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 sideline 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 tee shirt flits past me like a migrating Monarch butterfly. I wonder if she’s decided chrome-colored blonde hair—her roots already visible—flatters her skin or if she’s experimenting with a new look. If the latter, 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 nose and face are contorted in a way that suggests a diaper needs changing. Once upon a time, that was me.
The aroma from a nearby 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 fiercely protective 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 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 they are okay is overdue. A photo would be reassuring.
A young girl with her hair pulled back, maybe thirteen or so, in a canary yellow crop top, cutoffs and neon blue flipflops 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. I wonder if there’s convention of crop tops happening.
Next in the parade, moving towards Town Square USA, two frayed parents are corralling a baboon troop of children. The adults are nipping, nagging, directing their offspring—a parenting skill I’m still perfecting. The baby baboons, curious and naughty, are behaving like my children most days.
I check my watch for the nth time.
A fidgety urge to stress eat takes me to the Carnation Café. The chicken parmesan pasta tastes like a family potluck dish concocted by my aunt who’s on permanent war footing with her kitchen. My meal half-eaten, I leave.
Time for another head count. They’re nowhere to be seen.
From the sweltering heat crawling in and out of my pores, I’m sweating.
Where are they?
