Disney’s Magical Nightmare

I sit under a tree, on the brick of the flower bed that encompasses it, in the cool escape of the shade next to the Magic Kingdom Dumbo ride a mere fifteen Februarys after I had stopped being a child. I can remember the moment as if it had just transpired.

I’m twelve, sporting my new red, white, and blue Adidas windbreaker on the unusually crisp Florida morning. I’m very annoyed. No, I’m pissed.

“Whatever, Dad! You go watch Mom and Emily on the baby Dumbo ride,” crossing my arms and legs I busy myself with my zipper. Up and down, up and down. I glare at my dad, so he fully understands just how much he is cramping my style.

I look around to see if there are any cute guys. Nope. Only adults. I notice there are several people standing around me and they’re all facing me. Are they staring at me? No, their eyes are looking up. Crap! I reach toward the top of my head worried that a bird might be up there just ready to poop on me. As I stand, I follow the gaze of everyone else upward.

I see him.

A man.

Not a movie star man. Not a cartoon man. Just a regular, someone’s dad kind of man. His hair is thin, combed over to the side. He’s wearing all white, a Disney worker. He is hanging on with two hands.

“Someone do something!” Someone says it or shouts it; I can’t quite tell.

“Call someone!” It comes from somewhere behind me.

I’m able to semi-process the event in my twelve-year-old brain and I take several sloppy steps backward. It is the ride up in the sky. The worker is hanging outside of the ride by his hands. His body dangles above, stiff and tense with fear, desperation. The beat of my heart picks up its pace and force. I stand there, frozen in fear, watching and unable to do a single thing. We all just stand there. We all just stare. No one moves. I can’t even hear anyone breathe, somehow the music of the rides grows silent and all I can hear, see, smell, or feel is only what connects me to the stranger hanging above. The crowd and I watch as the inevitable happens.

The cartoons actually got it right. He goes from two hands to one. You can see his muscles growing weaker and him slipping little by little, losing the battle. As he falls through the tree only feet from where I stand a branch breaks, shooting off toward the Dumbo ride where kids are flying high in the sky laughing. As I hear his neck crack, meeting dirt of the flower bed, my brain wraps itself around the sound so that it will never forget and can replay it again and again. It is the start of a soundtrack for my own homemade Disney nightmare.

A tear falls. Then another. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath but suddenly my chest needs air and begins heaving for it, desperate for life. I’m sobbing uncontrollably. I cannot talk and somehow stumble my way over to the exit of the Dumbo ride where my parents and sister await, dumbfounded. They’re embarrassed. They didn’t see a thing. The crowd and commotion had somehow blocked their view. I’m hysterical. It’s futile but my mother desperately tries to console me. Nothing works. She can’t touch me. I can’t stop. They usher me away, to the side, to hide me. Hours pass – two to be exact. Finally, there are no more tears. My body is too exhausted to cry. I have nothing left. I tell my parents.

“I saw a man die.” They stare at me. By this time, they’d heard the rumors, the talk at the park. I need closure. I’m twelve and just saw a man die, but I need closure. We trudge back to the scene of the accident. Police are everywhere. Yellow tape now borders the flowerbed. A police officer takes down my statement on his memo pad.

“Is there someone here from Disney that my daughter needs to talk to or…or that we need to talk to?” My mother asks the officer.

“Nope. That’s it. We will be in touch if we need anything else.” The officer is cold, cool, professional. He shuts his memo pad and turns away, done with us.

My Disney vacation souvenirs are nightmares that haunt me for a long time about the man in white. I wonder about who he was, what he thought as he died, how no one seemed to be able to help him. As I grow, the nightmare evolves into greater questions and queries.

Disappointment finds me, these fifteen Februarys later as I sit where no plaque can be found honoring the loss of the Disney worker, though the sky ride is no more. I find it sad that the sobbing child was left without concern or support from Disney itself, in fact not one representative from the company ever spoke to my parents or I on the matter. In the end, Disney did fulfill their promise. It certainly was an unforgettable experience, just maybe not such a magical one for me or for the memory of a stranger that wrenched open a child’s mind to the harsher realities of the way the world really works.

Detroit native and resident Melissa Moy spends her days reading and writing with tweens teaching middle school English. Alongside her son, she cuddles rescue animals and advocates for Eosinophilic Esophagitis research and awareness. She received her M.F.A. in Writing from Lindenwood University where she served as an editorial assistant for the The Lindenwood Review.