Fast Times at Ridgemont High (34 page)

William Desmond had a pint of tequila stuffed down his pants. Tim Copeland had two grams of cocaine in his wallet. Many others were armed with joints to smoke on the People Mover. Some had fruit injected with vodka.

There were five separate inspection points at which to enter Disneyland on Grad Nite. Three security guards were installed to pat kids down at every station. To the far right of them was the chaperones’ entrance. There were no security guards posted there.

William Desmond began to panic. No way he’d get by with a pint stashed down his pants. No human penis was that big. He stood there at the entrance looking for a bathroom. A trash can. Anything. His only hope, he figured, was that his peach-fuzz beard made him appear older, above such shenanigans as booze smuggling. Desmond was right.

A teacher from another school tapped him on the shoulder. “You dropped your chaperone pass.”

Desmond turned and saw he was being handed that most golden of Grad Nite items—an all-areas-access chaperone pass. It was fate!

“Thanks a lot,” said Desmond. He grabbed the pass in a hurry and breezed through the special chaperone entrance with a mature nod to the agent.

Damone and The Rat passed through the other guard station and into the crush of kids who’d come from all over the western United States in their gowns and three-piece suits.

“It looks like a C&R Clothiers convention,” said The Rat.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Let’s get our pictures taken.”

“We can’t get our pictures taken yet.”

Disneyland provided a free old-fashioned sepia portrait taken by a booth photographer on Main Street as a Grad Nite service. “Every jock in the world is waiting in line to get a picture. We’ll go later.”

“Well,” said The Rat. “Where do you want to go?”

“The bathroom. I think my tie’s screwed up.”

They pushed their way through the hordes of kids and larger-than-life Disneyland figures, toward the first bathroom they could find.

“I can’t believe it,” said Damone. “Grown up men dressed like Mickey Mouse. What a hell of a way to earn a buck.”

In this, the first of 500 Disneyland bathrooms, there were twenty more guys just like The Rat and Damone, shamelessly and meticulously adjusting their hair and ties until just . . .
right.
Some even had hair spray and cologne.

“What’s that?” asked Damone.

It was a strange grunting sound, getting closer. A moment later, the bathroom was filled with even more guys. This group did not speak with each other, but instead communicated through fingersnaps and signals. They, too, waited for the mirror, shaping their hair and making furious tongueless sounds.

“Hey
guys,”
came the voice of William Desmond. “I got a chaperone pass, you guys!” Desmond entered the bathroom and was showing around the pint he’d smuggled in, and his pass.

The deaf-and-dumb contingent paused in admiration.

Then they communicated furiously among themselves again.

Desmond, the wrestler-columnist, ducked into a stall. Rat and Mike looked at each other and tore ass into the ocean of teenagers. They were the picture of sophistication in their three-piece suits. They were ready to experience the gamut of human emotions in the next seven hours.
Grad Nite.

Inside Disneyland two things were instantly noticeable: Every male in sight wore a gray cardboard gangster hat. It was the only souvenir. Everyone had them. Second item was The Voice.

That mellifluous, folksy Voice. Most people probably thought it was Disney’s own voice, that good old Wonderful-World-of-Disney chuckly voice.
Well, ’ol Sparky, you better git, boy!
It was as omnipresent as Mickey Mouse, as familiar as the voice of Time. You couldn’t get away from The Voice of Disneyland.

Damone revealed the basic strategy for the evening. Disneyland, he said, was a matter of hitting the most popular attractions first, while everyone else was still wandering around. In the meantime, of course, there was the unspoken quest for girls.

Damone and The Rat chose Pirates of the Caribbean as their first ride. On the way, Damone told The Rat the story of the hidden Jack Daniel’s on Tom Sawyer Island. It would be their secret of the night, for use only after they’d found . . .
babes.

The Rat felt good. He hadn’t even seen Stacy tonight. She’d gotten on another bus, and that was more than okay with The Rat. One thing he had to say, when he was through with a girl, he was
through with a girl.
He still hoped he wouldn’t run into her, at least not until after he’d found another girl.

The Rat and Damone, armed with the secret of the Jack Daniel’s, took a place in line for Pirates of the Caribbean. Directly in front of them in line were Stacy and Linda Barrett.

They turned around. “Oh, hi! Hello, Mike! Hello, Mark!”

“Hi, you guys!” It was all very gracious.

And then the voice from behind. “Hey hey hey. I was looking for you!”

William Desmond had found them again.

“Hi, William.”

“What happened to you guys? I finished whizzing, and you guys were gone.”

“Nice shirt,” said Damone.

“Thanks,” said Desmond.

“Was it hard getting the come stains off it?”

William ignored the joke. “Anybody have any
cocaine
?”

“Why don’t you shut up, William.”

Some other kids joined them in line. They were bright and rosy looking.

“Hi,” one of them said. “Where are you from?”

“Ridgemont. It’s outside Oceanside.”

“Wow. We’ve heard of you! We’re from Notre Dame in Riverside!”

“Isn’t that a Catholic school?” asked Damone.

“Yes!”

“Tell me something,” said Desmond, addressing one of the girls in the Notre Dame group. “Why did they call the Virgin Mary a virgin if she slept with Joseph?”

The girl cast a vicious look at Desmond. “Because it was the Immaculate Conception.”

“Sorry,” said Desmond. “It’s not easy being the coolest guy in Disneyland.”

“Some people get all the luck,” said The Rat. “We get Desmond.”

“Jesus,” said Damone. “Did you see that girl look at Desmond, Mark?”

“No.”

William whipped around. “Where? Who?”

“Just this girl who looked at you.”

“Where?”

“Right over there. SEE? Now she turned away ’cause we’re looking at her. But William, if I were you, I’d go right over there and stand by the popcorn vendor so she’ll walk right past you. I guarantee she’ll say something to you.”

William Desmond walked casually over to the popcorn vendor.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Damone, and he and The Rat ran in the opposite direction.

“Where do you want to go? On the bumper cars?”

“The bumper cars are pussy.”

They decided on the Haunted House. On the way there, they spotted two girls in the gift shop. Damone wandered in nonchalantly, browsed a moment, then held up a leather fringed jacket to the two girls.

“Is this me?” he asked.

The girls laughed and ran out of the gift shop.

“It’s a start,” said The Rat. “It’s a start.”

The Haunted House was a fifteen-minute wait and—as Damone put it—for what? A bunch of kids—or was that sardines—were ushered into a tall-ceilinged room where the doors clanged shut, and, as soon as the room started to shrink and get really scary, here came The Voice again. How could The Voice scare you? You’d been hearing it since you were a baby.

“You’re about to experience a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this Haunted Room
actually
shrinking. Or is it just your imagination?” The room filled with exaggerated sounds of horror from jaded teenagers.

“Or consider this dismaying observation. This chamber has no windows! And no doors! And your
challenge
is to find a way OUT.”

The Voice let loose with another demented laugh that couldn’t scare a child over two. The Rat turned to the attendant. “Who is that guy with The Voice?”

She smiled and shrugged.

The Rat and Mike exited the Haunted House and decided to scout Tom Sawyer Island, home of the hidden Jack Daniel’s bottle.

“Let’s get the booze,” said Damone.

They arrived at the island to find a terrible surprise. Not only was Tom Sawyer Island closed for the evening, it had been partially converted into a stage for a disco dance band.

“FUCK.” Damone collapsed on a bench. “I have to think about this.”

“Looks like no booze for us tonight.”

“Are you crazy? I had to pay for that and everything! Let’s go ride the Monorail and figure this out.”

The Disneyland Monorail System was built as an ultra-modern transport system in 1965. Meant to “rocket” guests around the perimeter of the Magic Kingdom, it stopped at every quarter of the park and even at Disneyland Hotel across the street.

The Rat and Damone fell into a couple of window seats.

“During our journey,” The Voice began, air-transport style, “please see to it that you keep your head and arms inside the cabin at all times. You are riding aboard a Mark III system . . .”

At the next stop two dark-haired girls entered the compartment. One was wearing a red dress, the other a clingy blue gown. They cruised slowly by Damone and The Rat.

The boys offered them nothing less than The Attitude. Supreme indifference.

The girls sat behind them and started talking loudly.

“I couldn’t believe our bus, could you? First the clutch went out . . . then the gear shift. We’re luuuuuuu-cky to make it here alive.”

“At least the radio was good,” said the girl in red.

Then they sang a line from a song in unison, probably the last song they’d heard on the bus ride up: “Wa-tching the De-tect-tives. Don’ they look
cute?”
Then the girls broke up laughing.

The Voice began again: “Welcome aboard the Disneyland Monorail. America’s first daily operating monorail system. We ask only that you keep your head and arms inside the cabin at all times . . .”

The laughing died down, and the two girls realized there was a war of nerves going on. Neither of the couples wanted to let the moment pass, but neither wanted to make the first move.

Finally Red Dress spoke first. “You guys staying for the weekend?”

“Who, us?” asked Damone.

“Yeah.”

“No, we’re going back tonight.”

“Where are you guys from?”

“Ridgemont. How about you?”

They answered in unison. “We’re from Flag.”

“What’s Flag.”

“Flagstaff, Arizona!” The boys nodded. “We’re gonna be here till Monday ’cause our bus broke down. We’re staying at the Wagon Train Motel on the other side of Disneyland.”

“Yeah. We’re all doubled up, and every third room is a chaperone.”

The two girls looked at each other. “Wa-tching the De-tect-tives . . .” Then they broke up again.

The Rat and Mike nodded distractedly. More Attitude for these girls. Why, there was plenty of other things to do than try and get these girls to go back to their motel rooms with them.

The Voice: “We’re now in a reentry pattern back into the Magic Kingdom. Destination? Tomorrowland. World of the Future . . .”

“Aren’t we supposed to get out here?”

“We’ll just tell ’em we got tired and fell asleep on the Monorail.” The girl in the blue gown looked at The Rat. “Do you know anyone from Flag?”

“Just you,” said The Rat. Damone looked at him approvingly.

They introduced themselves: Becky (blue dress) and Stephanie (red dress).

“Hey, you know what?” said Damone.

“What?”

“We have booze.”

“You have
booze?”

“Yes. I can’t even tell you where it’s hidden. But why don’t we go there?”

“Wow!” said Becky.

“Let’s go get the booze,” said Stephanie. “And then we’ll take it back to our motel!”

The Rat and Joe looked out the window. That would be acceptable.

The fifth of Jack Daniel’s was hidden in a small crevice in the southwestern caves on Tom Sawyer Island. The compartment had been made five years earlier by Damone’s brother, Art, on vacation no less. It had been a tradition for all of Art’s friends to use the hiding place. Now it was Mike’s turn.

“You can’t go on Tom Sawyer Island tonight,” said Becky. “They’ve got a band out there tonight.”

“I have an idea,” said Damone. “There is a way.”

The only way out to the man-made island at the center of Disneyland was by wooden raft. The raft was ferried back and forth all day by a Disneyland employee in riverboat get-up. And they had chosen
this
Grad Nite to quit running the raft.

But the raft was still there, sitting calmly by the deserted and darkened dock. It was held only by a rope.

Damone gave the instructions. He would untie the rope, and they would float across to the island, lying low on the raft.

“No way,” said The Rat. “They’ll catch us.”

“Come on,” said Becky. “Don’t be a
wussy.”

“You have that word, too?”

They floated across the moat to the other side, undetected. Once on shore, Damone led them to the back caves, to the site he had meticulously outlined for Laurie Beckman.

Damone reached up, found the compartment, and the knapsack containing a sealed bottle of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7.

They took a few slugs, then quickly returned to the greater Magic Kingdom. Paddling back across the moat, the four hit the dock and scattered in different directions, according to plan. They were to meet at Jungle Cruise.

Damone was just about to round the corner and head out of Frontierland when he felt an arm grab him from behind. Then another arm.

“Come along with us.”

He turned to see two Disneyland security officers dressed as old-time coppers. They had already confiscated his Jack Daniel’s knapsack.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the holding office.”

The
holding tank!
Shades of Mark Huffman!

“I heard about that place,” said Damone. “It’s underground, isn’t it?”

“You’re thinking of Disney
World.
That’s in Florida. They have an underground security office.”

Damone was led to a very-much above-ground office behind Main Street marked JUVENILE SECURITY.