Dear thirteen year old me.
I’m sorry, but due to circumstances you are not only currently involved in, but will continue to be involved in for the forseeable future, I have blocked most of you out.
I remember bits of us. Some of those memories are constructed, some of them are real. I don’t even know the difference anymore. It all became part of the same narrative. Regardless, you’re there. And that’s really real for you. So first things first.
The glasses. Wear them. You look like an awkward dork, but that’s hormones. The glasses sure don’t help. Continue to turn down your mom’s offer for trifocals. You don’t need them.
You want people to like you, which is normal and natural. It won’t feel normal and natural for many more years. Again, that’s part of the hormones. Everything will feel huge and monumental. Go with that.
You’re about to kiss a girl for the first time. It is going to be a wild ride. It will end quickly and quietly. Keep putting your heart out there, and don’t feel bad that Stephanie, or Jennie, or whatever her name is doesn’t like your handmade bracelet. You won’t even remember her name, but you will remember to care.
The more you grow your hair out, the more you will get mistaken for a girl. While this can be character building, just skip the 70’s phase and go straight for the mohawk. It doesn’t last long, but it’s a damn sight better than looking like an extra from Nelson. I know we’re related to them, but let’s keep that our little secret, eh?
Remember two years ago, when band opened up at school, and you tried out? Remember how you were “a natural” at the trumpet? Remember how pissed you were that you were told you should stick to band, because you’d never play football? Remember how you waited three months, then quit, and tried out for every sport, and played them, poorly? Yeah. Go pick up the trumpet.
This takes us to another topic. You are a teenage boy, and as such, have the attention span of the squirrel I passed on the way home yesterday. He was very very intent on the nut right in the middle of the road, to the obliviousness of everything, including mortal danger. Then he ran. And focused again. And ran. He seemed to forget where he was going about every thirty seconds. You do that same thing, but with people, hobbies, everything. It’s hard, but try to stick to something. Try to find the encouragement from within, rather than some external source. That is going to be one of the hardest tasks of our life, but if you can start it back then, that will really help us in the long run.
Don’t worry, you’ll have friends outside of school. It’s going to happen, and it’s going to be fun. All those friends will care about you. And the ones that don’t, you don’t have to hang around. And that doesn’t mean you’re not worthy, it means they aren’t.
Be nice to your sister. Right now, she is the enemy. But later in life, she will be one of your best friends. She’s had a pretty hard time of it too. She could really use someone on her side, and you could too. Don’t wait till we’re 23 to start to cultivate that. And let her have the upstairs. Trust me on this one.
And for 15 year old me, quit bringing strays home. Mom doesn’t have enough in the pantry to cover all the punk rock kids. I know they’re all “good people”, but they can be good people without being a plague of locusts.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Mouse in the Desert
The whole group only began to realize our common destination as we assembled, all with the same looks of anticipation. This was to be a life changing journey. A trip that would be retold and recounted over beer, coffee, dinner, and late night conversations. Thats right. We were going to the new Disney World, Sahara.
I welcomed them all in the early afternoon. The restaurant and bar we occupied was nondescript in its decorations, a few local knickknacks on the walls. It carried a heavy pine scented beer smell, with a hint of pipe tobacco. We were the first customers of the day, the first to spoil this pristine atmosphere. The tobacco smell was fresh and lingering, but there was no smoke. Must have been the cleanup crew.
Gathered there was a wide array of people, all come to worship at the temple of the Mouse. I counted close to thirty of us, with me as the guide. Let me briefly introduce our group.
A debutante of certain girth graced one half of a nearby table. She carried herself poorly, unaccustomed to her weight. From the smoothness of her face, it became obvious that her newfound stature was still a constant surprise. She had no issue with portions of food, however. Nestled amongst various fruits, sweets, breads, and pies was a plate piled high with every sort of meat which was slowly emptying into her gullet. She ate with more passion that accompanied her recent marriage and divorce, but it was an unfocused passion. First, some sweets, then a little pork, follow with some gravy, top off with a biscuit. To an observer, it appeared she was eating as if the food would expire before she could try it all. Every few bites, her manners would come storming back, and an abject look of horror would briefly enter her eyes, years of classical training trying to assert their will. The manners were in a prison, with a wall of food slowly burying them alive.
Further down the table sat the most obviously fake hairpiece in recent memory. It looked like the remnants of gang warfare between rats and ravens. Under this monstrous wig was a set of eyes that watched, with expertise, every movement of the waitstaff. This set of eyes belonged to a career waiter. He knew every trick of the trade, and was extremely critical of anyone else in his chosen profession. He would lean forward as if to catch the drink that was almost being spilled six tables over, hed tense up with the patron as they both scanned the restaurant for the absent server with the bill. He memorized the specials in every establishment, and could repeat verbatim every order within earshot. He was still dressed the fine suit he wore to work earlier in the day, the kind of suit reserved for making others feel important. But for once, this was his trip, and the suit was for him.
Currently invading the waiters space was a sloppily dressed man lazily lounging in a chair. His hair, although clean, had completely forgotten what a proper trim looked like. Well worn sandals adorned his leathery feet. In the middle of him was a nondescript shirt proclaiming the saving of a bird or plant or something endangered. He also wore a pair of knee length shorts with enough pockets to hide all of his toys, electronic and otherwise, passports, currencies, pens, journals, and a pair of reading glasses, which he tried vehemently not to need. This man went by Rick. Rick was well to do, but had never inherited his fathers work ethic. The same could not be said of his fathers fortune, which Rick was using to live out his dream of traveling the world, and absorbing absolutely no culture on the way. This trip was an affirmation of his modus operandi. What more exotic place than a Disney World in the desert?
Sitting with Rick was his latest remora, an anthropologist from New Zealand. She was not unattractive, but did not posses the type of beauty that allowed her to rely on it to get what she wanted. Her personality was acidic enough that most would-be suitors would rather pursue someone that didnt make a career out of being bitchy. So she studied cultures, and lauded her background as a native Maori, saying it gave her a unique perspective on cultural studies in the west. Though she did posses some unique characteristics, being an exploitive narcissist was hardly groundbreaking in western society. So she latched on to her hapless hippie. She did keep her appearance in good order, looking more like a middle aged seductress rather than a PhD, as she found that greased the gears better than a walking stick and stories about the Great Owl Spirits. What she was doing on this trip, she was still unsure, but she was taking enough notes to spin it into something.
With us as well was a man around 25 years old, a dog trainer by trade. He was extremely tall, and thin, but walked with a permanent slouch from years of talking to things shorter than him. To see him folded up talking to a small terrier looked much like an ungainly beach chair had caught a scarecrow. He spoke in short sentences, often as simple one word commands. Even something as sacred as a drink order only came out Beer, Cold. He had a small dog with him that accounted for ninety percent of his conversations, and one hundred percent of his conversation topics. As he kept telling his companion, they would see Space Mountain soon enough.
Our group had also acquired some villages idiot along the way. He was a higher functioning idiot, no imbecile this one, but an idiot nonetheless. How I know of his lack of sense is this: he was a self professed Scientologist. He was not actually part of the church, as he disagreed with their practices, but was still sure the writings of a science fiction author represented the Truth. He was convinced some alien or volcano was in our nearby region, possibly under the teacup ride itself. Id guess he was crazy, but he was extremely lucid. I know he was an idiot, rather than insane, as he refused a drink. Im not sure there is a more glaringly obvious sign of deficiency.
In a back corner, an ageless man did a dirty tuxedo and top hat quite a lot of justice. His dingy pants matched once polished shoes, along with a slightly skewed bow tie. He displayed knowledge of the arts, sciences, history, politics, and business that would easily put him in top standing at any university. His too young face and hundred year old eyes invited you to try to eavesdrop on stories he would never tell. The one thing he lacked was a home. He much preferred to drift from experience to experience, and I envied him for his ability to do just that.
A professional yachter, sipping on a whiskey, waited for an audience to start up so he could tell of his tales and exploits. He told his stories imagining his audience were his grandchildren, if he were allowed to see them. So he traveled to far off places and bought them souvenirs, which he kept in trunk on his boat. One day, he hoped to be able to see his grandson and tell him of the open sea, to tell his granddaughter of seeing glittering cities from the ocean. He still wore his lucky deck shoes, the ones he wore when he won his first race. He only brought them out for two occasions. His souvenir trips, and boat races. He thought of them in the same way, as a conquest.
A justice of the peace from a small new England town looked on his fellow travelers, and fought the urge, unsuccessfully, to do what he felt he was born to do. He quickly and quietly judged everyones sins. That one was a harlot, that one was full of sloth, that one looked like a criminal. Thats why he went into law. He could sense when someone was guilty, whether there was evidence or not. This made him very unpopular in some circles, hence his vacation. His craggy face and green eyes betrayed as much compassion as his stiff posture and stiffer drink.
A lumberjack of a man was strumming on a guitar, trying to get the few people not engaged in conversation to create an audience. His short sleeved plaid shirt and recently shaved face were framed by his slightly curly hair, making him look like the grunge scene on steroids. When his audience-making failed, he daydreamed himself beating and berating the smug expressions off all those hypocrites. Those that had no idea how a true musician, a true artist like himself made a living. But he did no berating, and no punches were thrown. He resorted to staring down anyone that would catch his eye, bullying them visually, letting his imposing size do the rest. He was auditioning for a position in the cultures of the world exhibit, secretly hoping he'd be discovered like so many other mouseketeers before him.
A pair of British rugby players were locked deeply in a conversation about linguistics. The taller of the two, looking like he could go for a pickup game at any hour, still in his practice gear, was calmly explaining how language grows and evolves, and words change over time, that there was no reason to be so defensive over it. His swarthy bearded friend, freshly showered and ready for a drink explained as best he could, saying Damn the Yanks. Its not football. Football is a world wide sport. What they do is gladiatorial games without the chariot races beforehand. If only theyd let some lions out on the field first! They were between seasons, and caught an ad for a desert treat. Before sobriety had woken them the next morning, they found non refundable tickets to a four day nightmare.
A woman sat near the conversation, blissfully ignoring the everyone, with a serene expression on her once unwashed face. She rightfully thought of herself the luckiest person in the room. Considering she was the only one who had won a contest, she was technically the luckiest person in the room. A hard life showed in her slumped shoulders, weathered face, bent back, and strong hands She spent most of her sixty years working odd jobs, merely trying to survive. Then a lucky drawing at a community raffle gave her a chance of a lifetime. To see the American Mecca, Disney World, transplanted halfway around the globe. So she was on this trip, with these people, reflecting on her luck, and smiling.
A girl of striking and exotic features looked around in anticipation, waiting for a familiar face. She had light blue eyes, straight, shoulder length black hair, and a shade of red lipstick that were it on a car, that car would get pulled over for even being near a highway. She smelled of a perfume she called mantrap. A self describe actress, her only roles of note were in horror movies, where she usually died in a forest, and always died screaming. She had a set of lungs that once housed a singing voice, but now only provided setting and tone for gimmicky killers. She was waiting for a friend, at the agreed upon time and place, but her friend was late in more ways than one.
Next down the list and the table was a bespeckled man, short and round of stature. He wore a cabbie cap and held a pair of oversized sunglasses. His white polo shirt clashed against his wool pants. He possessed an intimate knowledge of the fine pastime, not sport, of golf. Although he was a writer for a prestigious golfing magazine, he was hard pressed to call golfers athletes. His balding skull was wreathed by a halo of shocking red hair poking out under his hat. With his pale complexion and his bulbous nose, he looked less like a tourist and more like a drunken clown. And drunk he was. His typical order was a gin and tonic, light on the lime. He drank these in the same fashion as his articles praising various golf courses around the world. Quickly, frequently, and with little show. He was here to review the new resorts course, which was billed as a Unlike Anything Ever Seen by Golfers.
Eyeing a neighbor's plate as well as his date was a malpractice lawyer, still in the prime of his charm and youth. His brown hair was slicked back, his Armani suit was adorned with silver cufflinks, which matched his silver tongue. Every word out of his mouth was carefully chosen to earn him the most sway with people. Even his backhanded compliments were taken as a form of flattery. Poking out from underneath his silk shirt and expensive watch combination was the roots of a tattoo that snaked up his arm and covered his entire torso. His tattoo was more a story of his life, which meant he kept it secret and hidden. Because of this, he would not even look at his watch when asked for the time, but would only reply early or late, depending on the hour. This trip was his zen. A place where no one knew him.
A boy on the brink of adulthood relaxed in his hooded sweatshirt and oversized shorts. He carried the arrogance of an often praised talent, but it never surfaced more than his body language. Proper parenting had instilled in him a sense of guilt that he should be talented when others weren't. This boy, it was discovered, was a pastry prodigy. He possessed a preternatural ability to craft the finest tastes, and could perfectly match palettes and dishes. His present project was a peach parfait of such quality and indescribable taste, he had been invited on this trip as payment.
A man of devout faith was also with our small group. This man had read every religious scripture, teaching, and book of faith he could acquire. In every one, he tried to worship and have faith, but he was left only more questions and doubts. He found only believing in nothing gave him comfort. So this man became a devout atheist. He dressed in black, as was the cliché, but still kept a closet full of the latest fashions and colors, a harbored hostage in the attic. He felt by buying the latest fashions and not wearing them, he was further celebrating futility. And what could be more of a celebration of futility than seeing the mouse in the Sahara.
The next individual was no stranger to irony. She was a well trained physical therapist and personal trainer, and paraplegic. After nearly a decade of training, practicing, and teaching others to take care of themselves, she had an accident. She slipped and fell at a dinner party, hitting her lower back on the counter, and severed her spine. She kept her therapy practice, but most her customers had atrophied like her unused legs. She wore a causal white pullover shirt, and rode a sporty gray wheelchair, which was decorated with an equal amount of uplifting and sarcastic stickers placed strategically on the back and sides of the chair. Her demeanor was positive, but short sighted. None of her friends or family were sure if her brain was damaged in the accident, but it seemed that her sense of the inevitable was. How else could she justify coming to Disney World in the middle of nowhere?
And then there were ten. We were all looking for something, or to lose ourselves, or to just enjoy the monstrosity that is a theme park in what could arguably be called the worst location on Earth.
A criminal led the group, without actually being respected. He insisted he was a business man, but his too sharp style, his prepurchased smile, and his overpolished shoes gave him away. He was the worst type of criminal, a legitimate one. A blue suit of the finest polymers wore a frame of a future midlife crisis underneath. The man was the kind of blonde found on aisle 5 in any supermarket. He couldn't pick out his natural haircolor in a lineup. He saw an opportunity with the opening of this new park, and as always, was looking for suckers. He was particularly shifty around authority, which is why he refused to acknowledge Agent Laffont.
Laffont knew what she wanted since she was six. She loved plants, gardens, trees, and anything that would grow. After a shocking realization her sophomore year in college, she realized she wasn't a botanist, and the dreams of a little girl turned into the successful career of DEA agent Susan Laffont. While not blessed with the looks of her beauty pageant mother, her confidence kept her well above the rifraff, at least in her version of things. She did have more than the standard issue compassion given to new agents. Her barely lined face and blue-gray eyes let her clients see this secret of hers.
Her current charge was an elderly lady. She wore a head of cottonballs, and a distant look on her wrinkled face. She dressed in a very stylish fashion, from thirty years in the past. She was married, and had children, but one day, just decided they weren't her life. So she started seeing what she could get away with. The list was long. This trip to see a mouse, a castle, and experience some magic was part of her deal with the Feds, where she would turn over key members of a drug cartel, and would be able to finish her days in house arrest. She continually stared at a family of four, reflecting on her life, wondering where her perfect future derailed. When did her life change from this family of four, mother, father and two daughters to running drugs off the coast of Mexico? She guessed the family was from the midwest.
The family was actually from Spain, on their first vacation in a long while. They were part of the troupe, but created their own group within, keeping to themselves, speaking only in Castillian Spanish. Of them, no more will be said.
Steven was a poet, or rather, he thought himself a poet. His scribblings could bed a freshman, but would probably lead him into a career in restaurant management, and not some illustrious future in writing. His two day stubble looked like at least five days worth. He could grow a beard since he was fifteen, and it was still as splotchy now at twenty four. He was enjoying a mostly fresh bagel with a mountain of strawberry cream cheese. His shaggy hair made him look like a young Harrison Ford, without the presence.
A school teacher was invited along as well. He was the History teacher for a small upscale school in New York, and also their cultural adviser. He was of a muscular build, and exercised frequently, but for no other reason than he enjoyed exercising. No part of his personality compelled him to build muscle, he was just gifted with genetics. He looked more like a coach than a history teacher, but did not enjoy team sports. He had been tapped by the school to do a scouting mission to this remote theme park, in hopes that his school could plan a trip for the easily bored students.
Each person was here for their own reason. I had no doubt some would get along better with others, some not at all. Our journey was a long one, as we were the first group to come to this new park, and the mag rail was not operational. So we would have to endure a long bus ride out to the park. I suggested to everyone we have a contest. A trivia contest. I would ask half of the questions tonight, and half on the bus ride tomorrow. The questions would range from common knowledge, to sports, to things that would baffle a game show contestant. After each question was answered, the person who answered it had to explain how they came about the knowledge. Some stories would be short, some would be long, but everyone would have one. The winner of the contest would have the bragging rights of being the first to choose our entertainment once we arrived at the park. There were murmurs of disagreement, but after a short amount of time, everyone agreed. The drinks and questions started flowing."
I welcomed them all in the early afternoon. The restaurant and bar we occupied was nondescript in its decorations, a few local knickknacks on the walls. It carried a heavy pine scented beer smell, with a hint of pipe tobacco. We were the first customers of the day, the first to spoil this pristine atmosphere. The tobacco smell was fresh and lingering, but there was no smoke. Must have been the cleanup crew.
Gathered there was a wide array of people, all come to worship at the temple of the Mouse. I counted close to thirty of us, with me as the guide. Let me briefly introduce our group.
A debutante of certain girth graced one half of a nearby table. She carried herself poorly, unaccustomed to her weight. From the smoothness of her face, it became obvious that her newfound stature was still a constant surprise. She had no issue with portions of food, however. Nestled amongst various fruits, sweets, breads, and pies was a plate piled high with every sort of meat which was slowly emptying into her gullet. She ate with more passion that accompanied her recent marriage and divorce, but it was an unfocused passion. First, some sweets, then a little pork, follow with some gravy, top off with a biscuit. To an observer, it appeared she was eating as if the food would expire before she could try it all. Every few bites, her manners would come storming back, and an abject look of horror would briefly enter her eyes, years of classical training trying to assert their will. The manners were in a prison, with a wall of food slowly burying them alive.
Further down the table sat the most obviously fake hairpiece in recent memory. It looked like the remnants of gang warfare between rats and ravens. Under this monstrous wig was a set of eyes that watched, with expertise, every movement of the waitstaff. This set of eyes belonged to a career waiter. He knew every trick of the trade, and was extremely critical of anyone else in his chosen profession. He would lean forward as if to catch the drink that was almost being spilled six tables over, hed tense up with the patron as they both scanned the restaurant for the absent server with the bill. He memorized the specials in every establishment, and could repeat verbatim every order within earshot. He was still dressed the fine suit he wore to work earlier in the day, the kind of suit reserved for making others feel important. But for once, this was his trip, and the suit was for him.
Currently invading the waiters space was a sloppily dressed man lazily lounging in a chair. His hair, although clean, had completely forgotten what a proper trim looked like. Well worn sandals adorned his leathery feet. In the middle of him was a nondescript shirt proclaiming the saving of a bird or plant or something endangered. He also wore a pair of knee length shorts with enough pockets to hide all of his toys, electronic and otherwise, passports, currencies, pens, journals, and a pair of reading glasses, which he tried vehemently not to need. This man went by Rick. Rick was well to do, but had never inherited his fathers work ethic. The same could not be said of his fathers fortune, which Rick was using to live out his dream of traveling the world, and absorbing absolutely no culture on the way. This trip was an affirmation of his modus operandi. What more exotic place than a Disney World in the desert?
Sitting with Rick was his latest remora, an anthropologist from New Zealand. She was not unattractive, but did not posses the type of beauty that allowed her to rely on it to get what she wanted. Her personality was acidic enough that most would-be suitors would rather pursue someone that didnt make a career out of being bitchy. So she studied cultures, and lauded her background as a native Maori, saying it gave her a unique perspective on cultural studies in the west. Though she did posses some unique characteristics, being an exploitive narcissist was hardly groundbreaking in western society. So she latched on to her hapless hippie. She did keep her appearance in good order, looking more like a middle aged seductress rather than a PhD, as she found that greased the gears better than a walking stick and stories about the Great Owl Spirits. What she was doing on this trip, she was still unsure, but she was taking enough notes to spin it into something.
With us as well was a man around 25 years old, a dog trainer by trade. He was extremely tall, and thin, but walked with a permanent slouch from years of talking to things shorter than him. To see him folded up talking to a small terrier looked much like an ungainly beach chair had caught a scarecrow. He spoke in short sentences, often as simple one word commands. Even something as sacred as a drink order only came out Beer, Cold. He had a small dog with him that accounted for ninety percent of his conversations, and one hundred percent of his conversation topics. As he kept telling his companion, they would see Space Mountain soon enough.
Our group had also acquired some villages idiot along the way. He was a higher functioning idiot, no imbecile this one, but an idiot nonetheless. How I know of his lack of sense is this: he was a self professed Scientologist. He was not actually part of the church, as he disagreed with their practices, but was still sure the writings of a science fiction author represented the Truth. He was convinced some alien or volcano was in our nearby region, possibly under the teacup ride itself. Id guess he was crazy, but he was extremely lucid. I know he was an idiot, rather than insane, as he refused a drink. Im not sure there is a more glaringly obvious sign of deficiency.
In a back corner, an ageless man did a dirty tuxedo and top hat quite a lot of justice. His dingy pants matched once polished shoes, along with a slightly skewed bow tie. He displayed knowledge of the arts, sciences, history, politics, and business that would easily put him in top standing at any university. His too young face and hundred year old eyes invited you to try to eavesdrop on stories he would never tell. The one thing he lacked was a home. He much preferred to drift from experience to experience, and I envied him for his ability to do just that.
A professional yachter, sipping on a whiskey, waited for an audience to start up so he could tell of his tales and exploits. He told his stories imagining his audience were his grandchildren, if he were allowed to see them. So he traveled to far off places and bought them souvenirs, which he kept in trunk on his boat. One day, he hoped to be able to see his grandson and tell him of the open sea, to tell his granddaughter of seeing glittering cities from the ocean. He still wore his lucky deck shoes, the ones he wore when he won his first race. He only brought them out for two occasions. His souvenir trips, and boat races. He thought of them in the same way, as a conquest.
A justice of the peace from a small new England town looked on his fellow travelers, and fought the urge, unsuccessfully, to do what he felt he was born to do. He quickly and quietly judged everyones sins. That one was a harlot, that one was full of sloth, that one looked like a criminal. Thats why he went into law. He could sense when someone was guilty, whether there was evidence or not. This made him very unpopular in some circles, hence his vacation. His craggy face and green eyes betrayed as much compassion as his stiff posture and stiffer drink.
A lumberjack of a man was strumming on a guitar, trying to get the few people not engaged in conversation to create an audience. His short sleeved plaid shirt and recently shaved face were framed by his slightly curly hair, making him look like the grunge scene on steroids. When his audience-making failed, he daydreamed himself beating and berating the smug expressions off all those hypocrites. Those that had no idea how a true musician, a true artist like himself made a living. But he did no berating, and no punches were thrown. He resorted to staring down anyone that would catch his eye, bullying them visually, letting his imposing size do the rest. He was auditioning for a position in the cultures of the world exhibit, secretly hoping he'd be discovered like so many other mouseketeers before him.
A pair of British rugby players were locked deeply in a conversation about linguistics. The taller of the two, looking like he could go for a pickup game at any hour, still in his practice gear, was calmly explaining how language grows and evolves, and words change over time, that there was no reason to be so defensive over it. His swarthy bearded friend, freshly showered and ready for a drink explained as best he could, saying Damn the Yanks. Its not football. Football is a world wide sport. What they do is gladiatorial games without the chariot races beforehand. If only theyd let some lions out on the field first! They were between seasons, and caught an ad for a desert treat. Before sobriety had woken them the next morning, they found non refundable tickets to a four day nightmare.
A woman sat near the conversation, blissfully ignoring the everyone, with a serene expression on her once unwashed face. She rightfully thought of herself the luckiest person in the room. Considering she was the only one who had won a contest, she was technically the luckiest person in the room. A hard life showed in her slumped shoulders, weathered face, bent back, and strong hands She spent most of her sixty years working odd jobs, merely trying to survive. Then a lucky drawing at a community raffle gave her a chance of a lifetime. To see the American Mecca, Disney World, transplanted halfway around the globe. So she was on this trip, with these people, reflecting on her luck, and smiling.
A girl of striking and exotic features looked around in anticipation, waiting for a familiar face. She had light blue eyes, straight, shoulder length black hair, and a shade of red lipstick that were it on a car, that car would get pulled over for even being near a highway. She smelled of a perfume she called mantrap. A self describe actress, her only roles of note were in horror movies, where she usually died in a forest, and always died screaming. She had a set of lungs that once housed a singing voice, but now only provided setting and tone for gimmicky killers. She was waiting for a friend, at the agreed upon time and place, but her friend was late in more ways than one.
Next down the list and the table was a bespeckled man, short and round of stature. He wore a cabbie cap and held a pair of oversized sunglasses. His white polo shirt clashed against his wool pants. He possessed an intimate knowledge of the fine pastime, not sport, of golf. Although he was a writer for a prestigious golfing magazine, he was hard pressed to call golfers athletes. His balding skull was wreathed by a halo of shocking red hair poking out under his hat. With his pale complexion and his bulbous nose, he looked less like a tourist and more like a drunken clown. And drunk he was. His typical order was a gin and tonic, light on the lime. He drank these in the same fashion as his articles praising various golf courses around the world. Quickly, frequently, and with little show. He was here to review the new resorts course, which was billed as a Unlike Anything Ever Seen by Golfers.
Eyeing a neighbor's plate as well as his date was a malpractice lawyer, still in the prime of his charm and youth. His brown hair was slicked back, his Armani suit was adorned with silver cufflinks, which matched his silver tongue. Every word out of his mouth was carefully chosen to earn him the most sway with people. Even his backhanded compliments were taken as a form of flattery. Poking out from underneath his silk shirt and expensive watch combination was the roots of a tattoo that snaked up his arm and covered his entire torso. His tattoo was more a story of his life, which meant he kept it secret and hidden. Because of this, he would not even look at his watch when asked for the time, but would only reply early or late, depending on the hour. This trip was his zen. A place where no one knew him.
A boy on the brink of adulthood relaxed in his hooded sweatshirt and oversized shorts. He carried the arrogance of an often praised talent, but it never surfaced more than his body language. Proper parenting had instilled in him a sense of guilt that he should be talented when others weren't. This boy, it was discovered, was a pastry prodigy. He possessed a preternatural ability to craft the finest tastes, and could perfectly match palettes and dishes. His present project was a peach parfait of such quality and indescribable taste, he had been invited on this trip as payment.
A man of devout faith was also with our small group. This man had read every religious scripture, teaching, and book of faith he could acquire. In every one, he tried to worship and have faith, but he was left only more questions and doubts. He found only believing in nothing gave him comfort. So this man became a devout atheist. He dressed in black, as was the cliché, but still kept a closet full of the latest fashions and colors, a harbored hostage in the attic. He felt by buying the latest fashions and not wearing them, he was further celebrating futility. And what could be more of a celebration of futility than seeing the mouse in the Sahara.
The next individual was no stranger to irony. She was a well trained physical therapist and personal trainer, and paraplegic. After nearly a decade of training, practicing, and teaching others to take care of themselves, she had an accident. She slipped and fell at a dinner party, hitting her lower back on the counter, and severed her spine. She kept her therapy practice, but most her customers had atrophied like her unused legs. She wore a causal white pullover shirt, and rode a sporty gray wheelchair, which was decorated with an equal amount of uplifting and sarcastic stickers placed strategically on the back and sides of the chair. Her demeanor was positive, but short sighted. None of her friends or family were sure if her brain was damaged in the accident, but it seemed that her sense of the inevitable was. How else could she justify coming to Disney World in the middle of nowhere?
And then there were ten. We were all looking for something, or to lose ourselves, or to just enjoy the monstrosity that is a theme park in what could arguably be called the worst location on Earth.
A criminal led the group, without actually being respected. He insisted he was a business man, but his too sharp style, his prepurchased smile, and his overpolished shoes gave him away. He was the worst type of criminal, a legitimate one. A blue suit of the finest polymers wore a frame of a future midlife crisis underneath. The man was the kind of blonde found on aisle 5 in any supermarket. He couldn't pick out his natural haircolor in a lineup. He saw an opportunity with the opening of this new park, and as always, was looking for suckers. He was particularly shifty around authority, which is why he refused to acknowledge Agent Laffont.
Laffont knew what she wanted since she was six. She loved plants, gardens, trees, and anything that would grow. After a shocking realization her sophomore year in college, she realized she wasn't a botanist, and the dreams of a little girl turned into the successful career of DEA agent Susan Laffont. While not blessed with the looks of her beauty pageant mother, her confidence kept her well above the rifraff, at least in her version of things. She did have more than the standard issue compassion given to new agents. Her barely lined face and blue-gray eyes let her clients see this secret of hers.
Her current charge was an elderly lady. She wore a head of cottonballs, and a distant look on her wrinkled face. She dressed in a very stylish fashion, from thirty years in the past. She was married, and had children, but one day, just decided they weren't her life. So she started seeing what she could get away with. The list was long. This trip to see a mouse, a castle, and experience some magic was part of her deal with the Feds, where she would turn over key members of a drug cartel, and would be able to finish her days in house arrest. She continually stared at a family of four, reflecting on her life, wondering where her perfect future derailed. When did her life change from this family of four, mother, father and two daughters to running drugs off the coast of Mexico? She guessed the family was from the midwest.
The family was actually from Spain, on their first vacation in a long while. They were part of the troupe, but created their own group within, keeping to themselves, speaking only in Castillian Spanish. Of them, no more will be said.
Steven was a poet, or rather, he thought himself a poet. His scribblings could bed a freshman, but would probably lead him into a career in restaurant management, and not some illustrious future in writing. His two day stubble looked like at least five days worth. He could grow a beard since he was fifteen, and it was still as splotchy now at twenty four. He was enjoying a mostly fresh bagel with a mountain of strawberry cream cheese. His shaggy hair made him look like a young Harrison Ford, without the presence.
A school teacher was invited along as well. He was the History teacher for a small upscale school in New York, and also their cultural adviser. He was of a muscular build, and exercised frequently, but for no other reason than he enjoyed exercising. No part of his personality compelled him to build muscle, he was just gifted with genetics. He looked more like a coach than a history teacher, but did not enjoy team sports. He had been tapped by the school to do a scouting mission to this remote theme park, in hopes that his school could plan a trip for the easily bored students.
Each person was here for their own reason. I had no doubt some would get along better with others, some not at all. Our journey was a long one, as we were the first group to come to this new park, and the mag rail was not operational. So we would have to endure a long bus ride out to the park. I suggested to everyone we have a contest. A trivia contest. I would ask half of the questions tonight, and half on the bus ride tomorrow. The questions would range from common knowledge, to sports, to things that would baffle a game show contestant. After each question was answered, the person who answered it had to explain how they came about the knowledge. Some stories would be short, some would be long, but everyone would have one. The winner of the contest would have the bragging rights of being the first to choose our entertainment once we arrived at the park. There were murmurs of disagreement, but after a short amount of time, everyone agreed. The drinks and questions started flowing."
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