joseph?”
The girl cast a vicious look at Desmond. “Because it was the Immaculate Conception.”
“Sorry,” said Desmond. “It’s not easy being the coolest guy in Disneyland.”
“Some people get all the luck,” said The Rat. “We get Desmond.”
“Jesus,” said Damone. “Did you see that girl look at Desmond, Mark?”
“No.”
William whipped around. “Where? Who?”
“Just this girl who looked at you.”
“Where?”
“Right over there. SEE? Now she turned away ’cause we’re looking at her. But William, if I were you, I’d go right over there and stand by the popcorn vendor so she’ll walk right past you. I guarantee she’ll say something to you.”
William Desmond walked casually over to the popcorn vendor.