Dulcie, where are you?
By the time we reach Fantasyland, I’m so tired I’m hallucinating. I think I see Glory walking past me with her IV pole. She smiles, but when I look again, it’s just some lady pushing a stroller. Gonzo’s eyes are huge. His face radiates awe. He’s digging Disney—the character parades, the rides, the crazy light-up toys.
Gonzo’s cell rings. Hurriedly, he unzips his costume and roots around in his pocket, which looks really pervy.
“Hello?” he says, a big smile breaking. “Hey,” he says, all flirty. “Nuttin’ much, what’re you doin’?” He mouths the word “Drew” to me.
“Can you call him back?” I snipe.
“Oh. Sure,” he says. “Hey, baby, can I call you back? We’re kinda at Disney World.”
I sigh.
“An arcade? We are so there.” Gonzo pulls away from the phone for a second. “Drew says Space Mountain is, like, ri-donculous. What’s that?” Gonzo says into the phone again. “Uh-huh. Yeah, I miss you, too. …”
I start to tell Gonzo to hang up, that we need to find Dulcie, but I realize that I’m the one who needs to find Dulcie. He’s found what he came for. So I let him talk for a minute longer while I keep a lookout for guys in mirrored sunglasses pushing dollies of boxed snow globes to secret destinations. I wander over to the Small World ride and wait in a small patch of shade. Faint music floats out. People load into the boats and drift off into the dark, happy underworld of Disney.
“Line starts over there,” somebody says.
“That’s okay. I’m just waiting.”
“Suit yourself,” she says. And when I look, it’s the old lady from the hospital. She gets on line.
“Hey.” I stumble after her, but when I get there, it’s a different woman altogether. “Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were someone else.”
She smiles. “That happens to me all the time.”
People come and go. Moms walking fast pull little kids toward bathroom entrances, sounding pissed. Why didn’t you go before we got in line? The kids are crying or whining. Sometimes the dads wait outside. The moms try to hand bags and stuffed animals and shit to the dads, but the dads don’t do it right; they don’t get it and the moms get all pissy. They say things like, Well, I thought we decided not to do Splash Mountain this time, while the dads stick their hands in their pockets.
All I can think is This is the place where I spent the happiest day of my life? Why? The lines are all crazy long, and I think, There is no way I would wait around in the sun for some lousy ride that’s over too quick.
But then the kids come pouring out of the exit, and what I see makes me want to cry. Their faces are pure wonder. They’re all lit up and talking a mile a minute. The parents trail behind them, smiling, too. A contagious joy.
Something plops onto my shoulder. A feather. “Dulcie?” I call, but on closer examination, it’s a pigeon feather, perfectly ordinary. A United Snow Globe Wholesalers employee pushes past me with a box on a dolly. The side of the box is stamped TOMORROWLAND.
A tingle works its way up my neck. Dulcie’s here. I know it. And so is Dr. X. Like Dulcie said, the only thing that makes sense in this world is the random. I have to tell Gonzo.
I turn and run smack into a guy in mirrored sunglasses and a baseball cap.
He grins. “Excuse me, could I talk to you a minute about safety?”
I try to run, but he kicks my legs out from under me and I hit the ground with an audible smack. “We’ve got him,” the guy says to no one I can see. Security starts coming from the character pin booths and gift shops.
While startled tourists watch and snap pictures for the albums back home, USGW Employee #221 hauls me to the side of the Small World ride.
“Where’s your accomplice? Where’s Paul?” he asks, and it takes me a minute to realize he means Gonzo. From the corner of my eye, I see Gonzo over by the bathroom in his dog disguise. He’s sipping a soda and laughing, the phone still pressed to his ear.
“It’s not his fault,” I say. “I forced him to come with me. At gunpoint.”
Employee #221 seems to take this in, and I just roll for all I’m worth. “Do you know how many times that crazy kid tried to escape? He even tried to pass a note to the waitress at the Konstant Kettle.”
Gonzo’s turning around, walking toward us. Please. Please do not come any closer, Gonzo, I silently plead. As if he hears me, Gonzo looks up from his call and freezes. I crane my neck barely perceptibly toward the impressively mustachioed USGW agent in front of me. Gonzo plays quick charades with me: Eye. Kung fu kick. Agent. Butt. I kung fu agent in butt? He repeats his charades slowly.
