Chapter Ten

It’s about 90 minutes from La Jolla to Anaheim. Even with traffic, we still managed to get there before 10:30 and snagged a decent parking space in the same zip code as the park.

After five or six hours of waiting in lines, we managed to do pretty much everything there was to do at Disneyland. Well, aside from the teacup ride.

The last hill left to climb was Space Mountain, Disney’s newest roller coaster experience.

It was nearly a half hour wait before being strapped in. But the next three minutes were pretty amazing and definitely worth the time spent in line.

It was a fairly basic roller coaster. Probably tame compared to today’s theme park monsters. But aside the occasional strobe and colorful shooting stars, the ride was in total darkness. You couldn’t see what was coming. You couldn’t prepare for the tight hairpin turns or the freefalls. You’d feel yourself climbing. You just never knew when it would drop…until you heard the screams.

After exiting the ride, it took a few minutes to re-learn to walk. We both agreed that we could use a beer but were stunned to discover there is no alcohol at Disneyland.

Well, at least not in the park. We had plenty out in the truck.

A quick check with the guest relations desk, and yes, we could go out and come back in.

As we hiked across the parking lot to the truck, I had a stroke of genius. “Hey John…you know what would be really cool? Doing Space Mountain again…stoned.”

“It’s like you were reading my mind!”

A lot of families that had arrived when we did had their fill of fun waiting in lines and were heading home. People were milling all around us, trying to get their brats back in their cars.

A modicum of discretion was in order. John fired up the truck and found a space in an open area of the lot where we could enjoy our beers and blaze a joint without kids in mouse ears poking their heads in the window.

I laid the baggy of weed on the open glove box door. Rolled a joint. We slammed a few beers each and got about halfway through the joint. I tamped it out and set it in the ashtray for later.

“What do we have back there to munch on?” I asked.

Before John could respond, I heard the pup-pup-pup of a small engine. Suddenly there was a uniformed security dude sitting on a moped outside my window, looking us over.

“What’s up, guys?” he asked.

I had nothing. “Uh…ya know…we were thirsty and…ya know…”

“Sure, I get it. Hey – I need you both to step out of the vehicle and show me some ID…but first, if you could hand me the bag of weed there and that roach in the ashtray…”

My head was exploding. This wasn’t going to turn out well.

I handed him the stuff and began reaching into my back pocket for my wallet when he opened up my door. Two empty cans of Budweiser tumbled out onto the parking lot. Very classy.

He looked over at John through the open door. “Driver? If you could please exit the vehicle and join us over here? I’d appreciate it.”

We fished into our wallets and handed him our IDs.

You’d think we had rehearsed this: We both handed him our old Ithaca College student IDs. And thank God we did.

He studied them intently, then looked up and smiled. “Ithaca?! My brother goes to Cornell! I was just up there last year! Cool town….a lotta great bars…”

I began to feel hopeful. “I guess Walt was right. It is a small world after all!”

“Right? Just so ya know, we have a guy up on the roof of the Disneyland Hotel over there with a pair of high-powered binoculars and he’s been watching you pretty much since you got in your truck. I’m part-time Disney Security, but a full-time Orange County deputy. So…we have three ways to deal with this situation and I just need you guys to tell me what you’d like to do.”

We both nodded and prepared for the worst.

Deputy Moped continued, “California is pretty liberal about marijuana possession. I can basically give you the equivalent of a speeding ticket which’ll cost you about $100. Misdemeanor. It’ll go on your record. But the really bad news is, we’ll need to impound your truck. That gets pretty expensive with towing and fees. Plus you won’t be able to pick it up ‘til tomorrow.”

That option certainly sucked.

“Or, we can forget I’m a deputy and keep this in the park. I’ll take you over to the security office, photograph and print you, put you on file, and you’ll be banned from Disneyland for six months.”

I had images in my head of pleading our case to Judge Goofy.

“Or…the third option…I just let you go. You seem like good guys. I have your weed. And you really don’t appear to be a threat to anyone at the park…”

I looked at John. John looked at me. In unison, we said, “We like Number Three.”

“Cool. Okay, here’s the deal. The guy on the roof over there gets off in about 20 minutes. Just get back in your truck, leave the park property, drive around, get something to eat…whatever. Then you’re welcomed to come back. You don’t want to miss the Main Street Electrical Parade and the fireworks…just show them your wrist band at the gate.”

He handed us back our IDs.

“Maybe we’ll go bar-hopping together in Ithaca sometime!”

We thanked him profusely and both shook his hand. Then jumped in the truck and drove. Neither of us looked at the other. Neither of us said a word.

We just drove.

We got as far as the Pacific Ocean. Newport Beach. Then turned around and drove back to Anaheim.

“Holy FUCK that was close!” I finally yelled.

“We got busted, man. I can’t believe he just let us go!” John added.

I nodded. “Thank God he didn’t search the truck and find the other two bags of weed!”