Chris Mitchell (20 page)

I recognized one girl, a photographer, who came out of the back room with her hands in her pockets. Her face was a naked display of fear, insecurity, and disappointment. When she stopped near me to get her bag, I put my hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” I asked.

She didn’t look at me for a moment while she fussed with her backpack. “They said my eyes are too close together, and”—her voice drifted off as she inhaled a staccato breath—“my nose is too crooked and my lips are too thin and my teeth are too small. My only chance of making Cinderella is cosmetic surgery.”

As she scurried away, I tried to put her story in perspective. She was probably overreacting. Most likely, she had been turned down because she wasn’t smiling enough or she forgot to bat her eyelashes, but her imagination had filled in all those horrible details. This was Disney after all, not
American Idol.

Before long, the PA was clapping his hands together and calling a list of names that included mine. We walked into an empty rehearsal studio and stood in a row. Facing us, our casting sheets arranged in piles in front of them, four executives sat at a long table. They ignored our entrance, shuffling through their papers with bored nonchalance, like a team of supermarket checkout girls forming opinions of shoppers based on piles of groceries.

The PA instructed us to act natural. “Just converse with the person next to you,” he said.

This was the first stage of the audition: natural movements in a pseudocasual environment. I became dramatic. I gestured grandly and put my hands on my hips. Disney loves big eyes, so I opened my eyes as wide as I could. When I spoke, I enunciated like Bambi learning to speak for the first time.

The woman who approached me was Mickey height, immaculately dressed with her hair in a dark bun. “After reading over your casting sheet,” she said without looking at me, “we’ve decided that we would like to see you again as Clopin. Please arrive thirty minutes before your callback.”

I was one of the lucky ones, emerging from the audition with a slip of paper. As I gathered my things, I couldn’t help but glow under the envious looks of the other Cast Members. Of all the people who’d shown up, only I’d been chosen to play the part of Clopin. It wasn’t until I got to the parking lot that it occurred to me I’d missed something.
Who the fuck was Clopin?

According to my callback sheet, he was the narrator of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
, a gypsy who was “mischievous and flamboyant,” not evil, but not altogether good either. He spoke with a French accent and wore a court jester’s costume, complete with a big, preposterous hat, curly-toed espadrilles, and tights.

What about Aladdin? I thought to myself. Aladdin didn’t have to wear tights. He was crafty and fun loving, definitely a good guy. Everybody loved Aladdin. Who loved Clopin?

Maybe, I figured, that was how it worked in the character program. You had to get your foot in the door with a minor character before you could play a major one. Pay your dues. If I really got into the Clopin part and killed it at the callback, I figured, it would be easier to transfer to Aladdin. So I rented the
Hunchback
video and watched the stage show at the Studios. I tried to get a handle on my character, his nuances and motivations, and his raison d’être.

By the time I arrived for my callback, I despised Clopin. He was frenetic and pompous, a fool in a clown costume. If I had to spend even one minute onstage as Clopin, I knew I would never forgive myself the shame.

The casting office was a flurry of activity. A dozen Cast Members stood in various character poses, studying scripts and mumbling to themselves. They were perspiring, fidgety with jitters, and terrified that they might have come this far only to be turned away.

The well-dressed executive from the first audition approached me with a clipboard in her hands. “Clopin,” she said, making a check mark on a piece of paper.

“Zat’s me,” I said in my ridiculous French accent. “Where do I sign?”

She studied me like a piece of gum on the bottom of her shoe. “Not so fast. You need to get into hair and makeup. Get your costume on and then come find me.”

The hair and makeup room was easy to find because it was the central hub of the chaos. There were racks of colorful costumes and rows of wigs on Styrofoam heads. Everywhere I looked, Peter Pans primped and Alices curtsied. Two Mary Poppins were engaged in a desperate tug-of-war for the last umbrella. Within moments, a makeup woman corralled me into an empty chair and was doing her best to put out my eyes with sticks and brushes. Then she turned me over to a dandelion-haired lady wearing a lanyard of safety pins around her neck who looked me up and down.

“Aladdin, right?” She handed me a stack of comfortable-looking clothes. “I can always tell. Aladdin is my absolute fav’rite character. He’s just so…naughty.” She scrunched up her face in approval, like “naughty” was the finest quality a person could have. “Don’t you think?”
*

“He’s a regular scoundrel,” I agreed. “But I’m here for Clopin.”

“Oh?” Her smile melted. “Him I don’t like.”

She took back the stack of comfortable clothing and assembled a different costume, one with sparkling spandex and jingly bells, then directed me to the changing room where I struggled to put everything together. When I was finished, I took one look at myself in the mirror—iridescent unitard, purple cloak, a masquerade mask—and resolved to make my push for Aladdin at the earliest opportunity.

The mousy executive found me in the hallway and shoved a script into my hands. “These are your lines,” she said. “From the moment you get in that room, you
do not
break character under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“While I have you,” I said, pushing shiny brass jester bells out of my face, “I was hoping to ask you about my role.”

“Ask me later,” she snapped, already moving down the hall.

The audition was relatively easy. I’d taken theater in high school and booked one or two commercials in LA, so I knew what they were looking for. I spoke in my French accent and threw in some arm movements that the animated character used. The corporate judges wore blank expressions, but I knew I’d done well. In the hallway, I came face to face with the executive. This time, she was smiling as if we were now on the same team.

“Congratulations!” she enthused. “We want to get you started as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, about that.” I pushed the jester hat back on my head. “I’m not really feeling the part of Clopin. Can I switch to another role?”

The smile froze on her face. “You’re not…
feeling
the part?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I offered. “He’s a complex character. He has some really terrific nuances. It’s just that I kind of had my heart set on another role. If I could just go back into wardrobe and re—”

“No, you cannot just
go back into wardrobe
. You tried out in Clopin. You have been
approved
in Clopin.”

“I know, I know, but I don’t really like Clopin, and I just thought maybe I could try out for Aladdin instead.”

“Aladdin?” she spat. “
Aladdin?
No no no! I don’t think so.”

Something about her tone set my teeth on edge. “Why not?” I asked.

“Your proportions are all wrong.” She stepped back to survey me over the bridge of her nose. “You’re out of shape. You’re too hairy. Plus, you are far too old to be Aladdin.”

“I’m only twenty-five,” I lied.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Nobody would believe that you’re a teenage boy. Clopin is much older, much more your style.”

“But I don’t
like
Clopin,” I repeated.

She put her hands on her hips. “Are you saying you don’t want the part?”

Who did this woman think she was, standing there, giving me an ultimatum? I looked just like Aladdin. Everybody thought so, even the wardrobe lady. “That,” I said, “is exactly what I’m saying!”

“Well then.” Her smile was pure cotton candy. “Thanks for coming and don’t forget, fur auditions are this Thursday.”

That afternoon, as I sped home, I stared at my face in the mirror. I had laugh lines and crow’s feet taking root at the corners of my eyes, and there were traces of gray at my temples. I’d just turned thirty and, while I didn’t look much older than mid-twenties, I certainly wasn’t getting carded anymore.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was too old to be a storybook hero. The thing was, if I was going to be a character, I wanted to do it on my own terms. If I couldn’t play Aladdin, I’d just have to find another way to integrate myself into Disney’s world. It was a brutal hiccup in the fabric of my Magic carpet ride, and the beginning of what turned out to be a rapid free fall.

E
very noble family has its embarrassing relatives, and the Disney clan is no exception. In addition to Mickey, Donald, Snow White, and Pinocchio, Disney also produced a few esoteric segments that won’t show up on the home-theater system anytime soon. Notably, there was the 1946 animated film,
The Story of Menstruation,
which was produced for the International Celucotton Company (Kotex). Running approximately ten minutes, this most arcane of Disney films mentions neither sexuality nor reproduction, presenting a woman’s period as an issue of morale. The original screenings were accompanied by a booklet titled
Very Personally Yours,
filled with promotional material for Kotex-brand feminine products. It is estimated that 93 million women in America have viewed this film, but copies are very rare. Also absent from the Zoo are the characters of Disney’s 1973 animated STD awareness film,
VD Attack Plan,
which starred the formidable VD as a general, leading his troops, Gonorrhea and Syphilis, into battle against Mankind. A memorable film for sure, but Disney won’t be licensing the rights to make plush toys any time soon.

The audition debacle was disheartening, but I didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity. The days were at their summer longest, and working the dark pavement of DAK, my energy was drained by the time the sun was at its high noon highest. After one particularly exhausting day that included cleaning vomit off my shoes on two separate occasions—once from a sugary Canadian boy and once from a hungover Rafiki—I wanted nothing more than to spend a quiet night unwinding with Calico. Unfortunately, Wigger was having a going-away party, and I had promised to make an appearance. As it turned out, everyone else canceled, so I was the only person who showed up at Pleasure Island to say good-bye.

“Hey baby! How about a little good-bye kiss?”

He was already drunk by the time I got to the BET Soundstage Club, downing shots and trying to get action from any girl who wandered too close. Whenever he struck out, which was every thirty seconds, he punched me in the arm and shouted what a big mistake she’d just made. To make matters worse, we were at Pleasure Island on Sunday night—not Thursday—so there were no Cast Member benefits. I couldn’t get my usual discount, I noticed that none of the regular bartenders were working, and I didn’t recognize anybody in the crowd.

“You know what I’m gonna miss the most about this place? The fags!” Wigger laughed so hard, he slipped sideways off his barstool, spilling tequila down his shirt. “Oh damn! That was the premium shit too.”

I handed him a stack of napkins. Even under the dim club lights, I could see the veins bulging in his forehead, thick as vines around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. “Relax, I’ll get you another one.”

“Yeah?” He looked up from his soggy shirt, and for a moment, I thought he was going to start crying. “Thanks my man. That means something, you know? Come here.” He shook my hand and pulled me in, throwing his other arm around me in a backslapping bro hug. I could feel the cold stain of tequila soaking into my own shirt.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, pushing myself away. “It’s a going-away present.”

“That
means
something.”

The night was at the tipping point when the after-dinner crowd was fading out and the party crowd was rolling in. The music shifted from old-school favorites to new pop hip-hop. Wigger pumped his fist. “Aw yeah!” he shouted. “This is my motherfucking jam!” His outburst caught the attention of a large bouncer, who edged closer to our table.

There was something dangerous in the air. Guests were rowdier than usual, security seemed surlier, and Wigger was on the edge of mania. A waitress wandered past our table, and Wigger pounced on her arm. “Hey sweet thing. You wanna put a tiger in your tank?”

With a little twist, she slipped out of his grip, and stood at a safe distance. “Can I get you two anything else?” she smiled.

“Two tequila shots!” Wigger commanded. “This Aladdin motherfucker is buying.” As the waitress disappeared into the haze, he punched me in the arm and began to rap. “Yo, a Street Rat found a magic lamp in a cave. It was dirty and shit, but he decided to save it. So he rubbed the side and a genie popped out. He stretched his back and began to shout, ‘I been stuck in that lamp for a thousand years. And I’m pissed as hell ’cuz you stuck me there.’ Aladdin said, ‘What the fuck.’ Genie said, ‘Shut up. Y’all repressed my people for far too long. And now I’m taking back the Middle East with this motherfuckin’ song’!”

The bouncer, a weapon of mass destruction in a
Look
book haircut, tapped Wigger on the shoulder, and shook his head.

Wigger stopped rhyming and held up both hands. “It’s cool, my man. I’m cool.”

The waitress appeared with our drinks, keeping a strategic distance between herself and either one of us. “Eighteen dollars,” she said.

I handed her a twenty and passed one of the shots to Wigger. “To Disney,” I said. “Bon voyage.” We clinked our shot glasses and downed the tequila, my first—and last—drink of the night. “Well, it’s late, and I have to work in the morning.”

“Yo, check this out!” Wigger tugged my sleeve. “That burly bouncer motherfucker that just interrupted my rhyme? I bet you the next round I can nail him with this lime wedge.”

“Are you crazy?”

“The next round. Watch this!”

Before I had time to react, Wigger whipped his used lime at the back of the bouncer’s head, then spun around in his seat, laughing like a maniac into his hands. “That was fucking awesome,” he squealed between his fingers. “Don’t look!” The bouncer was scanning the room, his neck bulging like a thigh. He walked past our table and disappeared into the crowd.

“Time’s up,” I said. “I’m out.”

As I stood up, Wigger grabbed my arm. “Yo, I seriously want to thank you for coming out with me tonight.” He had that extremely serious look on his face that drunks got when things were about to get really bad. “I mean it. I totally appreciate it.”

His grip on my arm was painfully tight. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Absolutely,” he spat. “Absofuckinlutely. You know why? I’ll tell you why. Because we’re like brothers, you and I.”

“Like brothers,” I agreed. Wigger was getting loud again. People were starting to stare.

“That’s why I’m so glad I met you this summer.”

“Me too.” The oversized bouncer was heading our way, the corners of his mouth jerking like a hungry dragon. I squirmed, but couldn’t break his Kung Fu death grip. “Okay. Just let go.”

“See my man,” Wigger continued, not letting go, “you can appreciate a good piece of ass. Some fine titties. Not like those faggots at work.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s why you and I can hang out so good, dog. We’re different from them. The only two heteros in the whole fuckin’ Kingdom!” He raised his fist, a maniac’s smile twisted onto his face. “Come on, man! Give me some love!”

I let his hand hang in the air. I could feel every face in the bar turning toward us, the bouncer pushing his way through the crowd. Wigger’s twisted smile faded to confusion, then betrayal, then anger, like a queen transforming herself into a wicked witch. He dropped his fist onto the bar. “What the fuck. Why you gotta bitch out like that?”

Finally, he loosened his grip on my arm, and I twisted away from his fingers. As I walked away, I brushed shoulders with the enormous bouncer, now focused on his target.

“Why you gotta be a bitch?” Wigger screamed at my back. “You a faggot too?”

I walked out the front door and down the midway where guests were lining up for The Adventurer’s Club and break dancing under the video screen, psyching up for the nightly New Year’s Eve celebration. I didn’t look up when the bouncers pushed their simpering baggage out the exit gate and deposited him upside down on the parking lot pavement.

Wigger was not missed around the break room. In fact, I was surprised at the seamlessness of his departure. I wasn’t expecting an emotional ceremony, but the guy had been a part of our lives for the past six months. It seemed appropriate that something would be said, and yet the subject never came up.

“Let’s play story time!” Alan clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “The rules are, it has to take place in modern times, you have to include the most obscure Disney character you can think of, and you have to tell the story in one breath—no inhaling—and it has to start with ‘once upon a time’ and end with ‘happily ever after.’ Okay. Sunny, you go first.”

Sunny pushed her glasses up on her nose and took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a clairvoyant pig who got kidnapped by terrorists and Taran had to save her, and they all lived happily ever after, the end.” She took a deep breath, and beamed at her audience, applauding.

“A Black Cauldron reference.” Alan rewarded her effort with a respectable golf clap. “Very impressive. Okay, Rusty, you go.”

Apparently, the two were back together because Rusty was curled around Alan’s legs. He stood up and took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a little black centaur named Sunflower, who worked for the white centaurs; then one day she rose up and broke the shackles of her repression and she got her own Happy Meal toy and little girls everywhere finally had a black Disney role model and they all lived happily ever after.”

The performers in the break room applauded, but it was clear they didn’t understand the reference. “Thank you, thank you.” Rusty blew kisses to his audience.

Nikki, who had been sprawled on the couch, raised herself up to her elbows. “Technically,” she said, “Sunflower doesn’t exist. Disney edited her out of the segment when they released
Fantasia
on home video.”

Rusty hoisted an eyebrow. “Girl, you can’t edit history. Sunflower is real and she is a symbol for African American centaurs everywhere!”

Alan stepped between them. “Okay, Nikki. Your turn.”

“I’m not playing,” she said, lying back down.

Alan turned to me. “Let’s see what you can do.”

“Once upon a time,” I started in the traditional mannner, “VD, Gonorrhea, and Syphilis were battling against Mankind, but just as they were about to deal the final blow, a team of government scientists, working on powerful biological weapons to fight an unwinnable war in the Middle East, accidentally stumbled on a cure and decimated their troops forever and Mankind lived happily ever after.”

The room was silent. “That’s disgusting,” Nikki said.

That evening, I got a call from Brady, inviting me on an adventure the following day. His words were vague, but the message was clear. I should dress comfortably, hydrate, and be ready for anything. I still hadn’t figured the guy out. He worked at the Magic Kingdom, so we rarely crossed paths on property. The only parties he attended seemed to be his own, and he had been there long enough to know his way around the Rules. Then there was his philosophy of Guerrilla Philanthropy, which intrigued me with its thinly veiled self-indulgence. He fascinated me like an earthquake: unpredictable and potentially devastating. When I got home from work, I took a quick shower, powered down a shot of Johnny’s Scotch, and sat down on the curb to wait.

“Where’d you find this car?” I asked as we pulled away from the Ghetto. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a convertible Alfa Romeo, with the top down, stereo blasting REO Speedwagon.

“It found me,” he shouted over the music. “I woke up one morning and there it was.”

“One day, you’ll have to tell me how you come by all these toys.”

He smiled, head bobbing like Goofy on Rohypnol. “No I don’t.”

“Seriously, Brady. What do you do exactly?”

He pretended to consider the question. “I gamble. I skywrite. On weekends, I host keggers and work on my tan.” Taking off his aviator shades, he squinted at me more closely. “You look different. Happy. Are you on something? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been Disnified!”

“Give me a little credit.”

“You met someone, didn’t you? Tell me everything, and by ‘everything,’ I mean the dirty parts.” I told him about Calico, leaving out the dirty parts. I was relieved that he didn’t know who she was. “An Ariel,” he said when I finished. “Not bad for a DAK photo jockey.

“She reports to your manager. She hates him as much as you do.”

A cloud crossed his face. “Nobody hates him as much as I do.”

Since it was the middle of the day—primetime for amusement park attendance—there was no traffic on 1–4. Jetting north, I was surprised to discover a general discomfort growing inside me the farther we drove from Disney property as if I were moving away from a demilitarized zone and into a minefield. Faded strip malls surrounded by scraggly trees infected the swamp commercial zone around Kissimmee. Highways seemed too narrow, cars too reckless. I gripped the door handle and tried to concentrate on the BGM coming out of the Alfa’s primeval stereo, but I couldn’t shake the fear that there was a violent crime taking place in each home around Universal at that very moment. How long had it been since I’d been off Disney property? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dropped into a concrete bowl. It’d been months since I felt the buoyant caress of the ocean’s tides.

As we passed through downtown, I spotted the alley where Nick and I had painted the walls, and I felt a tug of regret. We had the opportunity, back then, to create something beautiful, to do something constructive that might make people proud of where they lived, but we had opted to follow a villain’s code instead. And for what? A magazine article? It was heartbreakingly insignificant.

Brady sped to an exit just north of downtown Orlando where he zigzagged through the streets until the billboards became Spanish, then turned into a large arena-shaped building with a sprinting greyhound painted on the side. The place looked deserted, but he led me to a side door, which opened at the touch of his hand.

Inside, the place smelled like Hooters: sweat and beer and testosterone. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that I was standing at one end of a court that ran about fifty yards from end to end. The walls on three sides were green, the floor split from back to front into two parts: half black paint and half wood paneling. The fourth wall was nothing more than a thick nylon net, beyond which, there were fifty rows of stadium seating. Brady was smiling. “What do you think?”