Chris Mitchell (23 page)

For the briefest moment, her eyes lit up with anger, then her expression melted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to tell you. I got approved in Cruella de Vil.”

“Oh.” I pulled a splinter out of my hand. “That’s terrific. Congratulations! I didn’t even know you were auditioning.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure I had the part.” She had dropped the accent and was normal again.

“Okay. I get it. You’re Method acting.”

“That’s right,” she said. “This is my technique.”

“That’s so Meryl Streep.” Finally, she let me kiss her. “This calls for a celebration. I’m taking you anywhere you want for dinner. Sky’s the limit.”

“Anywhere, huh?” Calico chewed her lip. “Actually, there’s a new place on I-Drive I’d love to try. It’s called Morton’s.”

“The steakhouse?”

“It’s supposed to be good.”

“But you’re vegetarian.”

“Yeah, but—I just think it might help me to get into the role.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I love steak.”

“Good,” she sniffed in her Cruella voice. “Then let’s go.”

At that point, almost ten months into my Orlando experience, I was so far gone down the rabbit hole, so
loyal
to the Disney Dream with its pixie dust and its wishing wells, I was no longer able to distinguish between Wonderland and terra firma. The truth was, I had become everything I despised: a generic clone in a team jersey, censoring the lyrics of my life’s anthem so as not to offend the convention geeks or the honeymooners or anyone else who crossed the border into Never Land. At that time, if Calico had asked me to renounce my citizenship and defect to Disney World, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. I was no longer a mere believer; I had pledged allegiance, signed the declaration, and tattooed my soul with Disney’s colorful flag.

For the rest of the night, Calico practiced her English accent, and I tried to keep a straight face. Over the next few days, she honed the dialect to a perfect North London inflection, and even learned a few words of Cockney rhyme. And from that day forward, she ate red meat with every meal.

T
he call came late at night, after Calico had fallen asleep. I picked it up without checking the caller ID. “Hey rock star.” Brady’s voice was strained as if he were trying to talk without being overheard. “Can you be packed and ready to go by Friday?”

A week’s notice was plenty of time to set up my schedule. “Cuba?”

“Don’t forget your board shorts and your Disney smile.”

“What happens in Havana stays in Havana.”

“I’ll pick you up at 8
A.M.
”

I didn’t hear from Brady for the rest of the week, but on Friday at 8
A.M
. sharp, he pulled up in a VW minibus (“It just showed up on my doorstep.”), and we drove to the airport. I had packed a small duffel bag for the occasion, but it was mostly filled with sun block and aspirin for my forthcoming hangover. Brady had a backpack and an enormous stuffed Mickey, which he tossed gracelessly into the overhead compartment.

For the short flight to Jamaica, we sat on opposite sides of the plane. In Montego Bay, we breezed through customs and into the terminal where Brady pulled me into a souvenir kiosk and bought a few schlocky Jamaican souvenirs.

“In case anyone asks,” he said, stuffing a
Hey Mon
shot glass into my duffel, “you went barhopping, got sloppy, and passed out on Cornwall Beach. You can fill in the details.”

The next flight was even less eventful. Nobody cared that we were Americans going to an off-limits destination. We were simply a group of pilgrims on an Epicurean quest, looking for revelry and relaxation in a tropical paradise, disconnected from the rest of the world. As the plane banked around the coastline of Cuba, I felt a familiar tingle on the bottoms of my feet, the playful stretch of an old friend, my shadow, who handed me a rum drink with a silent wink.

Once again, I was off on a bona fide international escapade with real adrenaline and real consequences. I was fulfilling a lifelong dream, but I found that after months of soldering a Disney mien onto my own persona, shaping my entire being into a demeanor of placid
Look
book certitude, I was unable to define my expectations outside of a Disney framework. I imagined Havana as a real live Magic Kingdom where the characters wore white linen shirts and danced to salsa BGM on crystal blue beaches or an uncharted pavilion in Epcot where the entertainment was cigar rolling and the Drinking-Around-the-World selection was a bottomless mojito.

Our flight landed without a problem at Jose Marti International Airport in Havana, and we navigated through the terminal until we were standing curbside beneath the clear Cuban sky. Within moments, a bright blue 1957 Chevy sedan pulled up. Sure enough, the driver was smoking a cigar, tapping his fingers to the salsa music blaring out of the speakers.

“It’s showtime,” Brady said, smiling broadly. “Papi!”

Papi was a small, tan man with a shaved head and a bright smile. Every inch of him flashed gold: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and sunglasses. He had a gold brow ring, a stud in his nose, and his teeth were lined with gold bridges and caps. On each finger, he wore at least three gold rings set with enormous stones. He had a gold-plated pinky nail, pierced with a gold chain that attached to a gold bondage ring. He was dressed all in white from his linen shirt to his drawstring trousers to his pristine white espadrilles. I had to squint to look directly at him.

Papi and Brady hugged and then Papi clicked his tongue. “Welcome to Havana, boys.” His voice was a soft falsetto, like the Blue Fairy gone to Buenos Aires. “You’re just in time for my birthday party. Cuban specialties: salsa and sexiness!” He noticed the stuffed Mickey. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Sure is,” Brady said. He handed Papi the Mickey, then pulled a bright yellow, plush Winnie the Pooh from his backpack. Papi squealed with glee, and danced around the car with Mickey and Pooh in his arms.

The Chevy was in terrible condition. It looked as if it had been sanded down and spray painted blue. The chrome was dull, the upholstery held together with duct tape. The interior smelled like gasoline, and the whole contraption rattled as Papi pulled away from the curb.

“Ain’t she a beauty?” Brady asked from the passenger seat. He stroked the cracked dashboard. “She’s one of the best-kept cars in Havana. Of course, she’s got one of the most loving mommies!” He reached over and pinched Papi’s cheek, a square of brown in a sea of gold. As we turned out of the airport onto the main street, my door swung open, and I grabbed the front seats to keep from flying out of the car.

The two friends talked in Spanish while I stared at Cuba just outside the window and watched my Disney framework dissolve away like a hand-painted fairy tale dipped in turpentine. The buildings were tall and narrow, crowded together like books on a shelf, their dust jackets faded and torn from years of use. The windows had no glass, and through the broken shutters and open doorways, I could see paint peeling away from the vaulted ceilings or, sometimes, no ceiling at all, just cracked wood and concrete where the roof had collapsed inward onto faded mattresses. Barefoot children played baseball from one side of the street to the other, using sleeping dogs as bases in the middle of the road.

The Cubans sat in their doorways, leaned out their windows, and crouched in the streets to watch us drive by. Papi drove slowly to avoid the obstacles, but still the car grumbled every time he sank into one of the monstrous potholes. The whole country smelled of smoke and decay.

Papi pulled up to the sidewalk and cut the engine.
“Venga,”
he cooed in his Latin singsong. “I will introduce to you my friends.”

His house was cluttered with artifacts from around the world: porcelain Buddhas, Peruvian mosaic flowerpots, Russian nesting dolls. Here, too, there was no glass in the windows, only brilliant blue shutters, which had been thrown open to let the sunlight into the living room. Every room featured framed photos of Papi with smiling people.

“He’s a very generous man,” Brady said, handing me a glass filled with something dark. “If he likes you, he’ll let you stay in his house forever. In exchange, people bring him gifts from all around the world.”

“What is this?” I held up my glass.

“Rum.” He flashed a wicked grin. “If you want, you can dilute it with cola, but don’t ask for Coke. They haven’t seen it here for forty years. Salud!”

People continued to pour into Papi’s house. Everyone was greeted with smiles, warm hugs, and rum. Eventually, I found myself on the rooftop where a group of people were toasting Cuba’s future. When he saw me, Papi waved me over.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for inviting us to your party.”

“That is nothing,” he said. “After your generous charity, it was the least I could do.”

“Charity?” I was so engrossed in the scene, I had forgotten that we were on a mission of Guerilla Philanthropy. “Oh, right. You’re welcome.”

He leaned close, his soft voice an excited whisper. “What did you bring?”

I had no idea how Brady had even transported the drugs, much less what they were. “It’s a surprise,” I said.

Papi’s gold rings sang as he rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait!” He crossed himself. “Come with me.” He led me to his room where the stuffed Mickey and Pooh were sitting on his bed. Before I knew what he was doing, he had produced a knife and plunged it into Mickey’s stomach. Then he did the same to Pooh. Where the knife ripped the fabric, white pills poured out onto the bedspread. “If I’m not mistaken, it looks like Crixivan! And Epivir! Oh, this is wonderful.”

I recognized the names as pharmaceuticals used in AIDS cocktails. “I hear they’re hard to get.”

“You have no idea!” Papi pulled a handful of plastic bags out of a drawer and began to fill them with pills. “Cuba’s cut off from American business so that means they’re cut off from American medicine as well. Cuban scientists are trying to make their own versions of the brand-name drugs, but it’s not easy and it’s very expensive. You and Brady are helping to bridge the gap.” In the dim light, Papi’s face was the epicenter of a golden borealis. “Thank you.”

I left Papi to organize his shipment, and wandered back into the party. It was a good feeling, this Guerrilla Philanthropy. It was something I could get used to. I climbed the stairs to the rooftop, where the party was in full swing, and took a spot by the railing. From my rooftop perch, high above the streets of Havana, it was impossible to fit Cuba into my Disney paradigm. Here were worn building facades that hadn’t known rehabilitation since Disneyland’s Autopia was remodeled, wandering dogs that snuffled over bird carcasses in the alley, and bootleg cigar salesmen and sex peddlers who patrolled the sidewalks below.

I looked up to the sky and tried to imagine that I was in a sound booth in a pavilion at Epcot, waiting for the fireworks to begin, but the
reality
of Cuba was simply too grand. Sure, there were white linen wardrobes, live salsa BGM, and rum-laced beverages to keep me drinking around the world, but this was no theme park. I was on an adventure in Realityland. It was magnificent and dangerous, and like being in the ocean, I had to keep reminding myself not to turn my back to the experience. I felt awed and humbled to be a part of it.

As the night progressed, the music got louder and people started dancing. I sipped from rum bottles whenever they came my way, then passed them along. Every so often, Cuban girls would grab my arm and dance up against me. Brady flashed through the room, grinning like a Lost Boy, clinging to one girl or another. And so the night went, with rum, salsa, and laughter, and eventually, I curled up on a sofa and closed my eyes.

Brady was making breakfast when I woke up, whistling “Buena Vista Social Club.” “How you feeling?” he asked.

I sat up, expecting the worst. “Not too bad, actually.”

“Havana Club rum,” he said. “Best stuff in the world. Too bad we can’t get it back home.”

The sun was just peeking over the rooftops. Through the glassless windows, I could hear a muted salsa rhythm. “Why are you up so early?”

“I never went to sleep,” Brady said. He transferred a pile of scrambled eggs to two plates and laid them out on a tile-topped coffee table. “I’ve been up all night, talking with Papi and thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, no shit, right?” The eggs tasted different but good. He had used herbs from Papi’s garden and powdered milk. He cleaned his plate and put down his fork, all serious and sincere. “I’ve made a decision. I’m moving here.”

“To Havana?”

“To Cuba.” Brady wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I feel good here, like, really good, like I’m supposed to be here, doing good things. Remember I told you about my dream? To do one altruistic thing that gives me no benefit whatsoever. Well, I think this is the place. Cuba! It’s not a capitalist society, so I wouldn’t be doing it for the money. I have no family here, so I wouldn’t be doing it for the tribe. In fact, I have no real ties to the community, so nothing I do would come back to me. It’s perfect!”

“What about your life back home?”

“Home will always be there. I’ve gone as far as I can go with Disney.” He leaned back with his hands behind his head and stretched out his arms like a king on a throne. “This is what comes next.”

I cleared our plates, poured myself a cup of coffee, and got in the shower. It made sense in Brady’s eccentric way. I would miss our benevolent mayhem, but the guy was chasing down a dream. I could relate.

“Papi left early this morning on his distribution run,” Brady said, as I put my duffel bag together. “So we have to find our own way to the airport. I hope you don’t mind if we stop to pick up a couple of cigars.”

“Can we bring Cuban cigars back?”

“No,” Brady smiled. “But I know a place where they wrap them in Dominican labels. Come on.”

I followed him through streets with no real concept of direction, right-angle turns that led from one potholed, dog-paved road to another. Clusters of children wearing school uniforms scampered down sidewalks, hopping over divots in the pavement and crossing the streets whenever they found a break in the traffic. Quick Belgian taxis and Czech motorbikes dodged huge, lumbering Detroit autos: Oldsmobile, Chevy, Ford, Pontiac, cars with proud hood ornaments from postwar America.

Dogs draped like Dali clocks from windowsills and doorways. Old women peered through slats in the window shutters, watching the streets with curiosity. From every house, the strains of low-fidelity salsa filled the living rooms and spilled onto the sidewalks. Everything seemed to be under construction, but there was no sign of a crew. We hopped over bags of cement, stacked on wood palettes, covered in dust that could have been months old.

The city was really warming up now, beams of sunlight slanting through windowless windows, reflecting off silver hood ornaments the size of Barbie dolls. People crowded one another along the sidewalks, lined up in front of dark warehouses where sober counter attendants doled out bags of powdered milk and white rice. Urban chickens scratched in the dirt, fighting over space in sidewalk cracks and compost piles. The smell of freshly baked bread lingered everywhere.

“Wait here.” Brady ducked into a nondescript building, then reappeared a few minutes later with two boxes of “Dominican” cigars. He handed one to me. “From me to you,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” I said.

He winked. “Still is.” Suddenly Brady broke into a run, and I narrowly avoided a parade of rusty cars following him across the street. He jumped up on the running board of a weathered flatbed truck and addressed the driver, “El aeropuerto?” he asked.

“Si,” the man behind the wheel said. “Diez minutos.”

Brady smiled at me. “Climb in.”

We were barely in the back when the truck pulled away from the curb. There were ten other Cubans standing there already, riding the flatbed like a giant surfboard, leaning from side to side when the road bent. The experience was wonderfully surreal; hundreds of miles away from Disney, and yet the air around me was electrified with Magic. I glanced over at Brady, eyes closed, smiling against a golden morning sunbeam. He had made this possible. If my life was a Disney story, Brady was my Genie, my Blue Fairy, my Magic broker.