Day Twenty-Seven (Friday, July 23, 1971)

I stirred at the first inkling of daylight. My body felt infested with dirt and bugs. My eye pounded. The black skin had swollen back up and my cheek was tender. My sclera was still red. It was evident I hadn’t taken care of myself as well as I thought.

Otto sat up haplessly with drooping arms and shoulders, hair twisted, mumbling, “I didn’t get any sleep at all.” With all the tractor- trailers whistling past, I knew why. I tried to cheer him up but felt just as miserable.

My sunglasses went back on.

“I gave up bein’ tired, so let’s see what this mouse business is all about,” Otto said.

Considering our unexpected windfall, there was no dispute about what type of tickets to buy at Disneyland. Otto and I each shelled out $9.75 for premium “E” tickets, the highest tier. That gave us admission to practically everything.

The other strategy was to get as much value for our buck as possible. He and I were among the first guests to push through the Magic Kingdom turnstiles at 8 a.m. We actually had a chance to be absolutely first, though some eager-beaver Disney fanatics ran ahead.

“Disneyland’s open for seventeen hours, and we’re gonna spend every minute inside these gates.”
“M-I-C-K-E-Y / H-E-R-E / W-E / A-R-E.” I sang it, but it didn’t quite fit the iconic theme song.

Main Street U.S.A. was a replica of a Midwest Victorian town from the 1890’s, complete with central square, city hall, ragtime musicians, horse-drawn carriages, sidewalk cafes, a firehouse with a steam-powered pump engine, and fake birds chirping in the large, well-tended shade trees.

The park spoked out like the hub of a wheel, to Tomorrowland, Fantasyland, Adventureland, and the newest attraction, New Orleans Square. Walt’s layout was clever, adroitly condensed and designed to keep you moving.

“I feel charmed almost in spite of myself.”

“It’s like walkin’ from one sound stage to another. There’s a lot of back areas they don’t show ya. It’s a performance.”

“It’s a menagerie of feel-good culture.”

“Reality is suspended, but you’re glad it is.”

My experience with Donald Duck will never show on film. Imagine, seeing my all-time favorite Disney character waddle past, waving, posing for pictures, surrounded by a crowd of children. I handed my camera to Otto and told him to get ready.

I waited my turn, moving in for an embrace. I got closer, closer . . . until I realized Donald was pushing me away. It was like he was saying, “I’m for children only. You’re too big.” I corralled him against a bench. Donald pinched my arm, hard. First chance he got, he waddled away. Otto snapped the picture.

“You can’t even make friends with Donald Duck? You got a problem, sons.”

Disagreements with Otto started early—too early. Couldn’t we ever stay in synch anymore? He and I couldn’t agree on what rides to go on. The only rides we liked together were “Haunted House” and “Pirates of the Caribbean.” Otto claimed I hijacked him into riding the “Sante Fe & Disneyland Railroad.” I criticized his next selection, “Flight to the Moon.” Otto defiantly banged through the doors of a kiddy ride, “Alice in Wonderland,” while I took solo flight on “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.”

By “Tom Sawyer’s Island,” we were traversing the paper mache rocks on our own, barely civil.

“You’re not supposed to argue at amusement parks!”

“So why you squabblin’?”

“This being pissy all the time has got to stop, Otto.”

“You’re killin’ all the fun, not me. I’m the same as I ever was.”

Otto tapped his foot impatiently while I browsed through the gift emporium. When I was in the mood for a cheeseburger at the Dancing Bear Jamboree, he opted to buy four Ding Dongs in front of the Autotopia. When I lingered in front of the Coca-cola boogie- woogie pianist, he motioned to meet him at the Big Game Shooting Gallery. After I mentioned how I liked the guide’s clever speech aboard the Gullywhumper Keel Boats, he bickered, “Sheese, I’d rather go flyin’ with Peter Pan.”

We blasted each other’s reasons whether to endure the wait for the Tomorrowland Jets or the Sailing Ship Columbia—and wound up going on neither.

“For all the time you spend in the bathroom, I could’ve taken an extra ride on the monorail!”

“Why you bein’ so righteous, Winans, not wantin’ to make free prank phone calls at the AT&T pavilion? Doesn’t Jesus like to have fun? Was he a killjoy like you?” He disappeared up the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse.

“Sit up there on your brooding rear end and take a powder!” I yelled from the ground.

Otto asked me to take his portrait with the camera in front of a white horse. He shot me sitting next to a trash can. We never asked anyone to take a picture of us together. I didn’t want the camera to break.
He coaxed me to sample Disneyland’s most popular attraction, “Matterhorn Mountain Bobsled,” after bearing a 55-minute wait. I was deeply impressed with the robot technology of “Great Moments with Abraham Lincoln.” Otto fell asleep.

Fireworks were shot off at 9 p.m. Singer Freda Payne performed “Band of Gold,” and “Bring the Boys Home,” from the Tomorrowland Terrace. The crowd got unruly. A rougher element milled around the passageways the later it got. At one o’clock security guards literally pushed the throng out the exit gates. Otto and I were among the last to file out.

My expenditures for the day totaled an astronomical $12.50. “Holy crap, Otto, that’s eight dollars more than our budget!”

“True, Walt’s got his hand down your pants the moment you come through the gate.” He smiled, now more relaxed, in control. “But I guess goin’ into fantasy for seventeen hours was worth it.”

“My only worry is our stuff.”

We stashed it in a dark, woodsy, triangular hideout between Harbor Boulevard, the Santa Ana Freeway, and its ‘off’ ramp. The clearing lie well below street level, shielded by overhanging trees. Not so good were the charred campfire remnants, litter, a mangled suitcase, and torn white bra.

Everything was in place.

We bedded down inside the triangle. It was sweaty and buggy. No fresh air circulated because the thick foliage choked off all oxygen. I slept nude on top of my sleeping bag, inhaling stale beer, burnt metal and plastic, and chlorophyll.