Chris Mitchell

by Cast Member Confidential: A Disneyfied Memoir

  I reached for one of the cameras on the countertop. “Nikon, huh? I’m a Canon man myself, but I suppose I can work with this.”

  Orville held up a pudgy hand. “Not so fast, White Rabbit. You may look the part of a Disney Cast Member, but you have a lot to learn before I can send you out on your own. Put that camera down and follow me.” He opened the door and bowed grandly. “It’s showtime!”

  I stepped through the door of the drab photo lab and into another world. Everywhere I looked, there were brilliant colors and flashing lights. Huge dinosaur skeletons and roller coasters filled with rapturous, screaming children, grinning like newlyweds on Día de Los Muertos. Vendors were in mouse ears selling mouse-shaped toys and mouse-shaped ice creams. There was music everywhere, indistinct theme songs that quickly faded into the auditory topography, and the stench of sodium and high-fructose corn syrup.

  It was like crossing the border from some undeveloped country of impoverished manufacturers into an empire of sensational hedonism. Despair didn’t exist here. Neither did gloom or desperation or sad endings. Inside the impenetrable fortress of Disney World, fairies, genies, and mermaids were real; parking tickets, dead batteries, and blurry photographs were make believe.

  It was my first time “onstage” as a Disney Cast Member, and it was thrilling. In my mind, I had just snuck into Disney World through an open back door, and now I was free to do whatever I wanted—so many gleaming handrails, so many clean surfaces. The smooth pathways banked through the vegetation, disappearing seductively beyond my reach every time I rounded a fresh corner. My shadow tugged at my heels, yearning to be set free with a pair of skates and a spray can. Orville was quick to remind me that I wasn’t there to indulge my fantasies.

  “There are thousands of details that set the Disney parks apart from other theme parks.” His deep baritone suggested he was presenting a well-rehearsed speech in front of an amphitheater of new Cast Members. “Naturally, Disney properties are well tended, their communities virtually crime free, and their roads unblemished by potholes, but these details would be wasted effort without the cheerful smiles of the Disney staff.” To demonstrate what he meant, he twisted his face into a stupendous jack-o’-lantern grin. “Now you.”

  I jerked the corners of my mouth upward the way I do when somebody points a camera my way. Orville’s face dropped.

  “Let’s try something else,” he said. “Pretend you’re standing in front of a jury, trying to convince them you’re not a sociopath….”

  Nothing was ever so bad in my life that Disney couldn’t make it better: a skinned knee, a Little League losing streak. For small things, a simple Disney movie might have been enough. For bigger problems, it took a trip to Disneyland.

  This was LA in the 1970s. The new Mickey Mouse Club dominated the after-school airwaves. Bedknobs and Broomsticks picked up an Academy Award for best special effects. Herbie the Love Bug was on a roll, and The Apple Dumpling Gang and The Witch Mountain series were the talk of the blacktop. All across America, every Sunday night, entire families fell silent as “When You Wish Upon a Star” signaled the opening credits of The Wonderful World of Disney.

  For a six-year-old kid, Disneyland was the greatest place on Earth, a destination that was reserved for the most extraordinary of special occasions. Birthday parties qualified. So did Christmas and graduation ceremonies. Of course, I wanted to go to the park every day. I wanted to live at Disneyland. Every moment away from my parents was spent conspiring to escape bedtime and vegetables and all the other shackles of childhood regulation so that I could live out my days in wonderland.

  I fantasized about inhabiting the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, that had those raucous bazaar scenes with the bawdy wenches and filthy, leering drunkards and the menacing skeletons draped over piles of glittering treasure. I would have given anything to step off the boat and disappear on one of those white-sand islands. To live among the fire-ravaged villages of the Caribbean of my dreams.

  But that wasn’t all. I wanted to be a part of the Small World ride too. And Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Tom Sawyer’s Island was a preternatural paradise to me, a place where parents never assigned chores and the pontoon bridge replaced homework as life’s most challenging obstacle. And that huge wonderful tree house where the Swiss Family Robinson spent their days—I could haunt those branches for hours, transfixed by the sheer ingenuity of a canopied bed or a table made from a tree stump and a supply of water that was pulled from a crude but brilliant coconut husk conveyor.

  Leaving the park was impossible. I was that kid in the tram throwing a tantrum all the way through the parking lot, grabbing light posts and car door handles and anything I could get my candy-coated fingers around. My life was at its best right there in Tommorowland.

  My father, a sensible man, was an electrical engineer who owned his own computer business. My mother wrote allegorical children’s stories about colorful witches. They met during World War II and built their lives in the postwar boom of mid-century America. They used words like “preposterous” and “swingin’” and laughed out loud at the wholesome comedy of The Lawrence Welk Show. Already in their autumn years when I was born, they were looking forward to my father’s retirement, less than a decade away.

  And so it happened, following a gripping spelling bee victory hinging around the word “flotsam,” that I found myself awake at sunrise on a Saturday, turning on lights and banging pots and otherwise helping my parents wake up so that we could get to the park for a hard-won celebration. The trip from my front door to Disney’s parking booth took forty-five minutes, but it felt like hours. We arrived before the park even opened.

  While my dad paid for the tickets, my mother pulled aside one of the Disney staff stationed near the turnstile and whispered a few words in her ear. She smiled and nodded, then leaned down close to my face and whispered, “We have a special honor for boys who win spelling bees. How would you like to be the first one in the park?” My mom gave me a collaborative wink.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. I was to be allowed inside the gates of the Magic Kingdom before the park even opened. I had somehow found a loophole in the restrictive legislature of child management, and I was determined not to waste my opportunity. Once and for all, I was going to learn the answer to those age-old questions: Where did Mickey and his friends go when they weren’t signing autographs or appearing in parades? What did they do when no one was looking?

  I stood behind the velvet rope at the bottom of Main Street and imagined I could see Minnie pulling open the curtains of the chocolate shop and Goofy polishing the railings of the Magic Castle. When they drew back the rope and let me go, I broke free of my dad’s grasp and ran as fast as I could through the winding streets of Fantasyland, confident that I would find things that no kid before me had ever discovered. By the time my parents caught up with me, two hours later in the Missing Children Office, I was exhausted and elated.

  That little peek behind the Disney curtain was a religious epiphany. For the first time, I saw something more than just rides and candy and cartoon characters. I saw a lifestyle of happiness and support, a group of people who cared for parents and lost kids they had never even met just because they were sharing the Disney Dream.

  “Freeze!” Orville snapped. “That’s your Disney smile right there!”

  I studied my face in a Tinker Bell mirror hanging in a souvenir kiosk and tried to memorize the feeling, but Orville was already beginning his tour of Disney’s Animal Kingdom. There was a section loosely themed around Asia, and one like Africa. The place where we had started was Dinoland, and we finished in an area called Camp Minnie-Mickey, where, Orville explained, I would be spending most of my time behind the lens.

  Each land was a neighborhood with its own distinct music, smells, and entertainment. Africa had dense vegetation and tribal drums, indigenous dancers performing subdued erotic movements, and charred meat on skewers. Dinoland was stripped down to look like an archeological dig inexplicably located in a carniva
l midway. There was nothing surprising about the layout—a Queen’s necklace where each land was a crown jewel surrounding the park icon, which in this case was a large artificial tree called The Tree of Life, carved with hundreds of animal images and decorated with thousands of plastic leaves that shivered in the morning breeze. In each section, Cast Members wore costumes that defined their role: embroidered polyester in Asia, dashikis in Africa. Kiosk vendors wore shirts patterned with Rorschach designs and souvenir salespeople wore solids. Every Cast Member played for a team within the Disney franchise, and you could sort the teams by the color of their jerseys.

  As we walked the park, Orville lectured me on the Rules of Disney. “When you’re in an area with Disney guests, you must make yourself a part of their Magical Experience.” Seeing my confusion, he heaved an aggrieved sigh. “You didn’t read any of the literature, did you? Don’t answer that; you’ll spoil whatever Magic I have left today. Listen closely. Cast Members should always keep in mind the following seven Guest Service Guidelines: (1) Make eye contact and smile at each and every guest who enters the park; (2) greet and welcome each guest as they approach; (3) stop and offer assistance even if nobody is asking for it; (4) if you sense that a guest is having a less than Magical moment—are you listening to me?”

  “If I sense that a guest is having a less-than-Magical moment.” Parroting back the last five seconds of a boring lecture was a skill I had developed around the second month of kindergarten.

  Orville sniffed and continued, “If you sense that a guest is having a less-than-Magical moment, provide immediate recovery any way you can; (5) project the appropriate body language on stage at all times; (6) preserve the Magical Experience; and (7) as she or he is leaving the park, thank each guest and invite her or him to return soon.”

  “Guest Service Guidelines,” I repeated, staring at a beautiful girl dressed in a Pocahontas costume, posing for pictures with a group of children. “Got it.”

  Orville inserted his own considerable frame between the Native American Princess and me. “Let’s try a simple exercise. You see those two Japanese women standing there looking at an upside-down map of Universal Studios?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ask them if they need help.”

  Some insipid Phil Collins song was trickling out of the vegetation—“Something, something, my heart.” It combined the hopeful evangelism of gospel with all the soulful depth of a high school musical.* I moved cautiously to the side of the two women, trying to recreate my Disney smile from before. The women were in an advanced state of flustered, talking very fast in Japanese and tugging at the soggy map, like grommets fighting over a bong.

  “Excuse me,” I enunciated. “Can I help you?”

  The women looked relieved to see somebody with a nametag. “Toilet?” said one.

  “No problem,” I said. Remembering one I had just seen, I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “One hundred yards. On the right.”

  “Thank you,” they chirped together, and ran off.

  “Say-o-na-ra!” I said in my best Japanese, then beamed as Orville joined me. “Ta-da!”

  “That,” he said, “was terrible. Stage presence is of the utmost importance. When onstage, a Cast Member should always display appropriate body language. This means, stand up straight. Don’t lean or sit or cross your arms. Keep your hands off your hips and make eye contact with the guest at all times. A Walt Disney World Cast Member never points with a single finger—and he never uses a thumb.* Instead, use two fingers.” Orville held out his index and middle fingers together. “Or, to be on the safe side, the whole hand in the style of a karate chop.”

  Just then, a cheer erupted from the crowd, and Mickey Mouse appeared. He was smiling his big grin and walking with that classic Steamboat Willie swagger. Instead of his traditional primary-colored overalls, he was wearing a khaki safari outfit with an outback hat and scout patches on the sleeves. Everywhere he turned, people were adoring him as if he were the Second Coming.

  “Is that one of the Mickeys I’ll be shooting?” I asked.

  The color drained from Orville’s face, and he gave his forehead a vaudeville slap. “Oh my stars and garters!” he gasped. “When referring to a character such as Mickey or Minnie, keep in mind that each one is a unique individual and, as such, must not be referred to in the plural.”

  I watched the one and only Mickey Mouse disappear behind a Cast Members Only door, then reappear a few seconds later, looking mightily refreshed and maybe a little taller. “Aha!” I pointed with two fingers. “How do you explain that?”

  “Each performer can only last so long in their costume in this heat,” Orville said. “So when we make the exchange, you have to come up with a plausible reason why each character disappears for a spell.”

  “Like he’s got a phone call?” I ventured.

  “Absolutely not,” Orville said. “A Cast Member should never let on that one of the characters is doing something ‘out of character.’ When Tigger leaves the autograph line every thirty minutes, he isn’t taking a Powerade break; he is going to the Hundred Acre Wood for bouncing practice. Brer Fox is checking the briar patch, etcetera.”

  “So maybe Mickey got a phone call…from his Hollywood agent who just cast him in a provocative but tasteful new movie with leading lady Jessica Rabbit.”

  Orville frowned at me. “I think it’s better if you don’t say anything at all. Come on, I’ll show you the backstage commissary.”

  I began to imagine Disney World as a kind of friendly monarchy, something along the lines of Monaco or the United Arab Emirates, with its opulent kingdoms built around shimmering resort hotels, or like a religion. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has strict appearance guidelines, as do Jehovah’s Witnesses and pretty much all sects of Islam. A Cast Member who peppers his speech with smiling courtesies doesn’t think about that choice any more than a Muslim thinks to praise Allah throughout his daily conversations. Wearing a conservative hairstyle is no more taxing than the Orthodox Jewish custom of wearing side curls.

  I was half paying attention to Orville’s monologue as we entered the cafeteria and got in line, so I didn’t really notice the beautiful Pocahontas until I bumped into her, nearly knocking over her Diet Coke.

  “Double-u, tee, fuck,” she growled.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. Instead of her yellow Indian princess dress, she had on an Adidas tracksuit, and her long, dark hair was tied up in a bun, but it was definitely the same girl I had seen in the park, smiling and signing autographs. She had the body of a dancer, athletic and elegant, and a regal jawline. Her face was done in thick makeup, rouged cheeks with long, dark eyelashes. She had eyes like my ex, fickle globes that changed color with every mood swing. She didn’t say anything, so I added, “First day. I’m a little clumsy here in the Church of Disney.”

  “Excuse me?” Her lip curled when she said this.

  “Well, not literally. I mean. You have to admit it’s sort of a religious experience, right? These outfits. The characters. All deities in the Disney pantheon, and Walt’s Papa Zeus.” Pocahontas’s face was blank. “It’s Disneyism,” I babbled, now committed to my theme, “and Orlando is the Holy Land.” I felt off balance. I was suddenly very conscious of my short hair and vintage Banana Republic wardrobe.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pocahontas growled, her now gray eyes churning like storm clouds. “Disney is about family values. Not religion.”

  I was flexing my arms, biting my cheeks, letting myself get riled up the way I swore I wouldn’t if I ever found myself face to face with my ex-best friend. “Kids eat Mouse burgers like they’re taking Holy Communion, learning the Gospel of Walt: ‘Tigger is real.’ ‘There’s only one Mickey.’ You deceive children into believing you’re a Native American princess. What kind of values are you teaching these kids?”

  The flush rose from her tan chest, up her neck, and into her cheeks where it glowed like hot coals through the heavy stage makeup.
She looked me up and down with unconcealed contempt. “Let me explain something to you, photographer.” She spat the word as if it was a bug that had flown into her mouth. “Piaget stated—and I believe—that the unconscious, or semiconscious characteristics of imagination must be stimulated early and often in a child’s development to ensure proper cognitive development as an adult. What we do as Cast Members aids in the development of a healthy, productive society.” She went on like this for a while, spouting social theories that echoed sociology lectures I hadn’t paid attention to in college and couldn’t understand now. I was acutely aware of other Cast Members in the commissary watching or pretending not to watch, entertained by my abject humiliation. Eventually, the tirade stopped and it was my turn. Orville was smiling as he turned his gaze on me.

  “Children are idiots,” I countered.

  Pocahontas stormed off. I paid for my lunch and found a seat at one of the long tables. Five minutes later, Orville was still smiling at me over the top of his sandwich.

  “That didn’t go the way I expected,” I said.

  “It went pretty much exactly the way I expected,” Orville said.

  “She took it so personally.”

  “There’s something you have to understand about your fellow Cast Members,” he said, and I knew he was about to say something serious because I could clearly count his chins. One two three. “Disney World employs forty thousand people from all corners of the globe. They come to Orlando and work for minimum wage, and they don’t care about the money. They work here because Disney makes them feel something: nostalgia, pride, love…Whatever it is, it’s real, and it keeps them here for their entire lives.” He pushed his plate away from him. “Cynical journalist types, on the other hand, don’t last long here.”

  “You think I’m a troublemaker.”

  “If I thought you were real trouble, I wouldn’t have hired you. We have a state-of-the-art security system with cameras, uniformed guards, and undercover ‘foxes’ who are trained to take you down long before you become a problem.” He pushed his spectacles up on his nose and winked. “But I know that won’t be necessary with you. I can see your momma taught you well.”