MARCH 2, 2023
Halfway up the winding hills of Coral Dr., I caught my first glimpse of the gated archway.
“WELCOME TO UNIVERSAL STUDIOS HOLLYWOOD: ENTERTAINMENT CAPITOL OF L.A.”
I slowly pulled under this arched signage, lowering my window as I rolled to the side of the parking attendant booth.
“Good morning. I’m uh… I’m here for my first day of orientation?”
I myself could hardly believe it as the words were leaving my lips, but it was true. It was in fact my first day of work at Universal Studios Hollywood.
Well, the theme park.
As a ride operator.
For the Despicable Me ride.
Yes, with the Minions.
For the record, I’m not a masochist, the job posting didn’t actually specify which ride I would be applying to. That fate wouldn’t be confirmed until I was firmly seated in the orientation room that morning, flipping through our introductory packet when I came across the image of my would be uniform.
Oh shit.
A chic white lab coat over a bright yellow shirt and a pair of checkered orange and black pajama bottoms.
I could run away right now.
A pair of welding goggles and velcro ankle sleeves (designed to mimic a pair of rubber boots when combined with our own solid black shoes).
I should REALLY run away right now.
I pulled out my phone, refreshed my email notifications and scanning for something, anything. My LinkedIn. My Indeed.
Zero.
I can’t run away.
I really couldn’t, for the only thing more desolate than my inbox was my savings account, which in a matter of just a few months had already been depleted from whatever earnings I made while at FX.
Contrary to what several mentors and recruiters assured me about the weight of a Disney internship, it would appear my experience was still too limited for even the entry level role of an assistant, secretary, or mailroom clerk.So, back against the wall, I stayed seated, listening to the riveting Universal fanfare as our two new trainers ushered us into our new careers.
I looked up and down our orientation itinerary, dreading every second of the day as we made our way down the list. Inching closer and closer towards the ominously worded “wardrobe” section of our tour.
Maybe we won’t try out the uniforms today?
Maybe there was a mistake in the ride assignments?
Maybe an HR manager will burst through the door, saying they took a closer look at my resume and found a perfect administrative role for me instead!
“Alright, next up we’ll go back up to the wardrobe department by Walter’s Gate and you’ll try on your uniforms!”
Shit.
I dragged my feet along, all the way up to the third floor of building 5511 and into the massive wardrobe department, resigned to parade around like a minion (or more accurately, Dr. Nefario’s lab assistant). I checked out all necessary pieces of my uniform; the chic white lab coat, the bright yellow shirt, the checkered pajama bottoms, and the two black ankle sleeves. Everything but those coveted welding goggles: those we would have to earn at the end of our training. Riveting.
In hindsight, I was pretty lucky to be drafted into the Minion Mayhem Ride. Once I got over the cosmic cruelty of the minions somehow becoming the most consistent feature in my resume, the gig could have been much worse.
Don’t get me wrong, the job was awful. But this one ride in particular was a lot better than a lot of the other positions available inside the park. For starters, Minion Mayhem is located in the upper lot of Universal, which placed it a good 15-20 minutes closer to the entrance than the lower lot rides like Jurassic Park or The Mummy. And for how for how ridiculous the costume was, at least we got to walk around in pajamas instead of standing under the scorching sun in those long sleeve military uniforms that the Transformers employees (or I mean, the “Freedom Fighters”) had to endure.
And at the end of the day, with Minion Mayhem being little more than a glorified 4D movie “ride”, it was one of the least complex and accelerating rides in the park, meaning we encountered far less vomit and emergencies than most of of the lower-lot attractions. So, you know, silver linings and whatnot.
Nevertheless, even with the generally simplistic nature our attraction, new hires were still required to pass a week-long safety training course and exam before “earning their goggles.”
This training course was, according to a fellow trainee, “about 5 days longer than the safety training you get at Six Flags.”
That may explain a death or two.
That week of training, we had to cram all manner of code words and protocols related to both the safety and successful operation of the theme park attraction. Complicated keywords and phrases which beyond addressing legitimately hazardous situations, were meant to not disrupt “the theme of the ride.”
You see, as ride ops, your biggest responsibility beyond the safety of all passengers, was to keep guests fully immersed within the world of the ride. As such, any and all language in our codeworks could not disrupt the inner logic of the Despicable Me canon, for it could remind guests that this was in fact just theme park and we were in fact minimum wage employees.
Three years later, I’ve forgotten most of these number codes and keyword combinations, meant to inconspicuously signal to other team members about everything from angry guests, lost child, vomit spill, and even celebrity sightings.
After all this time, the only code still seared in my memory was the insistence that all team members refer to the bathroom as “the bank of evil.”
“I guess because you go to make a deposit,” quipped one of my trainers.
Last November, while still under the employment of the mouse, I was gifted a couple of free passes to Disneyland. Never one to pass up on free shit, I gathered a group of friends and visited the park, proudly flashing my intern ID at every stop in hopes of scoring any sort of discount. At our first restaurant, I ordered our lunch and showed my I.D. to the cashier, who ecstatically asked me “Oh, were do you make magic?”
What the fuck did I just hear?
“I’m sorry?”
“Where do you make magic?” She repeated again, her excitement diminishing in this second round.
“I uhhhh….”
“Where do you work?” she finally said, dropping the act.
“OH. I’m an intern. FX.”
“Oh cool!” she replied, slipping back her mask after moment of awkward frustration.
I truly wasn’t trying to be rude, but how the fuck was I supposed to know what she meant?
I laughed it off at the time, the absurdity of forcing employees to maintain that level of “immersion” for a largely adult audience. After all, we were both adults, whose immersion was she supposed to maintain exactly? I doubt many children even pay for their own stuff at Disney. And hell, with the growing number of Disney adults, I wouldn’t be surprised if she went through entire days without speaking to children. But for $17.00 an hour, that poor fucker had to keep up with Mickey’s magical charade.
That was my first introduction to the ridiculous extent of “theming”.
Three months later, there I was, calling up Dr. Nefario to make an appointment with the Bank of Evil any time I wanted to use the shitter. Because God forbid any of the guests are reminded that we’ve got fully functional digestive systems. We can’t have that, one of them might even figure out we were in fact human.
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