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"Will the wind ever remember 

The names it has blown in the past, 

And with this crutch, its old age and its wisdom 

It whispers, "No, this will be the last." 

 And The Wind Cries Mary."

Mikey could hear the distant sounds of his mother's record player in the living room. The serene guitar melodies drifted down the hall and slipped into his bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. The music wrapped itself around his head, flowing in and out of his ears as he blew smoke out of his window, watching it drift a few feet into the air before being dispersed completely by the wind. 

"See now, this - this is real music, Michael."

His mother had popped her head inside his door, wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a bucket in one hand, her face slightly rosy and dewy with sweat. She always put on her old records when she was cleaning the house. Very seldom did she actually sing along, though Mikey knew for certain that she had every last word memorized. 

"You know they make stereos now, ma? Machines you can actually just hook your iPod up to and play all the music you want?" 

"It sounds better like this," his mother insisted, raising her free hand to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. "And much better than that rap, hip-hop garbage you and your friends like to blast in the car all damn day. You'd realize it if you weren't smoking on that pot all day long, you know." 

"Yeah, yeah...." Mikey threw the last of the soggy roach out of his window and reached over to the desk next to his bed for his headphones.  

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This was hardly Eric's first time at the rodeo, as they say. He had walked through this park, eaten the greasy, overpriced food, and seen the animated princesses come to life well over a dozen times in his rather short eighteen years of life. Those princesses were something else. Eric wondered if they even looked like the same people underneath all that hair and makeup, underneath the garishly vibrant gowns. Even as a little boy, growing up and watching all those Disney movies with his sister, he never could see the appeal of these girls. And that's what they were: girls - not women; young girls with impossibly tiny waistlines and impeccable facial features. The way they moved and their mannerisms were even artificial.

He remembered every Halloween of his childhood, when his sister would insist on dressing up as one of the princesses - it didn't really matter which one, as they all had the same Barbie doll-like figure and features behind the different colors of hair and clothing. And then he remembered his mother, who would scoop up his sister in her strong, stocky arms when one of the neighborhood boys gave her a scare with their gory masks. His mother never objected to her daughter representing these fictitious images, perhaps because she knew the illusion of grandeur would soon dissolve with age.

Observing Joanie in juxtaposition to these idealized figures made her seem more real than she really was. Even compared to many of the girls at school, Joanie dressed for comfort, hardly ever did anything to her hair, and best of all - she was smart. It would be alright if these princesses had some brains to back up their looks, Eric thought. Maybe that's what was missing. He loved how Joanie had always been on the thicker side - plush thighs, round cheeks, substanstial arms. But even moreso he found it fascinating how she was always reading some obscure and fantastical literature; the last one she had been telling him about was by Deleuze and Guattari. She didn't have to read this stuff for any particular reason, she just liked knowing things that other people might not. Eric sure as hell hadn't heard about half of these people she was always rattling on about.

After they finished their meal of fried this and that, the pair stood to throw away their trash and exit the restaurant. Eric wrapped an arm around Joanie's sturdy hips, "Let's go, princess." 

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Living the 407 area code had its privileges, for sure. Although it was mildly annoying when the number one question from people from other states was always, "Do you go to Disney all the time?" And although that question was almost always answered with an accompanying eye roll, there was some truth to it. But you could never give people the true response, which would be something along the lines of, "Yes, I've probably already been to Disney World in my young adult life more times than you will ever go in your entire lifespan." Because then you're just entertaining the idea that the city doesn't even really exist without its theme parks. The truth was, if you lived there long enough, you probably knew at least a handful of people that worked in the parks and therefore were a source of free tickets.

"Okay, where to next? Space mountain again? I can't believe you've never been on Tower of Terror. Come on, I promise it's not that scary - "

"Eric, no."

"Alright, we'll go to Winnie the Pooh then, come on - "

Eric grabbed her hand and began tugging her forward, sending her into a fit of giggles. With a firm grasp on his hand, she pulled Eric close to her and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth (this was no place for heavy PDA, after all). "Next time, I promise."

He smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth that had never been examined by a dentist. "I'm hungry, wanna get something to eat?"

She nodded and they began walking again. The entire time, she had been trying to avoid Cinderella and Prince Charming, who were taking pictures with eager tourists just a few feet away from them. The Disney princesses just made her feel so...basic. They barely even looked like humans, these women in their vibrant costumes wearing crazy smiles. Underneath all the wigs and makeup, they all looked the same, really. Same bone structure, same petite stature. She wondered if Cinderella and Belle and Sleeping Beauty were all played by the same people, just alternating costumes each day. In a way, they were like Nadja-esque representations of unrealistically perfect women...sans mental illness. She imagined Cinderella suddenly going apeshit and being escorted out of the park by Disney security.     

  

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"Hey Mikey, you ever been to London?" Eric spits a considerable amount of dip out of the corner of his mouth, his fingers hooked onto the chain-link fence in front of him.

"London?" Mikey turns his focus away from the casual basketball game going on beyond the fence. "You mean, like, England?" His face is contorted, twisted up in confusion. "Naw, man. I ain't barely left the east coast. Fuckin' London. I don't know where you come up with this shit, man."

Eric shrugs. "I heard a guy today, talking about it. Down by the courthouse."

"Yeah, well...." Mikey scoffs, barely hiding his indifference. "That wouldn't be no place for us, man. You know they probably hate anyone from America over there. And us, two little jits from east Orlando? Hah. Forget about it, man."

Eric becomes persistent. "No no, Mike, this guy - he was talking about how a bunch of kids run away to the city and just live there, like a -"

"Like a tent city? Like bums?" Mikey finishes off the tallboy that was barely concealed inside a paper bag and crushes the can in his hand. "Well maybe you should go live there, then. Shit, Eric. You know they talk all proper and shit over there - you can barely get through your ABC's. You wouldn't last a day there, man."

"There's gotta be some kids over there like us, Mike." Eric kicks a rock haphazardly under the fence. "There's gotta be." 

Korine, Harmony. "Proenza Schouler Presents 'Act Da Fool' by Harmony Korine." Online video clip. YouTube. YouTube, 22 Sept. 2010. Web. 

Clark, Larry. Kids. 1995. Film. Web. 

This is the part they never see. Well, this is the part that they don't want to see. They want to see orange trees, branches weighed down with fruits the size of softballs and so vibrant it almost hurts your eyes to look at them for too long. They want to see palm trees with stalks taller than the Tower of Terror and friendly fronds waving down at them, an organic welcome. They don't want to see the inner-city kids with nothing better to do than walk up and down the piss and trash-littered streets, formulating ideas amongst eachother about how to make today a little more interesting than the one before. They barely have enough change in their pockets for the bus, let alone for a ticket to gawk at a gawdy castle that nobody ever lived in. They speak in east coast tongues, slang so urban that the outsiders who might happen to cross their paths wouldn't even bother to try and translate for themselves. On the way to the park, they pass the usual: ragged homeless sitting outside run-down barber shops, a styrofoam cup by their feet, not even bothering to vocally beg for change; girls who look far too young wearing crop tops and cut-off overalls, licking melted popsicle residue from their fingers. It's so hot that that even the palm trees remain still, lost for words without a breeze.