'The Magic Kingdom'

Chapter 2
The Unhappy Son

Jonathan stabbed at the buttons on the control panel, and opened his stride in tandem with the whirl of the accelerating treadmill. As usual, he was alone in the gym, not surprising as it was 5am.

The past few weeks of classes had been particularly tedious. He had always sought the hardest challenges, and made it a point to pick the most difficult path so he could prove to himself that he was capable of anything. So when it came to college, he decided he would study molecular biology, simply because he had heard it was the toughest and most selective course.

Thanks to his herculean efforts and help from his dedicated Mum, he had won a full scholarship. Problem was, when he started his coursework, he discovered he hated molecular biology. But he couldn’t switch subjects without losing his scholarship, plus he didn’t ever want anyone to think of him as a quitter, not his Mum, and certainly not his absent Dad.

A cheery ad for Disneyland came on over one of the ceiling-mounted TVs, and he smiled at the familiar castle and fireworks. His home was a short distance from the park, which had always fascinated him. Once he had been old enough, he had walked in and applied for a summer job.

It had been an eye-opening experience. He learnt that the people who worked there were not “employees” but “Cast Members”, and when you started work you were supposed to be like a performer going on-stage, dedicated to creating a “magical” experience for visitors.

Initially, he was cynical of the whole setup, as it sounded a lot like a big company’s way of manipulating its workers to feel good about themselves. But after a few days, he discovered that many of his co-workers genuinely loved what they did, and put their heart and soul into it. And he had to admit there was something wonderful and special about a job that was about making other people happy.

He was assigned to be a “ride operator”, where he shepherded people on and off the rides and made sure they buckled their seat belts and such. And that was what sparked his interest in park rides. After many consecutive summers, he knew every ride in intimate detail, from its capacity and load time down to its design philosophy and mechanical structures.

That initial interest grew into an obsession. He devoured every scrap of information he could find on the subject and penciled together some designs of his own. At the back of his mind, he knew this was just a distracting hobby, so he tried hard to keep a lid on it and focus on his studies.

But all this boring, mind-numbing biology classwork, combined with the loss of his Mum, had started to set things spiraling out of control. He would be analyzing cell structures in the lab when some random ride design would muscle its way into his head, and he lacked the willpower to banish it.

The pitch of the treadmill’s whirling lowered as the running program went into cool down mode. When it was done, he grabbed his towel and strode to the changing room for a refreshing hot shower. He had just pulled on his boxers when he was overcome by an acute wave of dizziness and nausea.

Shivering, he shook it off, only to feel a prickly warm sensation spread over his skin. The room started to spin and seemed to get bigger. “Am I shrinking?” he thought as he steadied himself against his locker. Then he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror – a goofy middle schooler was staring back at him.

Gone was his untidy goatee, as well as every wisp of body hair, replaced with the clusters of freckles that had dotted his body throughout adolescence. What little muscle tone he had possessed had melted back into his sinewy frame, leaving his arms and legs slender and lithe. Reflexively, he grabbed at his boxers that were threatening to slip down to his ankles.

This must be a hallucination, he assured himself. So he shut his eyes, took several slow, deep breaths, and gradually opened them again.

To his horror, he found a cherubic little boy staring back at him from the mirror, with mousy black curls, a round button nose, and endearingly oversized ears. Matchstick arms swung by his side, and the outline of his ribcage showed beneath his scrawny chest. His boxers reached his knees and flapped like a skirt. Reaching inside, his stubby fingers closed over the shriveled nub nestled between his legs.

Terror slid like an icy bolt down his spine. He screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking and heightening until his wails were the high-pitched cries of a child.