Chris Mitchell (24 page)

After about twenty minutes, the driver pulled up to the airport terminal and honked his horn. Brady and I boarded our flight without a problem and switched planes once again in Montego Bay. When we landed in Orlando, I had a thought.

“Brady,” I asked as we moved toward the customs desk. “Why did you invite me on this trip? You carried the stuffed animals. You didn’t really need a spotter.”

He smiled. “I wondered when you were gonna put it together. The delivery to Papi was just the first half of the project.”

Our line was really moving. We were just a few steps away from the customs desk. “What’s the second half?”

“Last night, after you passed out, I arranged another shipment—this time, meningitis vaccine—really top grade stuff.”

“Medicine?”

“That’s right. The Cubans have done wonderful things with meningitis inoculations, but of course, the USA won’t allow it into the country. You remember my friend Beltran from the jai alai arena? Well, his daughter has developed spinal meningitis—a pretty advanced case. There’s not much we can do for her, but there are thousands of others who can benefit from Cuban science, so I volunteered us to bring some stuff back over the border.”

I hissed. “Now? You’re carrying the stuff right now?”

“Technically, we both are,” he said. “Keep smiling. They’re looking right at us.”

“But how—” And then I remembered the cigars.

Brady was beaming a Zen-like calm. “He’s one of the best cigar rollers in the city. He worked on these boxes all night, making them look just right. Don’t screw it up now.”

We were next in line to greet the customs officer. I could feel beads of sweat beginning to roll down my back. When the officer called us up, I put on a Disney smile.

“Papers?”

“Here you go.”

“Jamaica, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Did you visit any other places?”

“Just Montego Bay.”

“Did you see Ocho Rios?”

“I was only there for a night.”

“Any souvenirs?”

“Just a couple of shot glasses. I collect ’em so—”

“You’re sure you didn’t visit any other countries?”

“Positive.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The customs officer stood up and disappeared behind a wall of two-way glass. I looked at Brady, but he was flipping through a Jamaican magazine, his face cherubic. I tried to hum a Disney tune, but I couldn’t remember any. After what seemed like an eternity, the officer returned.

“Okay. Have a good day.”

When we got outside, I pulled the cigar box out of my bag and threw it at Brady. “You son of a bitch!”

“What.” Brady was laughing. “You did great!”

“What happened to full disclosure?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face, sheepish. “It all happened so fast.”

“That is not okay.” I put my hand in the air, and a taxi pulled forward.

“Listen, that was the last time. I swear. From here on out, I tell you everything.”

It was like being in LA again, having friends lie to my face. Had I come all this way, spent all this time developing what I thought were real relationships, just to be on the butt end of betrayal again? It was the same at Disney as it was in the skate park. I threw my bag in the back of the cab and shut the door before Brady could get in.

“Hey, come on.” He was being melodramatic, standing on the curb, looking forlorn. As the car pulled away, I could faintly hear his voice. “It’s for a good cause!”

I didn’t stay mad for long. I spent the next day feeling sorry for myself, but by the day after that, I couldn’t remember what had made me so upset in the first place. He hadn’t slept with my girlfriend or wrecked my car. He was just doing what came naturally. But by the time I called, his phone had been shut off and his apartment was empty.

Brady was gone.

“I
s that you?”

“Yeah. It’s been awhile, so I just—”

“It’s been two months!” Michael shouted into the phone. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

“I know I know. I’m sorry.” I was already trying to think of a graceful way to get off the phone. “How are you?”

“How am
I? I
am fine.
I
have never been healthier.”

I closed my eyes. “How’s Mom?”

He sputtered a little, and I thought he was really going to lay into me, then he took a deep breath, and I could tell by his silence that he was rubbing his temples. “Not good,” he said finally. “She’s nauseous most of the time. Her hair is gone. Her fingernails are all cracked. And she has persistent neuropathic pain in her hands and arms.” He spoke about her condition with professional objectivity, but his words painted a detailed illustration in my mind of our mother’s wasted body lying alone in a room that was never warm enough to keep her from shivering, never bright enough to make her smile.

“I thought the treatments were supposed to help,” I said.

His professional tone turned hollow. “Chemotherapy is a last resort.” The bottom line was, the cancer may have been life threatening, but the chemo was sure to kill her.

Michael took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was with a level of vulnerability that I rarely heard in him. “Come back to LA,” he said. “Florida will always be there, and Mom and Dad could really use your support right now.”

I was touched by the honesty of his plea. He must have been exhausted, bearing what surely would have been an endless barrage of questions and concerns, during this crisis. At least if I was home, I could take some of the pressure off my brother. Once again, he was the lifeguard, trying to drag me out of the waves before it was too late. “Never turn your back on the ocean,” he had taught me. But wasn’t I turning my back at that moment, doing my stubborn utmost to disregard the real issues in my life?

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to rush back to LA, to be there for my family, but I was stuck in place, nailed to the cross of my own self-interest. Frantically, I tried to come up with reasons that sounded sincere. If I left Orlando, I’d be leaving Calico. I’d be walking away from Disney and the wonderful life that I had worked so hard to create, and returning to a place where I had nothing. I dredged up my martyr’s justification that I had been excluded, that within our convoluted family structure, the cancer still did not exist. Sure, Michael knew the real story, but as far as I was concerned, Mom was out “running errands” she was “taking a nap.” If I went back to help her, I rationalized, I’d be challenging their complex cover stories, which had somehow become the foundation of our interaction for the last year.

“I can’t go back yet,” I told my brother. “I have a job here. And a girlfriend. And it’s just not the right time.”

“Fine,” he said. “It’s your decision. I just don’t want to see you do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

Hanging up felt like I was cutting away a piece of my heart. I needed a shower and a home-cooked meal. Calico wasn’t picking up, so I stopped at the supermarket and bought a six-pack of beer and a bottle of Scotch. At least, there was good ol’ Johnny. I could always count on a little generic sympathy from my roommate.

The sun was setting as I crossed the parking lot of the Disney Ghetto with my Publix bags and my duffel, the sky streaked with cloudy wisps of Pluto orange and Minnie pink.

On the stairs, two boys nearly knocked me over in their rush to get past. They ran directly into my apartment, leaving the door wide open. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My living room was filled with people, Cast Members draped over the furniture in the living room, giggling and kissing and getting high. I recognized a Mickey, three Poohs and a Pluto, but there were at least a dozen other people whom I had never met before. One partygoer, a shirtless boy with nipple rings and spiky hair, took the beers out of my hand and began passing them around. Within seconds, Johnny’s face appeared at my side.

“Isn’t this great!” His cheeks were flushed deep red, his eyes glassy with Scotch. “Ah haven’t been this excited since the prerelease party for
No Strings Attached
.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“Ah mentioned it the other day,” he said. “It’s our debutante ball—sort of a
coming out
party. Ah didn’t want to tell you too soon because ah didn’t want to jinx it, but…ah am the producer of what is going to be the first ever gay boy band!” The shirtless boy—who I guessed to be about fifteen—lay back on the kitchen table while Jazz Jericho poured beer into his mouth. “And ah have you to thank.”

“Me?”

“You said if ah don’t follow my dreams, somebody else will come along and screw it up.”

“I never said that,” I said. “That was Jazz.”

“Well, this is my dream.” He grinned. “And ah’m doin’ it!”

When I first moved in with Johnny, I admired his shallow simplicity. A glass of Scotch, a Jeff Gordon ball cap, and everything was rosy. But now, he was complicating his life with aspirations and mixed up with people like Jazz Jericho, who was a sure recipe for disaster.

“Ah’ve been doing a lot of research,” Johnny swirled the ice around his glass. “Ah mean, it’s unbelievable, but nobody has done this angle yet. Everybody is so focused
on ethnic
diversity or
personality
profiles—you know, the Nice One and the Brooding One and the Tough Guy—We are going to be the first ones ever to do sexual orientation! We even have a token Bi. Jazz knows some guy who has his own recording studio so we’ll be able to get a demo together no problem. And ah have access to the airwaves so…” He shrugged. “You want a beer?”

Jazz sat down behind the bar and began fumbling with a New Kids on the Block CD. Drop. Conceal. “So what did he say?” he asked no one in particular. “Will he do it?”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Ah have a favor to ask.” His tone was slurred, yet businesslike, Dean Martin pitching a used car. “Would you do us the honor of shooting our first album cover?”

I looked from Johnny to his Scotch to the spiky-haired kid who was now making out with one of the other young boys on Johnny’s sofa. Jazz had poured a pile of cocaine onto the New Kids CD and was dividing it into lines with a business card.

“Tell him the concept,” Jazz said.

Johnny shifted into a director’s pose, his hands held up like the frame of a lens. “Picture this,” he said. “Five beautiful boys. They look frightened. Not terrified. Not teeth chattering, but just…vulnerable. They’re wearing society’s wardrobe: the starched collar, the power tie, the blue blazer with shiny naval academy buttons. Their hair is neatly combed, everything in place. Spic and span.”

Jazz looked up from his coke, beaming. Flick. Reveal. “And here’s the kicker…they’re in a
closet.
There are clothes on hangers and shoes at their feet. Hats in turn-of-the-century hatboxes, and maybe some naughty blue magazines just out of reach.”

Johnny motioned Jazz to go on, so he did. “But then, the cover unfolds to reveal—The beautiful boys have come leaping from the closet, no longer wearing expressions of
fear
and
uncertainty
but of
pride
and
confidence!
Their hair is
styled
now. Not just combed. And some of the boys have piercings. And of course, they’re dressed differently. They’re no longer clad in society’s garments. Now they’re wearing the clothes that were just hanging around them in the closet: lightweight, surplus, ripstop pants. Shirts of silk fabric in bright colors, unbuttoned to the waist to reveal their hard, sculpted bodies. Society’s clothing is left on the hangers and strewn around the closet behind them. And, above everything…a rainbow. Shimmering over them.”

“So.” They were both a little breathless, staring at me, waiting for my reaction. “What do you think?”

I was careful to keep my expression neutral. “A gay boy band?”

“Ah know!” Johnny gushed. “It’s so simple. But then all the best ideas are.” He held up his Scotch glass to toast Jazz and the spiky-haired kid who was scratching his nose, staring at the CD. Johnny and Jazz and the rest of the gay boy band and their friends were staring at me, waiting for some reaction, some pledge of allegiance to their cause. Over Johnny’s shoulder, I could see my Publix bags, now filled with empty beer bottles.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Jazz broke the silence. “Just think about it for a while and figure out if you’re ready to make a strong political statement.”

I helped myself to a Corona and settled on the balcony where I could ignore the revelry and watch the stars come out. What the hell was going on here? Johnny wasn’t the kind of guy who took chances. He did the same safe thing day after day. Nevertheless, here he was, tipping back Scotch, demonstrating Pearlman-sized delusions of grandeur.

He had generously attributed his burst of ambition to my influence, but there was another puppeteer pulling his strings. Eventually, the balcony door opened, and a girl joined me. I’d seen her around. She was a Cinderella at the Magic Kingdom. She had a soft, round face and dazzling blue eyes.

“Interesting day?” she asked.

“You have no idea.”

“I wasn’t always a princess, you know. I used to be a paramedic. I took EMT courses and everything. So, if you choke on that lime in your beer, I can resuscitate you.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Actually, I don’t have a choice. When I got my EMT license, I took an oath to help people whenever and wherever possible. So, even if you were a jerk”—when she stirred her cocktail, she did it with her fingers fanned out, glossy French tips hovering over the rim of the glass—“I’d be duty bound to try to save you.”

After Johnny and Jazz’s ambush, I was feeling the opposite of flirtatious, but the girl showed no sign of leaving, so I threw some words together. “Have you ever saved anyone’s life?”

She sipped her drink, careful not to smear her lipstick on the glass. “The other day, this man in my line just keeled over. My greeter thought it was dehydration, but I could tell it was a heart attack.” When she smiled, she wrinkled her nose a little. “So I had this one side of me that knew what was going on because of all the EMT classes and whatever. Then there was the other side of me—the princess side.”

I shook my head. “Which side is that?”

She clucked her tongue as if I had forgotten the very essence of Disney. “You’re a Cast Member. You should know this.”

“I’m not a princess.”

She set her drink down so she could talk with both hands. “When I’m onstage, I must stay in character at all times. Cinderella has a working knowledge of sewing and scrubbing—maybe a little singing—but not CPR. Under no circumstance is it acceptable for a princess to perform mouth-to-mouth!”

It was an ethical predicament. Should she break character in order to save the man’s life or preserve the Magical Experience for all the children who came to see Cinderella?

I was interested now. “So what did you do?”

“What do you think?” She picked up her drink and took a sip.

“I think you dropped to your knees and pounded his chest until he started breathing again.”

“Are you kidding?” She practically spat her drink through her nose. “Do you know how long it took me to get approved for that role?”

The girl’s phone rang, and she drifted to the other side of the balcony to take the call. Just then, the door opened again, and Johnny’s face appeared, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “So,” he said, shutting the door behind Cinderella, “have you given it any thought?”

I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. “
A gay boy band?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Ever since the Beatles, boy bands have relied on a fan base of screaming females.”

“Exactly!” Johnny stabbed the air with his finger. “There is nothing out there for the
screaming male
fans. That’s why it’ll be such a huge success!”

“I hope it is,” I said. “But I just don’t feel comfortable shooting your cover.”

He nodded and sipped his Scotch. “Ah understand.”

“Johnny,” I said. “Have you heard about anyone who died at Disney World recently?”

“Died?” He made a face. “No, why?”

I glanced up at Cinderella, still gushing into her phone. “It was just a rumor I heard about a guy having a heart attack.”

“Ah haven’t heard anything,” he said, his cheeks flushed Queen of Hearts red. “But then Disney’s got one hell of a medical team. And an even better PR crew. As Walt was fond of saying, ‘You can dream, create and build the most beautiful place in the world, but it takes people to make that dream a reality’!”

The next day, the temperature skyrocketed to well over a hundred degrees. Even the Florida natives were uncomfortable, laid out in armchairs or draped over the vented slats of benches, fanning themselves with soggy maps. It was so hot that by noon Magic Kingdom had already lost a Meeko, a Gideon, and two Captain Hooks to heatstroke and the Mad Hatter’s nose kept melting off his face. Hydration reminders were posted on the tunnel walls, at every stage door, and on corkboards hung over the urinals. Still, Cast Members were dropping like popcorn, dizzy and gasping for air, drowning in the humidity.

When I finished at DAK, I went to the Magic Kingdom to meet up with Calico. I hadn’t been able to reach her the night before, so we rode the Monorail while I brought her up to speed on all the events of the past couple of days. I told her about Havana and Brady and then Johnny and his boy band party. She was shocked.

“You have to be careful who you make friends with around here,” she warned. “Not everyone’s as sweet as me.”

“I tried calling you last night,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I am
so
sorry. I got your messages, but my mom was really sick last night, so I went over to her house to take care of her and fell asleep watching a movie.”

“Is she alright?”

“She’ll be fine.” Calico waved it off. “It’s mostly in her head. She can be
such
a hypochondriac.”