CHAPTER FOURTY-THREE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

 

Everyone around me is in full tourist attire: straw hats, sun glasses, bright colored shirts, drawstring slacks, white cotton Capris and for the most part flip flops. Pop is over talking to a couple from Ireland. Pop and I drove my Mustang to Dulles. Our flight was uneventful. Actually, I slept pretty much the whole time and Pop read. At Orlando International, we boarded what Pop called a puddle jumper to a town named Kissimmee (pronounced a couple of ways). Anyway, Kiss-i-me is approximately sixteen nautical miles south of Orlando and only eight miles away from Walt Disney World. We’re currently waiting for a shuttle to take us to the car rental place. I sit down on a bench close to our luggage. Might as well spend the free time writing in my journal.

Friday, September 1: Surf City Here I Come...but first Disney World and shopping! Compared to the last two weeks, our flight was uneventful. Pop was cool with that. He wants zero drama on this vaca.

Pop says, “Let go love, our ride is here.”

“Wow,” I murmur. “That was quick. Me like.” A boxy red Disney World Shuttle Service van pulls up to the curb. All of the sliding windows closed. I glance around. There are a lot of people. Question is will they all fit? A tall black man ducks through the door and everyone starts mulling around him talking at once. Pop is one of them. Closing my journal, I stand up and hurry to slide it in the side zipper compartment and grab my stuff and join Pop.

The driver’s eyes grow wide. “Damn, listen up people. All you need a ride to the park?”

The consensus is overwhelmingly “YES!”

The driver shrugs. “It’ll be cozy.” He does a quick head count then snaps his fingers. “Place  your luggage at the rear of the van, I will load it for you. Ya’ll get on in and take a seat.” Speaking slowly as if we’re a group of morons. He crams the bags in the back compartment and the group boards the ice cold van. Two hefty women, sporting crew cuts and matching tats on their necks, sit down in front of us and scoot close together. The smaller of the two says, “I’m sorry honey, but this time you’re doing all of the driving Orlando traffic bites!” Then she props her head on the larger woman’s shoulder.

Her bff says, “Yeah, you’d think Florida would have monorails running every where.”

Exiting the Kissimmee airport grounds, a little yellow school bus—probably full of children in wheelchairs—makes a wide turn in front of our driver. Our driver slams on the breaks yells a string of expletatives and flips off the bus driver. Meanwhile, we’re thrown forward in our seats. Jeez and I thought road-rage was bad in D.C. We meander through the kitschy looking city of Kissimmee until the driver pulls up to a purple and yellow cement building shaped like an Easter egg. We come to a complete stop, the driver, tugs on a bar and the front and back doors glide open.

 “Okay people, give me your attention,” the driver says over a loudspeaker, waving his arm in the air. “This here is the Ace is the Place Car Rental. Ya’ll don’t leave anything behind you don’t want.” He consults a clipboard. “Next stop is the Campbell Days Inn, after that is the Ramada Inn in Lake Buena Visa.”

Pop and I stand up and move toward the front door, we’re the only ones departing. The driver gets out, pushes aside the other bags, and pulls ours out of the back compartment.

“I was thinking we would be closer to Disney,” Pop says, digging in his pocket, pulling out a twenty passing it to the driver’s waiting palm.

“The park is just a hop skip and a jump.”

We enter the ice cold rental office and Pop go to the counter. After Pop signs the agreement, we go search for our rental. We travel about a half a mile down the steaming parking lot. Pop is sweating profusely in his yellow cotton shirt and new loose fitting blue jeans. He wore a pair of top-siders thinking we’d be walking a lot. Smart.

I’m glad I wore all cotton even though I almost froze to death on the plane. My new strappy sandals look sensational.

“Holy Toledo, with the humidity it’s has to be over 100 degrees!”

“I love it!”

He complains as we toss our luggage into the rented SUV. I twirl around snapping a few pictures to document our trip. He pops opens the passenger side door and takes off his Panama Jack hat, fanning his red face.

“Hop in chickey. “Let’s get this air going full blast before I melt into a puddle!”

I climb in and buckle up. He closes my door. Then climbs behind the wheel, fires up the engine and starts twisting buttons on the dashboard.

“This is nice and roomy,” he says, wiggling around in the leather driver’s seat, checking all the controls, adjusting mirrors, wipers, lights, etc. Better, slather on sun screen before I hatch more freckles. I remove my sun glasses and check my face in the large vanity mirror under my visor. I fetch the tube of sun screen from my beach bag and squeeze out a generous amount out on my fingertips. I rub it on my entire face and bare arms.

“How far is it to the Polynesian Hotel?”

Pop unfolds a map; spreading it out over the steering wheel he runs his finger down a line zigzagging from one x to another x., “The nice lady at the desk said this is a short cut to Disney. I need you to be my co-pilot, love.”

He passes me the map and I study the pink magic marker line. “Okay, she drew a diagram from the rental car office to a pair of mouse ears. We want to take five-thirty-five until it legs off a little to the right, and then stops at a Tiki god. That must be the Poly Hotel symbol,” I say, holding the map for Pop to see. “Poly is much easier to say than Polynesian.”

“Great, just get me there sweetheart.”

“Ah, I can’t believe we’re finally here!” I lay my head on the seat and blow out a breath. “I want to roam around the park and check out all the sights. Especially that waterfall pool scene I saw on the Disney website…it is right next to the white sandy beach and you can see the lagoon and the whole park from there. They have fireworks and boat rides. You can water ski or rent a Swan shaped paddle boat…ah…” I turn my head and look a Pop. “Thank you for planning this trip. I so need to have some fun and r & r.”

“Here chatty-cathy,” he says stopping at a red light. He hands me a stack of maps and brochures. “Figure out our agenda.”

I take them and he checks over his shoulder then backs out of the spot. We meander around the vast parking lot following exit signs until we come to a sign that says DISNEY WORLD. I snap pictures of anything out of the ordinary out the window that isn’t much right now. Then read out loud tid-bits in the brochures noting places I’d like to visit. “It would be cool to work at Disney.”

Pop says, “They employ a lot of people. The Disney website said they had sixty thousand employees in nineteen ninety-five.”

“Um, this brochure says people who work at Disney are called cast members...not employees.”

“I stand corrected.”

I open the flyer on the Poly. “Their motto is: Aiita Peatea. It means, "There will be another day tomorrow, just like today." I mull that over.

All of a sudden, the traffic comes to a dead stop. We travel for a few feet craning our necks to see what’s going on.

“It’s due to toll road construction,” Pop say with disgust, “the four lanes bottleneck to one about a mile up ahead. See if there’s an alternate route.”

I check the map. “We’re on 535 (Vineland Road), a short state road in south Orange County and north Osceola County. I don’t know this area.” Pop—thinking that all roads lead to Disney World—stubbornly takes the next exit. “We’re on Interstate 4 going west,” I say reading the signs.

We get totally lost and end up in a place called Doctor Phillips on Turkey Lake Road, lined with coconut palm trees. I twist around as we pass the rear entrance to Universal Studios on our right are the backs of three story cinder block buildings. Who knew? Anyways, to avoid a quarrel, I keep checking the map and keep my lip buttoned while we back track on side streets through zero lot line neighborhoods. Every two story house has a swimming pool. After about twenty minuets of meandering, I point at a sign and shout, “Turn right! Disney five miles.”

Pop grumbles as he turns onto a two lane road. For several miles, we see nothing except palmetto bushes and pine trees. Signs keep saying Disney World this way. I put my sunglasses on and he looks at me. “You think we’re close?”

“We have to be,” I say, constantly searching the desolate landscape for signs of the Magic Kingdom. Then I whip my head around as we pass another sign with Mickey Mouse ears. I check the map for landmarks. “I don’t get it. We should be able to see The Earffel Tower by now.”

Up ahead and off to the side of the road is a little security shack, surrounded by shrub and distorted by heat waves. Pop pulls off the road, rolls to a stop, and puts down his window.

Inside the open door, is a man sitting on a stool, wearing an Indiana Jones hat. A large fan is attached to the roof of the open shack flutters the shirt of his a tan uniform. Finally, a sign of life. I lean forward, wave and smile at him. He gets up and strolls over the white sandy path. He has a Mickey Mouse name tag pined to the left pocket flap it says “Billy from Alabama”. His face is flush from the heat. His short hair is hidden under his hat. He has a ton of freckles on his forearms and face. Even more than me.

“Afternoon,” Billy says, with a southern drawl.

“Afternoon,” Pop and I parrot.

I say, “Um, we need some help.”

After a short chat about this and that, mostly the hot weather, Billy ask, “So, how can I help you?”

Pop mops his forehead with his hanky. “Just wondering if we’re close to the Polynesian Hotel.” I learned from Pop that men never want to admit they’re lost. What is the big deal? Anyway, while ‘Billy from Bama’ gives us long drawn out directions, I jot them down on the map’s margin with an ink pen. Then I repeat them back.

After all that Billy glances around and says, “Aw heck, just faller me.”

Pop puts up the window and turns up the AC while Billy locks up the shack. Then we tag along behind his open jeep, staying on the same two lane road for, quite awhile. Pop mumbles, “I hope Billy isn’t taking us on a wild goose ride.”

“There she blows,” I shout, pointing out the windshield at a water tower shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. I bounce in my seat feeling as if I’m five years old again. Billy’s arm comes out the window and he waves us on. Pop toots the horn thanking him. Then Billy makes a U-turn to go back to his little shack. Then the Main Gate comes into view and I yell, “We’re here!”

Pop stops at the Main Gate and gets instructions from a costumed Disney cast person. I fold the map and store it in the glove box.

“Thanks so much,” Pop says, lowering his sunglasses as she passes through the window a packet full of brochures, coupons, and parking passes. I sit forward, anxious to be out of the rental car reading out loud every sign we pass. “MGM Studios, Magic Kingdom, and Fort Wilderness Campground.” Above puffy white clouds sit up in the bright blue Florida sky, as if Walt put them there himself to make everything perfect for us. I put down my window, stick my head out, and howl like a dog. The warm humid air whips my hair around.

About an hour gone since leaving the Kissimmee Airport, we finally reach the Poly Hotel. Slowing at the front entrance, two men in valet parking uniforms approach us all smiles. Pop puts the rental in park just as our doors are opened. I unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my purse, and get out of the SUV. I’m instantly greeted by Mike from Michigan and Barney from Alabama. Barney resembles Billy, the shack guy. What are the odds that they’re related? Both guys look to be in their early twenties. Mike has a cute tanned face and blondish hair. We defiantly make eye contact.

“Aloha, welcome to the Polynesian Hotel, I’m Barney.”

Pop says, “Hello, I’m Christopher Blakely and this is my daughter Cookie. We’re from Georgetown, outside of Washington, D.C. and we’re not used to this bloody heat.”

I blush and ask Mike, “So, have you worked here long?”

“I’m only working here for the summer. I am going to attend the University of Florida.”

“Ah. I’m thinking about going to Florida.”

Pop hears this and gives me a surprised look. I just shrug and stand on the sidewalk while Barney and Mike pile our luggage on a rolling cart. I only half-way listen while Barney rattles off interesting facts about the hotel and the different theme parks. I can’t help it; it’s as if we flew to the South Pacific instead of Florida. Tiki torches, tropical plants, brilliantly colored flowers are everywhere you look. Steel drums are playing in the distance. The monorail swishes by above our heads and stops at the station on the second level. Mists of water and oversized bamboo fans twirl lazily overhead to help keep the guest cool. Nevertheless, Pop swipes at his forehead again and looks earnestly at the lobby doors.

Mike notices and remarks, “Sorry about the heat.”

I say, “My Pop’s from Ireland and he’s never adjusted to extremely warm climates.”

Taking hold of our luggage cart, Barney from Alabama says with a heavy southern drawl, “Yes, sir, gaud awful humidity here in sunny Florida. But it’s just as bad back home in Birmingham so I’m used to it.” My new beach bag falls off the cart and spills suntan lotion and whatnot on the sidewalk.

I hold out my hand. “Um, I’ll carry that.”

“Opps a daisy,” Barney says as he gathers up everything and hands me my beach bag. He says, “Did you know that the park first opened in October 1971?”

I nod politely and murmur, “Wow, I did not know that.”

After inquiring about our stay, Mike tells Barney under his breath, “I got this one.” I smile happily at Mike and Pop keeps fanning his face with his hat. Barney holds out his hand and Pop passes him the Valet key. We pivot as Mike swings the luggage car toward the glass entrance and points the way. “Cookie and Christopher, if you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the front desk then assist you with your things to you room.”

I’m still smiling (my face is starting to hurt). Pop says, “Super, I’m looking forward to some air conditioning and a cold drink.” While Pop checks us in at the front desk, Mike speaks with his buds at the Valet Desk. I entertain myself by thumbing through the stack of brochures the cheery ‘cast member’ at the Main Gate gave us, mapping out the park and all the choices. There is quite a line of guest waiting to check in so I wander around the Polynesian’s open-air Great Ceremonial House AKA the lobby. I make a quick lop around the massive manmade waterfall in the center of the lobby. The water flowing over lava rocks and lush plants is two stories high. I glace over and see that Pop is at the desk talking to a clerk. I quickly scope out the hotel shops and restaurants, stopping at the railing adjacent to the front desk. Pop joins me. I show him the brochure and point at the chirping tropical birds. “Check that out. Those are Audio-Animatronics birds and robot butterflies. I think the orchids are real though.”

He smiles and touches my back.  “It’s all very beautiful…even if it’s fake.”

Mike shows up with our rolling cart and asks, “Mr. Blakely and Cookie, may I take you to see your suite?”

I tug on Pop’s arm. “After that can we sightsee? Eat? Swim? Shop? Or do whatever?”

Pop laughs. “Sky’s the limit!”

We follow Bellman Mike as he maneuvers our overloaded luggage cart through the lush Polynesian tropical gardens complete with streams stocked with Koi (Japanese fishes). Mike tells us, “The Poly has two swimming pools and a white sand beach.” We pause on a raised wooden bridge to take in the view near a circular swimming pool filled with noisy kids and rock music. “This pool has piped in music, a Volcano waterslide, and a "lava" waterfall.” Mike indicates a Tiki style sign. “This is the Nanea Volcano pool.”

I frown at Mike. “Nanea?”

“It means fascinating.”

“Ah.”

“The quiet pool is for adults and mature children––non-rowdy teens.”

I pause by a glassed in wall and take in the panoramic view of the park across a wide body of water. This is where Mom’s binoculars will come in handy. I packed them in my beach bag. I lift my sunglasses squint.

Pop says, “Check out the speed boats, jet skis, and old timey paddle boats!”

Make says, “At the kiosk by the pools or in the Great House, you can rent them or buy tickets to anything Disney has to offer. Or just pick up your phone and call the front desk.”

“Too cool!” Pivoting to the right, I spot an old fashioned red train with a trail of smoke flowing out of the locomotive. Above are ornate tips of Cinderella Castle. Space Mountain’s futuristic silvery dome is to our right, in the distance. Monorail trains snake along the two elevated cement tracks coming and going to the Magic Kingdom. I watch a blue and white train glide into the ultramodern Continental Hotel. “How does Disney do it?”

Pop laughs then whispers over my shoulder, “By charging an arm and a leg to stay here.” We don’t have to worry too much—I’m aware of the checks he calls “Guilt money” that come from the government monthly because of Mom’s death. I know that some of the money helped start his catering business. Pop puts most of the money into investments for our future and to pay for my college. I’m seriously considering Gainesville. I’ll ask Josh what he thinks.

 “I see you are staying in the Tokelau longhouse.” Mike says, interrupting my thoughts. He slides the key card, opens the door for us and steps aside. I dash across the floor and open the french doors to our terrace. I love it and the view is awesome. I can see Cinderella’s castle and the whole park. I come back inside and stand in the middle of the room. Pop takes care of Mike’s tip then shuts the door and checks out the view.

“So? This shack okay?”

“THIS ROCKS!”

I hug Pop, and then swiftly stow my clothes in a bamboo closet and matching chest of drawers. Then go to the toilet and put on my new white shorts, a lime green halter top, and white flip-flops with the rhinestone straps. I gather all of my hair and slide it thru a yellow visor letting it fall around my shoulders. Freshen my lip gloss and come out carrying my beach bag. Pop is on the balcony overlooking lush gardens and pathways. He looks over his shoulder squinting. “It’s about hundred degrees outside. I think I’ll chill out here for a little while, eat some lunch and swim this afternoon.”

“Mind I shop for a bikini?” I ask, joining him on our balcony.

“I thought you wanted a bikini from Ron Jon’s.”

“Pop, After being cooped up in a plane and cars, I feel like a caged tiger. Plus I want to scope out the joint.” I wiggle anxious to go. “I can’t wait until Cocoa…I have to have a bikini now! One piece swimsuits are so old fashioned. Practically everyone here is wearing a bikini. Did you see the girls by the pool?”

Pop smiles sheepishly. “I’m old, but I’m not blind.” He points at a row of hammocks under the palm trees on the white sand man-made beach. “After lunch, I’m going to take a snooze in one of those.”

I hold out my pale arms. “Right now I want to work on my tan.”

Pop makes a goofy face. “Careful. If you bake too long, you’re going to turn into a lobster.” He pulls a room card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “That’s yours. Charge your purchases to our room.”

“Cool, thank you!” I look down on three Tiki gods, planted in the middle of a circle of dark green turf, surrounded by red and yellow hibiscus flower bushes. “I could live here. I’m sure you get used to the humidity after awhile.”

We go back inside and Pop shuts the sliding glass door.

I pass him the Poly’s room service menu and daily event schedule sitting on the desk next to the television. “Tonight we can go to a Luau and then spend a few hours in the Theme Parks. Like you said, it’s too hot to go during the day.”

“Have fun,” he says, sounding all serous, “but watch yourself. You never know where and when Fredrik Koshechka might show up.”

I peck him on the cheek and pat my bag. “Don’t worry. I have my trusty sun-block five thousand and my cell phone.” Jeez, until now, it never occurred to me that Valentine might follow us to Florida. Great.

 

I shake off the creepy feeling and saunter through the court yard. I pass a couple of nerdy boys wearing identical Goofy tee shirts hanging out by a waterfall, whistle at me. I roll my eyes and head inside the lower lobby, thinking this is what I attract? I follow the signs and stumble on a full service salon offering pedicures for only $30.00. Do I dare? Pop did say it was okay to charge my purchases to our room. I push through the glass door and the girl behind the counter talks me into buying a special on skincare suntan products for fair skin. Only $75.00 and a free tote bag! After that, I find the perfect bikini. ON SALE! I try it on and stare at my reflection for a long time. I twist around tugging at the material barely coving my bottom. Wow it’s pretty small, I hope Pop doesn’t blow a gasket. The sales girl helping me knocks on the dressing room door. “Well?”

“I love it!” I come out and show her.

“You look great!”

“Thanks. Um, can I wear it?”

“Sure. Just let me clip the tickets and I will charge it to your room.” Do you need a cover-up?”

I glance down at my bare midriff. “Okay.”

Anyway, about two hours after leaving Pop in our suit, and $275.00 (plus tax) on our tab, I head to the pool clad in my new red bikini and a sheer white ‘cover-up’. I accept a big fluffy towel from the nice girl manning the Tiki shack next to the pool and park my butt in the last available lounge chair. I can’t help noticing the “large” painfully-sunburned family using the four chairs next to mine. Their two pre-teen kids each weigh over two hundred pounds. Come on people; teach you children healthy eating habits.

I slather on the special suntan oil the Salon cosmetician recommended for my skin type, and one of the pre-teen boys wraps a beach towel around his large middle, staring opening at me with this goofy grin on his pudgy face. He comes over says, “Hey there,” in a flirty way.

Ewe!

I pretend not to hear him. I lie back, acting as if I’m sleeping behind my sunglasses, and turn my attention to a couple of cute guys in wresting in the pool. They slide down the Volcano slide and then swim toward me. As they get closer, I realize they are half my age.

“Rats!”

Is it me or is the family next to me squealing like pigs? After devouring several chili cheese dogs and chocolate ice creams shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, the large family starts packing up their stuff. Thank you, maybe someone interesting will take their place. I reach inside my beach bag for the paperback I’d tossed in without much thought and attempt to read the first paragraph. After reading the same paragraph three times, I close the paperback and my eyes. Forget trying to concentrate. I let my mind wanders in multiple directions. I miss having Josh to talk to. I find my cell phone and speed-dial Josh’s number. My stomach gets all nervous waiting for him to pick up. Not sure why. His message service comes on and my heart sinks so low, that I hang up without leaving a message. I tune into the great music playing and look around at all the vacation action. This place rocks! I tuck my cell phone back inside my bag.

“No biggie,” I tell myself, I’ll try calling Josh again later. While at the Luau. While taking in the whole Disney scene, I find myself toying with the idea of moving to Florida. I’d be on my own because Pop would never leave D.C. especially now that he has a new catering business that’s just starting to take off. I picture how happy he looked on the television show. No doubt, he’ll be very successful fast with his reputation. Suddenly something blocks my sun.

A cute Asian guy with a dark tan smiles down at me. “Cocktail?” he asks, moving to the side so the sun can tan me.

I stifle a laugh. He thinks I’m old enough to order booze.

“Just a regular Pepsi please,” I say, smiling up into the sun at him.

He smiles and looks down at me with his smiling chocolate brown eyes. He’s well built like Josh. Cute Asian guy has a name tag on his blue shirt that says Hi I’m Bane from Hawaii. “Would you care for something to eat?”

I smile back and shake my head no. “I’m good.”

Bane writes down my order on a little pad and moves to the next person. I remove my sunglasses and look at my reflection in the lenses. Hum, I guess I could pass for twenty-one. I slather on another layer of the special suntan oil and watch Bane move from chair to chair taking orders. I wonder if Bane likes his job here in Florida better than living in Hawaii. But seriously, why would anyone ever leave Hawaii? Huh. Florida must be a great place to live. About a half hour passes before Bane finally returns with my Pepsi. By now, I’m dying of thirst. He sets the sweating ice cold can and a plastic cup full of half-melted ice on the little white table next to me. I reach for the Pepsi.

“You can charge the tab and tip to your room.”

I nod.

Bane smiles and politely asks, “Room number please?”

“Um, I don’t know it by heart.” I dig my plastic key card. out of my beach bag and hand it to Bane.

Bane studies it and hands me my receipt. “You are in the Tokelau. Just sign on the line.”

“Works for me,” I say, signing my name neatly and add a generous tip of three bucks. Pop taught me to tip well.

“Thank you,” Bane says, eyeing the receipt, “Cookie.” He looks right at me. “Enjoy your stay at the Polynesian. If there is anything I can do to make your vacation more enjoyable please let me know.”

“Why thank you Bane.” I say, since we are on first name basis. “I really appreciate that.”

I sit back and sip my Pepsi. Ah, now this is the life. Yes, I get it, Bane is trained to say nice things to paying guest, it’s part of the spiel. Still, I’m finding (for the most part) that Floridians are courteous and down-right nice. The Kissimmee Airport van driver was probably just having a bad day. It must be because they love living in paradise.

The large man standing behind Cookie Blakely, dressed in a tan safari costume, starts worrying about his disguise. In this stifling heat, pancake makeup tends to melt.