Chris Mitchell (15 page)

“Sure,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

“Just show up and take some pictures,” he said. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“Will there be any characters there?” I asked.

“Of course.” He twisted his face into a Cheshire cat’s grin. “I’m the biggest character in the Kingdom.”

And he was too. He danced around the lab, singing the songs of Celine Dion and Lionel Richie. He spoke with an affected drawl as if he were the leader of a big-game hunting party rather than the manager of a photographic organization, and he fussed obsessively over his appearance. His vanity was entertaining. He maintained an air of supremacy, a blend of arrogance and feigned humility that passed for confidence with people of a certain weight.

As it turned out, Orville lived for Disneyana. Once a year, the Disneyana Convention came to Orlando and brought with it a barbarian horde of devoted Disniacs. They came like pilgrims from Amsterdam, Osaka, Cairns and Kuala Lumpur, wearing sequined Minnie Mouse sweatshirts, Goofy boxers, and outback hats so heavy with limited edition pins, they could barely keep their heads up. These people weren’t just fans of Disney. They cherished it the way a magician guards his secrets. They gathered in groups at the bars to chant “Mice rule. Ducks drool!” or “Ducks forever. Mice never!” until the bartender kicked them out at closing time. They woke up at five in the morning to be the first in line to bid on a Lenox china Pinocchio or a Waterford crystal Sorcerer Mickey, and groaned when they found that somebody had already posted their treasure on eBay at 50 percent of their bid.

They traded pins, earnestly. They boasted about Kabuki Donald from Tokyo Disney or a full set of Tinker Bells with aurora borealis wings. A Pintrader would drape a lanyard of pins around his neck like papal vestments and stroll through the banquet halls staring at conventioneers’ chests until he found another member of the clergy. Then, the two of them would stop and stoop over each other’s lanyards, coo little admiring sounds to each other, and pick at pins like lowland gorillas in a grooming ritual. These people behaved like junkies, whispering and twitching, their hands shaking every time they reached out to finger an especially rare item. If they liked what they saw, they sat down right there on the lobby floor and began negotiations, surrounded by wary security guards.

The people who came to Disneyana came every year. They attended banquets, dressed as their favorite characters. They ran around the parks like children on recess, giggling and spritzing each other with confetti. They knew each other by name and reputation. There was the guy tattooed with every character ever created (including all 102 Dalmatians) and the mentally challenged census taker who traveled to every park to make sure all the characters had been counted. Without exception, they wore some item that labeled them as part of the club, whether it was a Mickey pendant or a pair of Pluto socks.

Every year, they told stories of their favorite convention events and tried to impress each other with recent purchases and autographs. They passed around petitions to keep Disneyana from returning to the California park, where it was disorganized and dreary and “they just don’t have the pixie dust!” They critiqued the artwork that was up for auction: “Who painted that egg anyway? The Tramp looks like a Chihuahua.” “And that Belle statuette! Could she
be
more cross-eyed?”

It was considered an honor to work at the Disneyana Convention because it meant I was good enough to be put on parade in front of the most acute Disney fans in the world. Orville wanted to make sure I understood the magnificence of this honor.

“I could have hired anybody for this job you know.” We were setting up a photo table in the convention hall, filing the morning’s photos in alphabetical order. “Any photographer would kiss my feet to get this opportunity.”

“Well, don’t hold your breath,” I said, “but I appreciate the new environment.”

“Just remember,” he preached, “you’re doing more than just shooting Disniacs with characters. You’re creating memories.”

“I know.”

“Preserving the Magical Experience.”

“Got it.”

“And for the price, these pictures are practically a giveaway.”

I pushed a box of photos down the table. “First of all, quit stressing. I’m an assassin with a camera. And second, we sell these photos for $12.95 apiece. That’s, like, a two thousand percent profit!”

Orville was unfazed. “Well, there’s a lot of overhead,” he yawned.

It was fun to see so many characters in one place. Disniacs and Collectors were character snobs; they weren’t going to be impressed with a basic Tweedle sighting, so the Disney executives used the Disneyana Convention to air out some of the more obscure character costumes in the wardrobe department: Shang (from
Mulan
), Kronk (from
The Emporer’s New Groove
), and Goofy’s son, Max.

But there was one drawback. Because of the long hours (Disniacs were an all-day responsibility), Orville had hired me to help him open and Marco to help him close. That meant that for four long hours a day, from noon to four, we had to work together.

It was 11:45 on the morning of the first day of Disneyana when Marco walked in. I smelled his aftershave before I caught sight of him.

“Good afternoon, Marco.” Orville barely looked up from the supply boxes.

“Good
morning
, Orville.” His voice was like fingers on a balloon. “I came in early just in case you needed extra help.”

“Sure. Why don’t you grab a camera and go get some candid shots on the floor. Just make sure you don’t clock in ’til twelve.”

“Hola, chico.” As he turned to greet me, Marco’s greasy face transformed to shock. “Oh my God. What happened?”

“What?” The word slipped out before I remembered to ignore him.

“Your eyes. They have such dark circles. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I slept fine, Marco. I’m fine.”

“Usually, you are quite handsome, but today…”

Orville stepped between us with an armload of film boxes. “Gentlemen,” he said cautiously.

Marco put his arm around Orville’s shoulder. “I was just telling your second-best photographer how handsome he is. Don’t you think so?”

Orville pushed his specs up on his nose and frowned at Marco. “Didn’t I just give you an assignment?”

Marco stuffed his pockets with film and took the camera out of my hands. “When I get as old as you, I hope I am just as handsome.”

Watching him disappear into the crowded convention hall, I gritted my teeth together. “How do you put up with him?”

“He’s got issues,” Orville dismissed, handing me a camera. “But he’s a good photographer. Now, listen. Ariel’s about to start a set, and the Disniacs are already lined up out the door. So get in there and make some Magic.”

I took the back route. I was feeling ruffled from Marco’s attitude, and I didn’t have the patience to battle the crowd. Navigating the convention center hallways, I made my way to the character break room and pushed open the door. I was surprised to find Brady inside, dressed in a floor-length lavender gown with furry arms. The pretty fox head of Robin Hood’s Maid Marian was sitting on a table beside him. He was shouting at his manager, Sam.

“She’s a
damsel!
” His face was red with rage. “She’s
in distress!
”

“A damsel.” Sam stepped closer, one index finger shaking like a dirty syringe at the end of his spindly arm. “Not a whore. Back off with the flirting.”

Brady threw his arms up. “Now you’re an expert on Robin Hood. You were a fucking dancer, Sam! A step-touch-kick-ball-change dancer. You have
no idea
how to animate Maid Marian. I do. I’ve studied the movie. I’ve been
approved.”
Brady smoothed his skirt. “But this isn’t about animation, is it?’

Sam ran his hand down his face. He opened his mouth. Then he noticed me. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said to Brady. He picked up his clipboard and headed for the door. As he walked past me, his eyes narrowed. “I know you.”

His condescension was like brain freeze. “I work with your pharmacist,” I said.

His scowl jumped, but he kept walking. Brady waited for the door to close before unloading a string of expletives in German, Spanish, and, I think, Farsi. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then expelled it as if he was filling a balloon. “We weren’t always like this,” he said. “Sam and I used to dance together. We were Kids in the Kingdom. Neither of us was great, but we were young and enthusiastic. We were best friends in those days. And arch rivals.” He sat down on the edge of a sofa and crossed his furry legs. “Then one day, I was riding my bike to work and I got sideswiped by a city truck. Knocked me out. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed with a cracked pelvis. The doctors told me I’d never walk again, but that just made me want it more, you know? Still, it took almost a year. I made decent money off the lawsuit, but I was done as a dancer.”

“Shit.”

“Whatever.” His words were flimsy. They shook away from the sentences like dry autumn leaves. “I wanted to reinvent myself, so I went into characters and did pretty good. Then one day, I was at a Ghetto party and hooked up with a CP. It was a total fling—mindless. Course it turned out to be Sam’s ex—well, except it wasn’t his ex at the time…He freaked out. I apologized every way I knew how, but he couldn’t hear me. That was like ten years ago. He still won’t let it go.” He tugged at the fur around his neck. “And I’m running out of remorse.”

Brady was as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him. I fought the urge to lift the camera to my eye, to observe his melancholy reflected through glass and mirrors, to “capture” it for later observation. Instead, I put the Nikon down on the table next to the Marian head and struggled to find a word, a sound that would convey the sympathy that my head was scrambling to suppress.

“Something’s gotta give.” He picked up the Maid Marian head and looked into her eyes, stroked her fuzzy nose. “Something’s gotta give.”

I dropped into the sofa next to him. He was the one baring his soul, and yet he seemed at ease, while I sat there stumped, acutely aware of the naked space around my fingers, in front of my eyes. I was shocked at my ineptitude. I felt honest compassion for Brady, but I was completely unable to express it. Somewhere between my heart and my mouth, a line had been severed. Did my mom understand this about me? Did she keep her cancer secret because she knew I was incapable of heartfelt expression.

Just then, a cheer erupted from the character hall on the other side of the wall. “I love you, Ariel!” piped a voice, borderline hysterical.

Brady stretched his legs. “That’s your cue,” he said.

I stood up and grabbed my camera, my mind still grappling for something comforting. The best I could manage was a weak echo of Johnny’s old standby: “I’m sure everything’ll work out.” Brady nodded, his arms around the lovely Maid Marian head. I pushed open the Cast Members Only door and went onstage.

I suppose I should have been ready for Ariel—after all, I had been working at the parks long enough to know that all the Little Mermaids were attractive—but I was completely unprepared for Calico.

She sat on a stone in the middle of the stage, wearing a long red wig and a seashell bikini top that exposed her shoulders and stomach. A sequined, iridescent fin, which appeared to be her lower half, flipped lazily back and forth in front of the stone.
*

She had eyes the color of fresh-cut grass and cheekbones like the high, carved peaks of the Matterhorn. Her flat stomach and well-defined feminine arms contrasted with the soft curve of her breasts like the petals of an orchid. Her smile was so sultry, even her dimples seemed naughty.

I took my position in front of her rock and tried to maintain a sense of professionalism, but every time she smiled for a picture, my head was engulfed in flames. She was the consummate performer: gorgeous, gracious, and approachable. Locked in her rock with those piercing green eyes, she simultaneously conveyed a sense of fiery purpose and delicate vulnerability. She could juggle a group of raving princess fans, disarm a slavering computer geek, and trade lipstick tips with a four-year-old minimermaid without once breaking character.

“What is this thing?” She held the pen up to her ear and shook it. “Does it ever come out of its shell?” The little girl in her audience squealed and jumped up and down, excited that she was able to impart her worldly wisdom to a celebrity like Ariel. “You have a picture of me on your arm?” Her eyes grew round like teacups as she expertly deflected the groping hands of a tattooed doofus. “If you really loved me, you’d put me on your chest! Now, begone before my dad finds you here!”

I found myself zooming in tighter and tighter on Ariel’s face, until I was cropping the guests out of the frame altogether. As I photographed her, I watched her eyes through the lens, so green and deep, it was like looking into the soul of the ocean. When I lowered the camera from my face, it seemed that she was smiling a fraction of a second longer than she had to, holding my gaze for a moment before returning her attention to the guest.

I shot until I ran out of film, then waited for the line to end. When her greeter finally closed the door, I rushed to her side to help her out of the fin.

“Whew!” she breathed. Up close, I could see that she was wearing glitter dust around her eyes. She smelled like cocoa butter. “I thought that was never gonna end.”

“You were great,” I stammered.

She stumbled a little and put her arm around my shoulder. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “My leg fell asleep in there. Would you mind walking with me back to the break room?”

With her arm around me like that, I would have done anything. Unfortunately, Orville had other ideas.

“Ahem.” He wasn’t clearing his throat. He actually said it like that. “Could I borrow him for a moment, Ariel?”

She smiled and something more than simple recognition passed over her face, then disappeared. “Of course.”

My palms were sweating as I handed her off to her greeter. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Definitely,” she pouted. “I’m Calico. Come find me later.”