The Mustang Chronicles - Day Three

(If you missed the first two installments of this series, you can read Day One and Day Two, to see how we got to this point.)


Day Three:

All night long of my second night in Chesty Acres, I would wake up thinking I would soon be hearing the sound of a stick hitting a trash can. Tossing and turning, thinking it would come at any moment, it was enough to set one's nerves on edge. But Mustang allowed me to sleep in on Sunday morning, for the "trash can version" of reveille did not come until 0530. "No PT this morning", he said in a authoritarian tone. "But it is my duty to inform you that formation is at 0800, now go back to sleep maggot", he further related.

Breakfast was stellar, as were all of the meals provided by Mrs. Mustang. Towards the end of the meal, Mustang began throwing food at one of the dogs. "Watch this", he would say. Then, he would flick a piece of bacon at the little pooch.

The first two throws were drops that evidently he thought she should have caught. I only say this, because after the second incomplete pass, he began to threaten the little dog with grass drills until she collapsed if she didn't get with the program. Never mind the throws were wide on his part, he had her thinking it was all her fault (which was pattern I had noticed long ago, by now). The third toss was every bit as wide to the right, but the little dog dove for it and caught it, keeping both feet in bounds. The poor thing limped the rest of the day after that, just to please her unreasonable master. How utterly devoted she must be.

But today was special. Today was the day, we would be traveling to Epcot and our plans were soon turned in that direction.

As we hit the road, Mustang had a map printed from Yahoo Maps, along with detailed instructions in English (his first language). At one point about 30 minutes into the drive on a pleasant sunny day, he requested that I look at the map to see how far we were from a certain exit. When all was said and done, he determined that I had caused us to miss that exit. I was then duly informed that I would pay for it later, under the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Mustang Justice).

Once at Epcot, the massive parking lots were nearly empty. This ensured we would get a parking space close to the entrance. In most instances, this would have been a plus and most people would have thought we were lucky. But not Mustang.

He thought we should have been closer. And in his mind, we would have been closer had I not gotten us lost in the state he lives in (and one I had not been in for 25 years). It was at that point, I was made to do ten laps around the massive parking lot and if that wasn't enough, I then had to run alongside the tram that took us up to the main entrance, while he rode in luxury, singing cadence not meant for children's ears.

As we were being admitted, there was a point where we had to place our finger on a sensor that allowed it to copy the image of out fingerprint (so no one can use our ticket if we lost it). It was at this point, Mustang began to object and he did it, to the level of making a scene. He began calling the poor saps that ran the entrance, "communist heathen" and ranting at such a high rate of speed like the first day of basic training, where there are no less than 15 DIs running around like madmen at any given moment. About the time I saw security dashing to our location, there was the sound of a car backfiring in the parking lot. Their attention was then diverted to the direction of the sound and we were able to walk right in, unnoticed.

Once in, the sounds of babies and toddlers screaming and throwing hissy fits filled the air. Mustang suddenly became happy. At this time, I mustered up enough courage to ask Mustang, "what part of a screaming kid makes you happy?" He then beamed, as he calmly gave me his answer. "LA", he said, "these parents and grandparents have just shelled out tons of money for these little ungrateful snerts and Mickey Mouse is not making them a damned bit happy. It serves them all right."

But his glee at the crying children soon turned to that of bitterness and resentment.

He just had to have his coffee, so he stood in line for 30 minutes for a cup of Epcot's best, and a pastry. I had always pegged Mustang as very pragmatic and frugal; but as he shelled out $50 for the request, he started a ruckus. I think the whole thing got started when he called them a bunch of over-priced pansies and telling them Dunkin' Donuts was a better value for the money. It was at that moment when I saw a another rag-tag group of security personnel running toward our location. and I have to say that the skinny one looked like Barney Fife, from a distance.

We took off for the International Village hoping to blend in.

Just across the bridge we turned left. Not long after that, we ran across a photographer from Spain that said he was waiting for Daffy Duck to arrive for a photo shoot with kids. Immediately, once this information was communicated to us, Mustang kicked into gear.

He began to interrogate him about some bombing in Madrid that happened in the 80s, one that was widely attributed to the ETA - a Basque Separatist terror organization. The questions were sharp, pointed, and in staccato (rapid-fire) form. "Where were you when this happened, you miserable little worm?", Mustang screamed. The poor guy, he just quivered and said, "Probably pooping in my diapers, sir. I was just a baby, when that happened!!", he said as he pleaded his case.

At this point, something was beginning to smell funny. And as our countenances began to take on sour looks, the poor guy further shared some more disturbing information with us. "See? I just did it again!!!", his timid voice revealed. By now, I knew this wasn't good; I could hear the footsteps of the crack Epcot Security Staff running toward us again. So, I grabbed Mustang and we made a beeline for the Mexican section. Luckily, it was a sanctuary area. We posed as Mexicans and pulled it off with sombreros on our head and sure enough, it worked. The Three Stooges and Barney Fife ran right past us.

Naturally, the entire scene that had just transpired was my fault and was told it was, ad nauseum. As we came upon the Norwegian part of the park, he spotted a viking ship. After forcing me to scrape about half of the barnacles off of the hull, the security forces were again summoned and spotted about about 200 meters away. So we sprinted toward the Chinese section.

Once inside, we noticed some very realistic replicas of ancient Chinese warriors in a military formation. This is the moment he flashed back to teacher mode, as he began to teach a lesson in Chinese art. "Look at them all, LA.", he said. "They were soldiers, the artists were talented and gifted. Look at their faces, there are no two alike. They are all different", he went on. "What about these two here on the corner?", I asked (pointing to two that looked exactly alike).

That's where he slipped back into Marine mode. "You dumbass!!!", his voice echoed throughout the temple replica. "Are you telling me you don't believe Chinese people can have twins?" After fifty push-ups with Mustang counting cadence slowly, I heard the "Keystone Cops" were on their way toward us, so it was time to scram again.

After we slipped out of a side entrance, undetected, we headed toward the German section. Having been stationed in Germany for two years, I was naturally drawn to the area. However, little did I know that I was soon to be embarrassed again.

In one of the German shops, Mustang picked up a teddy bear and noted that the tag was labeled with the words, "Made In China". He then began to show many of the customers that came near us. Many of them rounded their kids up and left immediately telling their kids, reminding them, about the time they had warned them about mean people. He got one old lady so worked up about how the the Chinese owned this shop, were disguising themselves as Germans, and that Black Forest Cuckoo Clock she had just purchased, was a fake. So once again, a familiar scene was about to occur. I heard one of the clerks in the shop place a call to security and that's all it took for me. Once again, it was time to go into escape and evasion status.

On the way out, I was able to strike up a little bit of a conversation with a young German girl who was working at a stand that was selling Spaten on tap. I said, "Eine Spaten bitte". It was then, when he accused me of saying bad things about him in German and flirting with someone half my age. He also wanted to know why I wouldn't buy him a $12 beer. So I reminded him of the 900,000 or so toasts he made when we drank the Chesty beer, and explained that Spaten has more alcohol in it. I further stated that I didn't want this to happen here in front of so many people. I saw his blood was beginning to boil, but by now, there was a photo of both of us being circulated and they were getting close to us.

So once again, it was life on the run with security hot on our tails. Off we went to the Moroccan section, where we lost them on the streets of Casablanca by wearing turbans and shouting "Death To America". They ran right past us like it was not unusual to see such a thing and it was off to the French section.

After ridiculing a short petit male French clerk in one of the shops (for being a disgrace to the spirit of Napoleon's empire), we found our way into a parfums shop. He was going to buy Mrs. Mustang a gift, in order to "make it up to her" for allowing me to visit them. But things got testy soon after we entered. After he narrowed his choices to two, he asked me which one I thought smelled better. I couldn't decide, so he banished me to outside the shop, while he purchased both.

Across the bridge was the British section. Following the sound of music I could hear in the distance, I was led to an area where a Beatles cover band was playing. I was amazed at how much they looked and sounded like those they were honoring. I guess I got caught up in the moment, because when I turned around, Mustang was nowhere to be found. I looked up and down the entire British section. Nothing. I went from shop to shop, eatery to eatery. Still nothing.

Finally, I decided I would try to find him elsewhere and began to leave little Britain. But before I could get out of it and into the Canadian section, I happened to see a crowd of people in line with lots of kids and cameras. As I scanned the long line, there he was about halfway through, drooling and ogling some lady that stood at the front of the line.

When I asked him what was going on, he said, "Look how classy that woman looks, LA. Look how she holds herself. I want my picture taken with her, but I want you to take it and send it to me secretly, so Mrs. Mustang doesn't make me do a 12-mile forced road march if she finds it." But when they told him he was too old to have his picture taken with Mary Poppins, another argument broke out and security was once again called.

By now, we were getting tired of the running and decided to head back to Chesty Acres, where Mrs. Mustang was preparing a pot roast. Once the muster formation was underway, a head count was performed, and we ate another delicious meal that was made by a woman - who I will be nominating for sainthood, after her days on this earth are through.

Since Mustang is not an NFL fan, there was no sense in suggesting we watch Sunday Night Football. So, we watched The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, which would not have been too bad of a way to spend a Sunday evening, except Mustang kept telling us how he would have handled every challenge that Sinbad faced, in almost every scene. He finally stopped when Mrs. Mustang threatened him with not getting any chocolate cake.

After the movie, taps was played, the Marine prayer recited, and all lights were extinguished. The end of another day was finally here.

What a day.


Next Friday: Day Four-The Final Day