Chris Mitchell (11 page)

“Nope,” I said. “Means nothing.”

He dragged the last smoke out of the roach and flicked it out the window. “Being a Cast Member is like getting your foot in the door to a place where you really can make a difference. Take this dog for instance. Look at her fur. She is not what you would call healthy. What you did just now—what you helped me do—we just saved her life. And we’re going to use our connections at DAK to keep her alive. That, my friend, is philanthropy. Think of it as underground altruism. You’re doing good deeds under the radar.”

Guerilla Philanthropy—the concept appealed to me in a Robin Hood kind of way. Saving a dog was certainly noble, and doing it ourselves rather than calling in the SPCA had an attractive vigilante quality, but I had my doubts about Brady’s motivation. There was madness in him, and genius as well, but what really made me nervous was his ability to rationalize misdemeanor. It was one thing to call a crime a crime and accept your role as a miscreant, but it took a special breed of sociopath to sanctify it. In action sports, the sociopath was a well-represented breed of individual, and it was my observation that all sociopathic types had one quality in common: unpredictability. They went from life of the party to gunman in the belfry in less time than it took a wave to wall up and close out, and if you were standing too close when it happened, they’d take you down too. Still, I was glad for the companionship. The night’s activities had been fun, and they constituted the foundation for what was shaping up to be my first Florida friendship.

I couldn’t see it then of course, but that trip into the Everglades marked the end of my Age of Innocence in Orlando. It was like BASE jumping off a bridge in Colorado and landing in Never Land. From that point on, I was on my way to becoming a part of the demented world of Disney, and my involvement was only going to make it worse.

T
here is a rumor that Walt Disney created “Snow White” as the representation of his drug of choice, cocaine, and the Seven Dwarfs were meant to depict the seven levels of coke addiction. This, I am happy to say, is balderdash. First of all, Uncle Walt didn’t create the story.
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
was based on a European fairy tale that was collected by the Brothers Grimm over a century earlier. Second, all records show that Walt stood firmly against drug use of any kind. So while the original storyteller may have had symbolism in mind when he wrote the story, it is certain that Walt would never have condoned it. Plagiarism is one thing, but drug use? Never.

I spent as much time as possible in the air-conditioned break room, lingering between sets in the deep sofas, drinking Powerade. For the most part, I was ignored by the other CMs, but I got to know them through observation.

After a couple of weeks on restrictions, Sunny returned to Mickey, brighter and cheerier than ever. Her ringtone was “Walking on Sunshine.” Her avatar was a dancing happy face. She was never happier than when she received Guest Appreciation Letters or crayon-scrawled notes from guests. Her favorite food was
actually
cheese. One time, a Lebanese girl gave her a handmade Mickey Mouse figurine, carved from a cedar root, and she cried over it for her entire forty-minute break.

Rusty, the Goofy, came from somewhere in the Midwest where being a gay African American was more or less against the law. His dad wanted him to be a pro ballplayer, but after getting rave reviews as Angel in a Minneapolis production of
Rent
, Rusty was convinced that theater was his calling. “You may come visit me on the Upper West Side,” he would say if he liked you, or “you are off my island,” if he didn’t. His avatar was a picture of himself in drag (as the always lovely “Amber Alert”). His ringtone was techno.

Alan, the Pluto, was a skinny white guy in his twenties. His thin hair and weak chin gave him the appearance of a competitive gamer. He kept his phone on vibrate. His avatar was Salvador Dali. He was the smartest guy in the group, often leading group discussions or taking counterpoint in backstage debates. He was always imagining romantic interludes, but never acting them out. As they said in characters, he had a face for fur.

Apparently, Alan and Rusty were dating. I learned about this when I saw the two of them kissing one afternoon by the fire-breathing rocks. I must have startled them because Alan blushed intensely, and Rusty looked as menacing as I’d ever seen him. “Oh no, you didn’t!” he snarled. “Girl, you need to back your little tugboat ass off my island. Go on.” When they returned to the break room later, they acted as if nothing had happened, and neither of them ever said a word about it again.

On that particular day, the discussion topic was Disney porn titles.
Pornocchio
suggested the hip-hop Tigger. “The story of a real boy who lies when he gets horny.”

“I like that,” Alan said. “Stromboli already looks like he was modeled after Ron Jeremy, so casting’s a no-brainer.”

Tigger beamed.
“Pornochio and G-Spotto!
Costarring me as the G!”

The Tigger was a wannabe hip-hop gangsta. He wore his basics with the fashion sense of a break-dancer: black shorts below his hips, XXXL T-shirt hanging down past his thighs. He never got tired of high-fiving Pluto and shouting, “What up, dog?” I still had no idea what his real name was: one week he called himself Toxik; the next he was DJ Shrinky Dink. Not surprisingly, his ringtone changed almost every day, but it was always hip-hop. His avatar was a picture of himself on Spring Break, shirtless.

Rusty offered
Blowjobs and Black Dicks,
but Alan shot it down, saying the movie had to include at least one character he was approved in. “How about
Booty Full of Beast,
starring yours truly as Beast.”

Sunny clapped her hands together. “You made Beast? Congratulations, Rusty! I tried out for Blue Fairy, but I was too short.”

Brady’s friend Jessie sat on the edge of an armchair playing with Rusty’s hair. She wore her Pooh feet like slippers. I’d been shooting her all morning in the Hundred Acre Woods kiosk, but she hadn’t acknowledged me.
Who Rogered the Rabbit?
she said, as a suggestion.

Rusty looked up at her, appalled. “That’s disgusting!”

“It’s a love story,” she said, nonplussed, “between a young man and his imaginary friend.”

“I like that,” Alan nodded. “It’s a fantasy
coming
-of-age tale. How about
Alice in Anal Land
featuring the Queen of Tarts and the Mad Nutter?”

“That’s where I know you from!” Jessie exclaimed. “Parades! It’s been driving me crazy all morning.”

I knew it was risky, but I wanted to play, and I thought if I came up with something clever, it might earn me some points.
“The Little-Sperm Maid,”
I ventured.

Jessie’s face lit up. Rusty glared at me. “Girl, you have to choose a film with a character you’re approved in.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “If you’re not in the character program, YOU CAN’T PLAY!”

Just then, the door opened and Marco walked in. Everyone cheered and there were kisses all around. It was like the second fucking coming. “I’m here to pick up your pictures,” he said to me after making his rounds. I pulled the film out of my cargo pocket and dropped it into his outstretched hand. He raised a waxed eyebrow. “Only three rolls?”

I tasted blood, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. “It was raining all morning.”

An Eeyore I’d never met whispered something in Marco’s ear, and they both laughed. Then, he spun around to leave. As he opened the door, the beautiful Pocahontas walked in, her turquoise jewelry sparkling against her dark skin. She gave Marco a hug. “You’re coming tonight, right?” she said.

Alan called out. “Hey Nikki, we’re playing Disney porno…. Go!”

“Poke a Hot Ass,”
she said, without missing a beat. Everyone applauded. Marco gave her a spank, and I managed to slip out without anyone noticing.

In the entertainment industry, a weekend is an arbitrary circumstance, a holiday is something that you’re expected to provide for other people, and days with names like “Sunday” and “Christmas” are rhetorical.

When Cast Members talk about the “weekend,” they might be talking about Monday/Tuesday or Thursday/Friday or even just Wednesday, depending on the time of year and the whims of a questionably medicated Coordinator. Free days occur at random intervals. You might work a three-day week, then get a day off, and then come back for twelve days in a row. And you can forget about holidays: that’s rush hour in the Mouse Kingdom, and nobody rides free. The unpredictability is one of the things that makes a Disney job more interesting than a career in the real world, but it can be disorienting for the more traditional Cast Members. If, for instance, you celebrate Hanukkah, chances are you’ll be spinning dreidels on Teacup flywheels.

Because of our patchwork schedules, I barely saw Johnny. Sometimes, our paths would cross in the deep blue moments before dawn, when he was coming home from a date and I was going to work. But most of the time, our communication was limited to scrawled messages on a little pad of Princess paper on the kitchen counter.

Johnny’s walls were lined with dozens of glossy framed photos, paparazzi plunder of my roommate posing with various handsome young men at red-carpet affairs. In every picture, Johnny wore the same cherubic smile, his cheeks flushed with Scotch and his eyelids heavy.

That night, I was lingering in the hallway, looking at the pictures, when Johnny walked in the door. He put on his worn Jeff Gordon cap and poured himself a drink from his gleaming wet bar. “Admirin’ mah friends?” he asked.

“What’s with the red carpet?” I asked. “Are you a celebrity?”

“The PR biz has its perks,” he said happily. “Here, ah’ll show you.”

He led me into the living room and presented a series of photo art on the wall. “This”—he indicated an autographed
Rolling Stone
cover featuring five boys in their underwear—“is The Backstreet Boys, Nick, Brian, A. J., Kevin, and Howie. They got nominated for five Grammys in 2000. Five. Can you believe Nick is only twenty?”

He pointed to another framed photo. “This is me and Howie at the ’97 tornado relief concert right here in Orlando. The boys got the keys to the city from the mayor for that one.”

He walked me around the room, describing every image. There were promotional shots of ’N Sync, Westlife, Take That, New Kids on the Block—even the Spice Girls. His favorites were the candid pictures of himself, pleather clad and giddy, with his arms wrapped around this or that band member. This was Johnny’s Never Land, the musicians his gang of Lost Boys.

Finally, he stopped at a photo that was hanging alone, in a gilded frame, lit by a single halogen light. Johnny was nestled in the armpit of a sneering behemoth with thin hair and spectacles. He had a grease stain on the front of his shirt, which he had attempted, unsuccessfully, to cover with his tie.

Johnny’s voice was a whisper. “And that’s the fairy godmother of them all, the man who made their dreams come true: Lou Pearlman.”

“The producer.” It wasn’t a guess. I had recently read a story about how he fled the country after being charged with tax evasion.

Johnny nodded solemnly. “He launched the boy band as a genre. Would you believe he started out as a simple dreamer with an airplane chartering business? One day, the New Kids on the Block chartered his jet, and he got the idea to start up his own boy band. He put an ad in the
Orlando Sentinel
for singers and put together The Backstreet Boys.”

“How about that.”

“After their success, he started ’N Sync and, of course, you know how big
they
got.” He heaved a heartbreaking sigh. “Of course, these days it seems like ev’rybody’s trying to sully his good name, but that’s what happens when you’re number one. Folks come gunnin’ for you!” He raised a glass to the picture and finished it in one swallow. “Here’s to the man who started the whole thing.”

“To exploiting the talents of others,” I said, but Johnny didn’t seem to hear.

“So, what are you doing tonight?”

“No plans,” I said. “Tomorrow’s my weekend, so I can stay out past curfew.”

His eyes sparkled like a fireworks show. “You should come with me to a party.”

“What kind of party?”

“Just a little soiree right here in the Ghetto,” he said, picking at something in his teeth. “Casual dress. Finger foods. I think the host is a Fantasmic Maleficent. Or is he a Merlin? Anyway, he’s tall. Ah’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

An hour and a half later, Johnny was ready. We walked through acres of identical hallways until, eventually, we came to a door like all the others, behind which I could hear the high hat snare of the newest boy band sensation and an avalanche of giggling. Johnny opened it without knocking and we walked in.

All around me, a Cast Member bacchanal writhed and bloomed, surging, cackling into the light, and then retreating into the shadows. Illuminated by scented candles and the occasional flare of a bong lighter, fur and face fumbled for common ground: two groping Tumble Monkeys, a Brer Fox and his greeter, an Eeyore feeling up a roofied Cinderella. Shadow puppets danced on slender fingers, celebrating dark corners filled with patchouli incense. Pottery Barn furniture had been tipped on its side and stacked around the living room to create a labyrinthine path that linked hiding places like hedge-maze grottos, lit with festive strands of lights: Chinese lanterns in the kitchen, twinkly Christmas lights in the bathroom, chili peppers in the bedrooms.

Within moments, Johnny had fallen into a debate with somebody about the most recent episode of
American Idol
, so I headed out on my own. I made my way through the furniture maze to the bar and pulled a beer out of the ice chest. Uncapping it, I came face-to-face with Marco.

“Hola, chico,” he lowed. “What are
you
doing here?” His tone was condescending as if I’d just rolled into the Burnside Bowls with Rollerblades.

“My roommate knows a guy,” I said, as cordially as possible, considering I’d had a few beers while I was waiting for Johnny. “Are you wearing makeup?”

Marco patted his cheek, pleased that I had noticed. “It’s just a little foundation to keep away the shine. Maybe you should use some.”

“No thanks.” I moved down the bar to a bowl of tortilla chips. Marco followed me.

“A little advice,” he hissed like the valve on an empty can of spray paint. “If somebody offers you concealer, it’s because they can see something that you can’t.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marco hovered at my elbow, finger stirring his cocktail. “I’ve been looking at your photos,” he said. “Your yellows are too saturated. Winnie the Pooh looks like a big fat banana.”

I pretended to study a jar of salsa, then turned my full attention to the guacamole.

“Also,” he continued, “you should do manual focus. Auto focus is too unreliable. Oh my God, you’re not going to eat that guacamole, are you?”

I couldn’t ignore him any longer. “Yes.”

“But you could be so handsome if you just lost a little weight—like, say twenty pounds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Or maybe chubby is your thing. I’m just saying, if somebody gives you diet tips—”

“Marco,” I cut him off. “Let’s get a couple things straight. I don’t wear makeup; I don’t take photo advice from Disney kooks, and I’m not overweight. What’s your problem anyway? Why are you such a dick?”

“I’m not a dick,” he sniffed. “I’m a perfectionist.”

“You’re annoying.”

Marco pushed his lower lip out in a petulant pout. “If you don’t want my help, just say so.”

“I. DON’T. WANT. YOUR HELP.”

He couldn’t have looked more insulted if I’d just smeared his lens. “Your negative attitude does not make you popular,” he huffed. “You are bitter and you don’t belong here.” Then he spun around and disappeared into the labyrinth.