Earning my Ears; Chapter 2
It’s a strange thing, knowing your whole life is about to change. My brain was running a thousand miles a minute. Could I make it on my own? What would my roommates be like? Would I make friends? Would I get laid?
Despite all my questions, I’d managed to get a good night sleep. So with a bit of McDonald’s breakfast sausage in my stomach, I left the hotel and got on to the I-4; it was quite literally the road to my future. It was a beautiful morning. The cloudless sky was a light blue and there was a breeze coming in through the window. As I drove, the Foo Fighters song “I’ll be coming home next year” came on the radio. The intro to the television show Ed, where he’s driving through his hometown listening to that song, flickered behind my eyes, and the familiarity and propriety of the moment comforted me. The song ended right about the time I realized that the directions I was given were wrong and that I was lost. Two phone calls and twenty minutes later I was there; my new life, my new home… Vista Way.
Every semester Walt Disney World selects a couple thousand college students (out of God knows how many applicants) from across the world to come and live on their property and work for the Walt Disney World Resort. On January 15th of 2002, I was one of them. I would work somewhere on Disney property for minimum wage. In return, I was told I would get access to all of the WDW theme parks, life experience, life long friendships and a resume’ centerpiece that would get me hired almost anywhere. In theory. In practice, I got access to most of the theme parks and one really good friend, but boy did I have some experiences. We lived a few miles outside of the resort, at an apartment complex Disney owned, Vista Way. Playboy ran some kind of study that listed Vista Way as the second easiest place in the United States to have sex. I have no idea what got first place. I’m not even sure how you would test for such a thing. Did they ask 6,000 guys where they’ve gotten laid and add up the scores for each site? Did they post agents at every dormitory in America to count the moans? I had no idea. Still, it sounded promising to me at the time. Oh look, is that what little hope I had left being crushed? Why, yes it is.
At 9:30 in the morning, I figured I would be one of the earliest people there. But as I pulled around the parking lot and saw the line, I realized I should have left at 6. It was a mile long and wrapped around several of the structures in the beige apartment complex. The parking lot was teeming with parents and luggage and cars and chatty coeds. I parked a quarter mile down, took a deep breath, and started back to the line. As I walked away from the van I noticed a dark blue Trans Am with Louisiana license plates parked next to me. “Nice Car.” I thought.
I stood at what appeared to be the end of the very disorganized line. I was shocked at how many people were talking to each other like old friends. It was as though I were someone’s abandoned date at a high school reunion. Being shy, I listened instead, getting a feel for the kind of people I was dealing with. I knew I didn’t fit in. The two orientations back home had taught me that. I was twenty-two and cynical. They were 19 and … well… Disney people. It was as if Robert DeNiro had infiltrated the fucking grown up Mouseketeers. Yes, I just compared myself to DeNiro. Fuck off.
It was unbelievable. They were all … happy. They chatted with strangers about college and their Mickey Mouse T-shirts. Sure, I was a little prepared, but really, who saw this shit coming? Where was their teenage angst? Where was their bitter sarcasm? Where the fuck were my alcoholics at? What the hell had I gotten into?
There was a pool back home, betting on when I would be kicked out. I had the best odds and the shortest amount of time, betting on the first two days. I was just about to start writing my acceptance speech, when something happened. Someone spoke to me. “What?” I asked, lost. “I said, where are you from?” a bubbly little Asian girl asked me. Damn it, I hated that question. I prepared for the typical annoying rant about the joys of Mardi Gras as I answered her question. “New Orleans.” “Oh my God! You’re from New Orleans?!” she asked as though I was just saying it to screw with her. “ I love Mardi Gras!” “I’ll bet you do, you little slut.” I thought to myself. I would have said it, but I needed to make friends and I didn’t want to make any of the mouseketeers cry.
She must have sensed what I was thinking, because the conversation turned away from me again. “Like being in high school again.” I muttered. But just then, a tall skinny guy tapped me on the shoulders. “You’re from New Orleans? So am I. Thank god, I thought I was alone.” I wasn’t really looking to meet people from back home, in fact I moved 700 miles to get away from those people, but at the moment, I was grateful for the conversation. I realized though, that his demeanor was much more relaxed, his attitude wasn’t nearly so cheerful, and he was saying the exact same things I was saying. “I’m Kyle.” he said as he reached out his hand. “Adam.”, I shook it, before adding “I’m actually from the suburbs in the Greater New Orleans area.” He nodded. “Well, actually I’m from Lockport.” My eyebrow cocked. “Where?” “Do you know where Houma is?” he asked, looking for a point of reference. “Uh, yeah… thirty miles south of New Orleans.” I said sarcastically. “Yeah, Lockport is right around there.” Fucking phony lying cocksucker. I hate it when people lie about where they’re from for attention. I mean, sure, I had embellished a little, but I was at least in the suburbs. But 30 miles? This shithead wasn’t even in the ballpark. He wasn’t in the same league. I’m not even sure he was playing the same sport. Still, he seemed cool enough. We kept talking for a while, though it was more about home than I cared for. We entered what appeared to be some sort of large meeting center where the line ended and branched off into various tables. As we waited inside I noticed some of the other people in line. Two people behind me was a well built, skinny guy with short curly hair. He was loud, and kind of obnoxious, telling some cute girl stories about … you guessed it… New Orleans. I just couldn’t get away from it! It was starting to piss me off. Did I have to move to Fiji? Is that what it would take? By this time the line had separated and next to us I heard a ruckus, the center of which was by far the most obnoxious person I’d met since … well, me. “What up, dawg! I’m Dan. I’m from Buffalo!” he said in a thick accent that reminded me of a Canadian with a speech impediment. Well, at least I had found an alcoholic. He was talking to two random female coeds, a skinny little blonde kid with a cross around his neck and a chubby black guy with a sideways cap. By this time Kyle had been called to one of the tables for housing assignments. I was next, and was starting to get anxious. Plus Dan from Buffalo was getting on my nerves. It was then that “curly” from New Orleans started talking to me. “Dude, I hope I don’t end up rooming with them.” I looked back. “I hear ya.” “I wish someone would tell that jackass to shut the fuck up! I’d do it, but I don’t want to get kicked out.” He was testing me to see what I would say, what kind of person I was. I was politely ignoring him. “I hear ya.” Looking back, it was very rude, but I really didn’t want to talk to anyone from Louisiana. It’s not that I hate everyone from my hometown … okay yeah, I do … but the point was to get out from underneath the hot moist thumb of Louisiana, and so far it was like a Twilight Zone episode where all roads lead to Cajun-fried antagonism. “I’m John. I heard you say you were from New Orleans, I am too.” I shook his hand to be polite. “Adam.” He started talking about home, and it was quickly making me start to hate him. Fortunately, they called me up to the housing table, so I said some random pleasantry that equaled goodbye, and picked up my keys.
They placed me in room 3611 and gave me some very vague directions involving lefts and rights with no map to speak of. But first they sent me to the next booth to take my picture for my housing ID. I followed the directions around the entire complex with two heavy duffle bags, only to find building 36 right next to the meeting building I had just come from, and my van. I tried to look on the bright side. At least I wouldn’t have to go searching for my vehicle. My gigantic fat ass barely made it up the three flights of stairs, and as I opened the door the black guy with the sideways cap was walking out. Damn it… I put my bags down in the middle room, and prepared to get the rest of my belongings. But as I stepped out of my room, someone came out of the back room. It was John. Damnit FUCK FUCK FUCK! “What’s up dude?!” I suddenly realized what had happened. All of the people around me were on the same floor, and some were in the same room. I was not happy.
John leaned in close and looked me in the eye. “Look dude, if we’re the only white people here, you and me are rooming together. My grandfather would shoot me if he ever found out I was living with a black guy.” I was fucking shocked. I mean, it wasn’t that he was saying anything that bad. I’m from the South. I’ve heard people say things that would make Nazis shiver. It was just that I had never heard someone be so up front about it to a complete stranger. This guy was clearly a little off kilter. Fortunately for him, I like that in a person. “Sure, no problem.” I said. A broad, wicked smile crept across my face. Life at Disney wouldn’t be so bad after all.
