Jonathan C. Lewis
The Spectator
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
I’m resting my butt on a bench on Main Street in Disneyland—the one in sunny Southern California. A horse-drawn trolley clip-clops down the street. When it returns, I’ll still be here.
My feet have given up on their responsibilities. My wife and our two elementary school-age kids, Ben and Brittany, have disappeared. If I had to guess, they’re riding Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride for the third time or chowing down on French fries at the Stage Door Café.
Thanks to a mother who loves my children, I’m free of parenting duties. Free to treat myself to the best ride in Disneyland: people-watching. From my perch, I have a perfect view of the passing parade of people—a cavalcade of characters and commoners.
Coming first, a college girl wearing a UCLA T-shirt flits past me like a migrating monarch butterfly. I wonder if she thinks chrome-colored blonde hair—her roots already visible—flatters her skin or if she’s experimenting with a new look. Either way, she needs to keep experimenting.
A large-boned man with chiseled Viking features strides by carrying a sleeping infant on his shoulder. His eyes dart around as if to locate the child’s mother. His face is contorted, suggesting a diaper needs changing. Once upon a time, that was me.
The buttery aroma from a popcorn street cart shames me. I should be thinking—at least a little bit—about my missing family.
A woman with the heavy tread of Dumbo’s elephantine mom trudges by. She’s wearing an embroidered cotton dress that balloons off her shoulders. The dress is stylish, but my first thought is of a doily wrapped around a plus-size department store mannequin.
As if planned by a parade marshal for my personal viewing pleasure, a middle-aged princess in a starched white blouse and ironed Cinderella skirt floats by. She’s in no hurry. She’s moving at a pace that allows everyone to get a good look at her. She’s as lovely as my wife.
A text letting me know my brood is okay and having fun is overdue. A photo would be reassuring.
A young girl, perhaps thirteen years old, with her hair pulled back, in a fuchsia crop top, cutoffs and neon blue flip-flops gallops by. In a few years, that might be Brittany’s outfit. In the last hour, at least three dozen crop tops have gone by. Maybe there’s a convention of crop tops happening in Tomorrowland.
Next, moving toward Town Square USA, two frayed parents are corralling a baboon troop of children. The adults are nagging and nipping at their offspring—a parenting skill I’m still perfecting. The baby baboons, curious and naughty, are behaving just like my children.
I check my watch for the nth time.
An urge to stress eat takes me to the Carnation Café. The chicken parmesan tastes like a potluck dish concocted by my aunt—a woman on permanent war footing with her kitchen. My meal half-eaten, I leave.
Time for another head count. They’re nowhere to be seen.
The sweltering heat is crawling in and out of my pores. I’m sweating.
Where are they?
