January 14th, 2002

The next morning I was virtually exploding with anxious energy. My brain was running a thousand miles a minute. Could I make it on my own? What would my roommates be like? Would I find myself once again alone in the crowd? Would I make friends? Would I have sex with someone besides myself? Did I forget to put on deodorant? 

Despite my anxiety, I’d managed to get a good night's sleep. So with a bit of McDonald’s breakfast sausage in my stomach, I left the airport hotel, entered onto the I-4 and set off to find 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, Dave Grohl sang I’ll Be Coming Home Next Year on the radio. The serendipity wasn’t lost on 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 pulled into the infamous Disney apartment complex, Vista Way, in Lake Buena Vista, Florida.

Every semester a couple thousand college students are selected from across the globe to come and live on their property and work at the Walt Disney World Resort. On January 14th, I became 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 Walt Disney World Resort Theme Parks, life experience, life-long friendships and a resume centerpiece that would get me hired almost anywhere. 

That was what the recruiters told us. 

In reality, I got access to most of the Parks, a blip on my resume and one best friend. But boy, did I have some life experiences!

Vista Way wasn’t directly connected to Walt Disney World. It was a few miles down, next to another Bennigan's. They don’t really exist anymore, so if you don’t know what Bennigan's is, it was basically Applebee’s for classy poor people.

Playboy Magazine 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 six thousand guys where they’ve gotten laid and add up the scores for each site? Some of those dudes were lying their asses off. Is there some sort of used condom detector at every dump? Did they post FBI agents at every dormitory in America to count Walks of Shame? That sounds like something the government would do. Anyway, I had no idea how they got the silver medal in the Hook Up Olympics. 

At the time, it gave me hope that I might finally lose my virginity. That Playboy article really set the bar high, only to have the experience miss the mark. I know a few people who got laid, but not a lot. The only guy I knew who was having regular sex with a woman was a deeply closeted homosexual. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

My 1993 Dodge Caravan, affectionately known as The Wagon, pulled into the gate at 9:30 in the morning. Initially I figured I would be one of the earliest people there, though I didn’t account for getting lost. As I pulled around the parking lot and saw the line, I realized I should have left much earlier. The line 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 co-eds. I parked a quarter mile down, took a deep breath and walked back to the line. As I walked away from my van, I noticed a dark blue Trans Am with a Louisiana license plate parked next to me. Cool 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. I felt like a nerd at a high school dance, which wasn’t that far from reality. Being an introvert, I listened instead, getting a feel for the kind of people I was dealing with. I assumed from the jump that I wouldn’t fit in. This was my standard state of being in social situations. A few months earlier, there was a College Program orientation event for Southern Louisiana students who had been selected. Meeting the kids there had only served to reinforce the idea that I didn’t belong. I was twenty two and cynical and frankly I never fit in. All the people in the line seemed to be a couple of years younger than me and... well... they were Disney people. I felt like Eddie Valiant entering ToonTown. I kind of looked like him, too.

It was unbelievable. They were all happy. It was like they were extras in a Gap commercial. They chatted with strangers about college and their Mickey Mouse t-shirts.

And I mean, look… obviously I had kind of expected it, but… seeing it in person? Seeing people actually happy to talk to strangers from all over the world? I had never seen anything like it. People are assholes where I’m from. That’s what I expected. A field full of young assholes.

They were nineteen! Where was their teenage angst? Where was their bitter sarcasm?  Where the fuck were the alcoholics? I’d found myself somewhere over the rainbow. And there really were people singing in technicolor. 

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, breaking from my inner monologue.  

“I said, where are you from?” A bubbly little Asian girl was looking at me. Damn it, I hated that question. I prepared for the typical annoying rant about the joys of Mardi Gras as I answered her. 

“New Orleans.”  

“Oh my God! You’re from New Orleans?!” She reacted as though I’d told her I was going to introduce her to the Rock.

“I love Mardi Gras!” 

I managed a polite, if half-hearted nod. “Everyone does.” 

I left out the fact that I wasn’t in agreement with everyone. It was important that I not sound too bitter or sarcastic. I needed to make friends and I didn’t want to make any of the Mouseketeers angry. Also, I recognized that the girl was trying to be friendly.

On the other hand, there is no way for me to tell someone I’m from New Orleans without disappointing them. Everyone wants you to start a Second Line and yell Laissez les bon temps rouler! Let us go to dah MAH-DEE GRAH, while eating beignets and gumbo, like a brass band is three steps behind you at all times. I’m not that guy. I can’t stand any of it… except beignets. Beignets are delicious. 

New Orleans discussions exhaust me. 

She must have sensed that, because the conversation turned away from me quickly.  

“Clearly I haven’t lost my touch.” I muttered. But just then, a tall, skinny guy tapped me on the shoulder. 

“You’re from New Orleans? So am I! Thank god, I thought I was alone.” 

The thought relieved him, though I remained somewhat indifferent. I wasn’t really interested in meeting people from back home. In fact I moved six hundred and fifty miles to get away from those people. However, at that moment, I was just grateful that someone was speaking to me. 

His demeanor was much more relaxed than the other students. 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. 

“I’m actually from the suburbs in the Greater New Orleans area. I’m from the Westbank.” I explained. He nodded. “Oh. Well, actually I’m from Lockport.” My eyebrow cocked. 

“Where?”  

“Do you know where Houma is?” 

“Uh, yeah... fifty miles south of New Orleans.” I said sarcastically. 

 “Yeah, Lockport is right around there.”  

I was a little offended by his blatant lie. I mean, sure, I had embellished a little, but that was just so I wouldn’t have to spend unnecessary time explaining the nonsensical geography of a city on the Mississippi River. I’m from the suburbs and I actually went to high school in New Orleans. But fifty miles away? Kyle wasn’t from anywhere remotely close to New Orleans. Still… he seemed okay and he wasn’t repelled by my standoffishness, so I tried to shelve my judgment.  

We kept talking for a while, though it was more about home than I cared for. Our conversation was cut short as the line divided. Kyle seemed nice enough, despite his talk of his pretend home. Now I was alone again.

We entered a large meeting room where the main line branched off into smaller lines, ending in front of some tables. 

A little further behind me was a well built, skinny guy with short kinky 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. What would it take? Did I have to move to Fiji?  

In the line next to us, I heard a ruckus. Following the commotion, I found 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 had a crowd that included two random female coeds, a skinny little blonde kid with a cross around his neck and a chubby black guy with a sideways cap.  

I was a couple people down in the line for housing assignments and was starting to get anxious. Also, Dan from Buffalo was getting on my nerves. Then the other guy from New Orleans started getting chatty. “Dude, I hope I don’t end up rooming with them.” I looked back. 

“I hear ya.” 

“I wish someone would tell that dude to shut the fuck up! I’d do it, but I don’t want to get kicked out.” 

I could tell he was testing me. He felt out of place as well and wanted to see what I would say and what kind of a person I was. I was politely ignoring him. “I hear ya.”, I repeated. I was unnecessarily rude, but I really didn’t want to talk to anyone else from my home state. It’s not that I hate everyone there… 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 David. I heard you say you were from New Orleans, I am too.” 

I shook his hand to be polite. 

“Adam.” 

David actually was from New Orleans. Or at least as close to it as I was. He started talking about home and it was quickly starting to annoy the shit out of me. Fortunately, they called me up to the housing table, so I said some random pleasantries that amounted to goodbye and picked up my keys, hoping to never have to see that guy again.

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 Disney company ID. The directions I was given took me around the entire complex with two heavy duffle bags, only to find building thirty-six right next to the building I had just come from, as well as my van.  

I tried to look on the bright side. At least I wouldn’t have to go searching for my vehicle. 

After the trek with my luggage, I was exhausted. My big, fat ass barely made it up the three flights of stairs. As I opened the door, I recognized the black guy with the sideways cap from earlier in line. He nodded at me as he was walking out to get more of his things. Deep in my stomach, I got a bad feeling. 

I put my bags down in the middle room and prepared to get the rest of my belongings. But as I stepped out into the hall, someone came out of the back room. It was David. 

“What’s up dude?!”

Damnit. 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.

David was loud. He was obnoxious. He loved New Orleans, and worse… he loved talking about New Orleans. I just wanted to get rid of this guy.   

As it turned out, David ended up being my best friend for the better part of the next twenty years.