Had
conditions been different, the three of us would have crept with all due
stealth down the side of the hill, however, the magic of Disney doesn’t
necessarily lend itself well to covert operations. To be more specific, three men creeping down
the side of a hill that was painted to look like the sky has a tendency to
really make those three men stand out, and in a really weird way.
So we
just ran down and screamed our asses off.
“Zodar! Shape Shifter! We’re coming for you!”
“Give it up G! I ain’t holding the down!”
“I’m Goose! I’m Goose!”
The
sight of three crazed men armed with hedge clippers and safety scissors
storming the gate effectively reminded the night crew that they all worked for
minimum wage and that, with no other allegiance to the park of any
significance, they were not honor bound to stand and protect their ground. It should be noted that whether or not these
thoughts consciously went through any of their minds as they scattered like
roaches is still a topic of much debate in many academic circles.
Things
were going quite well until we came to the fence. In the classic theme park tradition of
disguising things to look like something other than what they actually are, the
fence was cleverly designed to bear a striking resemblance to the type of fence
that might be found at someplace other than a theme park. By the look of it, we assumed that it fell
into the category of fences that “aren’t too strong and will fall if hit with
any reasonable amount of force.”
In this
we miscalculated to some degree.
I found
out much later that a crew of maintenance workers who witnessed the event from
one of the towers of Cinderella’s Castle gave us a combined score of 9.4 for
what they termed our “Triple-Thud”. The
total would have been higher, however, a low score given by the lone French
janitor pulled it down, thus arousing much suspicion in the process since one
of Simon’s twice removed cousins is Canadian.
After a
moment of stunned bird watching & stargazing, I shook off the pain and
launched myself over the top of the fence, which achieved the objective of
getting me to the other side much better than my first attempt. Jimmy, no stranger to pain himself and a
regular frequent flyer when it came to colliding with wooden objects (like
fishing pier foundations), followed a moment later and appeared relatively
unfazed. Or, to be more precise,
appeared no more fazed than usual.
The
appearance of Simon, however, was less sudden than I would have preferred.
“Simon!” I yelled.
“Come on!”
His
continued lack of attendance on the business side of the fence was enjoying an
apparently prolonged relationship with a rather annoying silence. Not being one to jump to conclusions, I
resisted the urge to make any knee jerk assumptions, such as labeling Simon a
coward of the type who would use this fence incident as an excuse to bail out
on the team just when we needed him the most.
Instead – and keeping my emotions in check just as I had been taught in
my 12-Step anger management program – I quickly but calmly explored a few of
the other possible scenarios for Simon’s absence:
a) he
was dead
b) he
thought he was dead and didn’t want to confuse things by speaking
c) he
had booked an ill-timed vacation to Central America and was now being held at gunpoint by Panamanian rebels in a small
warehouse near the Columbian border (there’s Columbia again; go figure)
d) he
had found Portia and was trying to score
e) he had
fallen into a den of boa constrictors and was fighting for his life with one
that had wrapped itself around his neck
f) he had
–
“Dick,” came the pitiful wail from the far side of
the fence, “I’m hurt.”
“Simon!” I yelled, “Get over here! We’re right in the middle of an assault. This is no time to be goofing around.”
“But my
leg hurts, Dick. My shin. I hurt it bad. I can’t make it. You guys go on without me.”
Coward
it was. Always stick with your gut.
“Your
shin hurts?” I said.
“Yeah,
it hurts bad. Like I said, I don’t think
I’m going to make it. You guys go on
without – ”
“Is it
bleeding?”
Pause. “What?”
“I said,
is it bleeding?”
“Um .
. . well, no, but – ”
“Is it
broken?”
“Broken?”
“Yeah,
broken. Is it broken?”
“Um . .
. wait a minute,” he said.
Then, a few moments later, “Well, I don’t think it’s broken per se, but I think there’s a good
possibility that it might be slightly dislocated.”
“Really. You’re telling me you dislocated your shin.”
“Yeah,
or sprained it or something. Hey, I’m
not a doctor, but it’s a mess alright, that’s for sure. Listen, I don’t want slow you guys down. Just go, leave me here. I’ll make it back on my own. Somehow.”
“Simon?” I said.
“Yeah,
Dick?”
“You got
five seconds to get over that fence, and three of ‘em are already gone.”
In less
time than it takes to say “Trix are for kids”, Simon landed smartly on his feet
next to me.
“Dislocated,
huh?” I said.
“Yeah,
well,” he said sheepishly, “Prompt first
aid, you know? And I’m a pretty quick
healer anyway.”
“Good
thing, because when we’re done with all of this I’m gonna beat the shit out of
you. It’ll hurt me to do that, of
course, but I’ll take comfort in knowing that you bounce back quickly.”
“Yeah,
um, . .
. hey, oh man, does my head hurt! I must’ve really knocked myself senseless
there. What just happened? I remember hitting the fence, and now I’m
standing next to you. How did I get here? What happened in between? I must’ve had a concussion or something. I usually start talking nonsense when that
happens. Was I talking nonsense? Boy, I must’ve really been out of it just now. What could I possibly have said? I have no idea. Dick, did you happen to hear anything –
”
“Simon, shut up and just follow me, okay?”
“Gotcha,
Iceman.”
“And
wake up Jimmy, will you?”
“Will
do.”
Back to
full strength and luckily having lost only a few moments to the entire fence
incident, we resumed our charge, intent on a kill.
Jimmy
had found a bucket of water somewhere and, screaming “Freeze, assmoose!”,
promptly threw the entire contents on the topiary, drenching it’s delicate,
painstakingly sculpted branches. An
instant later, Simon and I hit it at full steam, our hedge clippers ripping
into the dripping foliage with reckless abandon. Leaves and branches flew in all directions,
and in a matter of seconds, nothing remained but a ragged stump amid a sea of
horticultural carnage.
No way
was Zodar shape shifting out of this mess.
And if he did, it would have to be as a bunch of tiny little Zodars, and
we would have just stomped the hell out of them.
Panting,
dripping wet, and looking like we had survived a spinach explosion, Simon and I
threw our clippers to the ground. Not
breathing heavily, completely dry, and looking otherwise none the worse for
wear, Jimmy threw down the bucket. His
unused safety scissors remained stuck in his belt.
“Say,
Jimmy,” I said, hands on my knees.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“What,” I said, still trying to catch my breath,
“what was the deal . . . with
the bucket?”
“The
bucket?” he said. “It was full of water.”
“I know it was full of water. But why did you throw it at Zodar?”
“Well, I
found it and got an idea. I figured I’d
just get him soaking wet, and then the water would freeze, and then he’d be
trapped. Frozen solid.”
Simon
and I looked at each other a moment. He
either had no clue what Jimmy was talking about either or was telling the truth
about his head injury.
“Jimmy,” I said, “how was he going to freeze? It’s 87 degrees.”
“Did you
just mean to make a rhyme, Dick?” Simon
asked. “Because you just did.”
“SHUT UP Simon!” I yelled.
“Okay.”
I turned
back to Jimmy, letting my original question hang in the air. He was obviously thinking about it.
“Oh,” he said finally. “water won’t freeze if it’s hot, will it?”
“No,
Jimmy. It won’t,” I said.
“Whoa. That would explain a lot. I was wondering why he just kept dripping.” The hurt look on his face inspired me to take
pity.
“It’s
okay, Jimmy. It’s okay. We got him.
And if nothing else, I’m sure the bucket of water confused the hell out
of him.”
“You
think?” he said, brightening up.
“I
think.”
The
finality of any dangerous, difficult mission brings about a relieved euphoria,
and we were all feeling it. Boyish grins
and a shared giddiness at our own survival soon turned into chuckles and
laughter, even as we stood among the chaos and devastation of the vegetation.
Simon
almost made another rhyming comment just then, but saw the look in my eye and
thought better of it. No need to ruin
the moment.
“Alright
men,” I said. “Looks like we’re going to have to clean up
this mess ourselves. Wouldn’t want any
small children to have to see this in the morning.”
Simon
and Jimmy exchanged knowing looks and nodded.
“Jimmy,” I continued, “get that broom over there and
start sweeping this up into a pile. Simon,
why don’t you bring that trashcan over here and we’ll start scooping this stuff
into it.”
“Uh,
Dick?” Simon asked.
“What
now?” I replied.
“What
trashcan?”
“The
trashcan right over th – ”
I
stopped. The trashcan was gone.
An
uneasy feeling suddenly crept up my spine.
There had been a trashcan, I
was sure of it. I looked back a couple
of pages to Chapter 29 just to make sure I remembered correctly. Yup, there it was alright, a trashcan with
towel racks hanging off the sides. But
where was it now? Where had it gone?
And then
it hit me like a pillowcase full of canned corn.
“Those
weren’t towel racks! Those were antlers!” I yelled.
“He’s the trashcan! Zodar’s
disguised as the trashcan!”
“You
know,” said Simon, “I was going to ask
you about that. I mean, who puts towel
racks on a trashcan anyway? Seemed kind
of strange to me. In hindsight, I
probably should have mentioned it.”
“Dude,
you mean he’s still alive?” Jimmy said.
“Come
on, quick,” I said, “look for the
trashcan! Where did it go?”
We
spread out, looking frantically in all directions. Seconds passed, and I feared we had lost him
completely, when Jimmy suddenly yelled out.
“Dudes! There he is!”
he said, pointing. “Check him out! That trashcan is cruisin’.”
“After
him!” I yelled.
We broke
out in a full sprint after our clever quarry, chasing him toward Tomorrowland.
Somewhere
in the distance, a clock struck midnight.
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