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k his butt?
I shake my head very slowly. “Live to fight another day,” I shout, startling everyone around me. “For you are the Dwarf of Destiny!”
“What’s that for?” Employee #741 is on the scene now. He presses the barrel of his gun into my side.
“He’s crazy,” Employee #221 says. “Call security again.”
“Roger that.” Employee #741 speaks into his walkie-talkie.
Gonzo has heard. He looks a little sad as he nods. There’s not much I can do without alerting the guys to his presence. And so I put up my palm. It’s not really a wave, not a goodbye or a hello, just a hand, a Hey, I see you. He gives me a palm right back. I see you, too. And then he does what he should; he folds into the swarm of people trying to have a good time and make a few memories, just another face in the crowd.
“We’re taking him in for processing,” Employee #741 says, and I know what that means.
My throat is tight and my eyes sting. I’m close to crying. I’ve gotten all the way here just to fail at the last minute.
“Can I ask you something? What do you guys think you’re going to accomplish with all this? I mean, honestly, how can you prepare for the unpredictable?”
“Just shut up.”
They sit me down, and suddenly, I’m pissed. Fuck this. I will not shut up. “It’s a small world after all …,” I sing. “It’s a small world after all. …”
“What are you doing? Stop singing,” the agent commands, and it just makes me angrier.
“… a small, small world!” I sing even louder.
“Oh, I love it when they give you entertainment in line,” a lady in a big sun hat says.
The guy hits me hard with the gun. I double over.
“Hey,” a guy in line says. “What are you doing? He’s a kid.”
“Sir, we’re with United Snow Globe Wholesalers, working to protect you.”
“Stay out of it, pal. Let the pros handle it,” another guy in line advises the first.
“Exactly,” Employee #457 says. “This is a matter of security.”
“No. It’s a matter of abuse,” the dad says.
I keep singing. “… world of laughter, a world of tears …”
The kids don’t know what’s going on. But they know the song. And they start to sing along.
“That’s it, kids!” I shout. “We’re putting this on TV, so everybody needs to grab a partner and sing really, really loud!”
At the mention of TV, the line goes nuts. The USGW vigilantes aren’t expecting this. And that’s all I need. Okay, coyote mofo man. Get your anvil ready. Come and get my road-runner ass.
I bolt for Tomorrowland and hope my legs hold out.
“Hey! Stop!” the agents yell behind me. “Don’t make us shoot!”
He can’t shoot me. I’m a kid. And this is Disney World. There’s no shooting at Disney World. Beside me, there’s a blinding flash, and a family of four buying cotton candy becomes an instant plastic tableaux behind glass.
Fast as I can, I duck around the Mad Tea Party ride; darting in and out of the crowds, I make it past the Speedway, and finally I can see colorful planets of Tomorrowland. Shit. I’m gasping for breath. Vision’s blurry. Behind me, I can hear screaming and shouts. The snow globe men are close.
The lines for everything are twenty minutes deep at least. Except for the Tomorrowland Transit Authority.
“Excuse me!” I shout, staggering up the ramp, pushing past the few people in line. Before anyone can object, I hop onto the moving conveyor belt, past the attendant, who can only get out a lame “Hey, watch it” as I fall into the seat of the tram. I stay low, out of sight as the little tram glides into a tunnel toward the Carousel of Progress.
