Next thing I knew, there were paws on my shoulders and brown fur in my face. “Easy, Dale,” I said, careful to preserve the Magical experience for the kids around me. Someone yelled, “You’re my favorite chipmunk!” A crowd gathered around us, and Dale turned to sign somebody’s autograph book, wagging his little fuzzy tail across my legs the whole time.
I stepped out of the way, but Dale backed up, pushing me against the edge of the fountain. He had me pinned so effectively, in fact, that his butt was now grazing my crotch with every wag. It was a little disconcerting, to be wedged between that fountain and Dale, feeling the stirrings of an erection. At five foot one, I was pretty sure that Dale was a girl, but it brought up some bizarre bestiality issues I preferred to ignore. I extracted myself as gracefully as possible and ducked back into a camera store to cool off. When I finally met up with Jessie twenty minutes later, I didn’t mention the Dale encounter.
“So how was your day?” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and batted her eyelashes at me. “Did you have any Magical Moments?”
“No Magic,” I told her. “No Moments.”
“Well, I have a whole hour before my next set,” she said. “Let’s see if I can take care of that.”
Her eyes sparkled with friskiness. Her basics smelled like Downey fabric softener. When she kissed me, she sunk her teeth into my cheek and left marks and a wet smudge. She led me around the Mexico pavilion and past Norway. We wandered through China and Germany and an area that represented the entire continent of Africa. When we got to Italy, she pulled me into an alcove with a grim face carved in bas-relief on a wall. The carving had an open mouth, big enough to fit a small pizza.
“This is La Boca de Verita,” she said. “The Mouth of Truth. You put your hand in it and say something, and if you’re lying, it bites off your hand.”
“That’s morbid,” I said.
“No, it’s really fun! Try it.”
I put my fingertips inside the mouth and thought for a moment. “I am telling the truth,” I said.
“There! You see. Nothing bad happened. Now me.” Her entire hand disappeared up to the wrist, and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I want you.”
Her smirk was so cute and she smelled so good that before I knew what was happening, we were all over each other.
“Stop.” She pushed me away, gasping.
“What. You said you wanted me.”
“Not here.” She took my hand and led me to a wall with a cleverly concealed gate. “If anybody asks, we got lost looking for the parking lot, got it?” I nodded and followed her through the secret door.
It was like passing from a vivid color movie into a black-and-white photograph. Behind us, in Italy, children were scampering around beds of blooming flowers and twinkling fountains. Jugglers and rhythmic gymnasts danced around a gazebo of Renaissance musicians. And everywhere you could see the fantastic bright red and blue and green of painted murals, blown glass, and gondolas on the lagoon.
But on the other side, everything was a subdued shade of earth. Dirt pathways wound shortcuts through worn strips of grass. Stucco walls, grimy with rough patchwork and cobwebs, displayed a collage of dead leaves like dull mosaics. The air-conditioning machinery hummed so loud, I could hardly hear myself think. Even though I had never worked at Epcot, the passage from onstage to backstage was unmistakable.
She led me up the steps of a nondescript brown building that looked like a strip of low-income classrooms. She tried the first door, but it was locked. Same with the second. The third door opened, and as she pulled me inside, I caught her nervous glance over my shoulder, checking to make sure we hadn’t been seen.
The only light in the room came through the crack around the door and around the set of closed window shades. I could just make out a line of shelves along the perimeter of the room, stacked to the ceiling with bags and boxes.
“Where are we?” I said
She put my hand on her breast. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
I kissed her hard and pushed her back against a pile of boxes, which collapsed under our weight. There was something soft inside: T-shirts and sweatshirts with Disney graphics.
I tugged at her T-shirt, but ended up with a Chip and Dale tank top instead. She undid my belt.
“Did you like that back there?” she panted as a box of snow globes upended around us.
“Oh yeah.” I was half concentrating, struggling with the drawstring on her shorts. “La Boca de Verita,” I mumbled. “Very cool.”
“Not that.” She lifted her hips and pulled her shorts down. “I mean before, with Dale. Did you like that?”
“How did you know?” But I knew how she knew.
She kicked away a box of Tinker Bell pens, which exploded around the little room, and got on her hands and knees. “That’s how I want it.”
When we finished, we lay there, sweating into the spring line of children-sized Little Mermaid T-shirts.
“Welcome to the SOP Club,” she purred.
“We’re official members now, huh?”
She wiped her hands on a Goofy beanie and smiled.
I poked through the pile of merchandise, looking for my original clothes. “Standard Operating Procedures?” I guessed.
“Sex on Property.”
I kissed Jessie good-bye and stumbled back to my Jeep. I had done it! I had committed the Original Disney Sin. It was a crowning moment and I should have been ecstatic. But something didn’t feel right, like a cricket voice in my ear chiding me for bad behavior. It was as if I could almost see the spirit of Walt shaking his head, sorely disappointed.
Something There That Wasn’t There Before
When Disney Imagineers and artists create rides, movies, and structures, they sometimes hide Mickey silhouettes in the background. They build these “Hidden Mickeys” right into the design, three familiar intersecting circles in a seemingly random background pattern: a place setting in the Haunted House dining hall, a pair of mouse ears on a skeleton in the Indiana Jones ride, a Mickey doll in the Tower of Terror pre-show movie. It started as an inside joke between artists, but quickly became an obsession for thousands of guests who enjoyed searching for hidden symbolism within the Disney architecture. For the average guest, the symbolism of the image ends at the discovery itself; just knowing there is a Hidden Mickey in the rock wall in Toontown is enough to check it off their all-inclusive been-there-done-that list, but a select few find deeper meaning in the discovery. For them, each Hidden Mickey is a holy symbol, the emblem of the Templars of the Order of Disney, and can only truly be appreciated by other Disney scholars. Like an archaeologist discovering a prehistoric cave drawing or an Egyptian hieroglyphic, unearthing a fresh Hidden Mickey is the closest a real Disney fanatic will ever come to God.
In the weeks that followed my induction into the SOP Club, I enjoyed all the perks of the popular clique: I ate lunch with beloved face characters; I was on the guest list for every Ghetto party; and Nubile FOLK tumblers and stilt walkers invited me into break room bathrooms for hand jobs and one hits. (For the record, the canoe behind the Tarzan stage is painfully uncomfortable, and the FOLK elephant puppet is better than a twin bed at the World Famous Budget Lodge.) In less than a month, I had gone from backstage pariah to DAK royalty, and then suddenly and inexplicably, I became the de facto Cast Member therapist.
Maybe something about the photographer/Cast Member relationship carried more intimacy than it ever had on, say, the X Games Mega Ramp, but characters began baring their souls, whether I wanted to hear what they had to say or not. It always started with a photo request—“How about Chip and Dale in a 69? Tigger with a riding crop? Goofy in a Louis Vuitton bra?”—and ended with a tearful confession.
Jason, a Magic Kingdom Prince Charming, expressed his devastation over a full hour of spaghetti Bolognese (me) and Ripped Fuel (him). Apparently, his girlfriend of five years had dumped him (“A Prince Charming! Is she, like, a lunatic or something?”) for a dancing chef in the Parade of Dre
ams. He was already three weeks into his retaliation, a draconian itinerary of alcoholic blackouts and homosexual one-night stands.
Brenda, a Midwest debutante, had dropped out of college after her first year in the college program to devote herself to a full schedule of Mickey. She was a “furry,” a woman who fetishized the anthropomorphic features of Disney’s fuzzy characters, who enjoyed a fulfilling relationship with her partner, a girl who had been approved in, perhaps not so ironically, Minnie. The two girls were gifted kleptomaniacs, and at least once a week, they would smuggle a new piece of fur home in their gym bags and hide the pieces in their closet. Whenever the mood struck them—as it often did after stealing a bottle of expensive wine from Epcot—they would slip into their costumes and consummate the mice’s relationship in ways that Uncle Walt probably never imagined.
“It’s Storytime,” Sunny announced one day. She held her finger up to her lips to indicate that this was a big secret, and not a word of it was allowed to leave the break room. “You know the DAK Character Coordinator, Bobby?” she began. “Well, listen to what I just heard….”
Someday My Prince Will Come
After his daughter was born, Bobby decided to make a few changes. He ordered a new Disney nametag that said Robert because it sounded more grown-up. He gave up his regular boxer shorts for more formfitting boxer briefs because he liked the fit better. And he started working out. Everybody in his life seemed to appreciate the changes: his manager, his wife, and especially his boyfriend.
Before he met the mother of his children, Bobby had been an honor roll student, a letterman, and the leading role in all the high school theater productions. He had been accepted to his top three colleges (including Oxford) based on his SAT scores alone, but his girlfriend had cried for almost a week straight at the prospect of his moving away, and nothing short of a marriage proposal would calm her down.
Being dutiful Christian Fundamentalists, Bobby’s parents advised prayer on the difficult issue of his future, so Bobby got down on his knees and prayed. He needed guidance, a sign from above that would help him decide what to do. But he couldn’t concentrate with the phone ringing and his girlfriend wailing, and weren’t all his friends getting married and having kids anyway?
And so it came to pass that they graduated high school, got married, and within three years, had a beautiful baby girl. With a family to support, Bobby had to work hard to make ends meet. He took as many hours as he could get in concessions, and when he couldn’t get scheduled for more, he took a second job as a character greeter. This exhausting schedule demanded almost seventy hours a week, but he didn’t mind the work. His affable good looks and diligent work ethic made him something of a hero among his fellow Cast Members, and what was more, praise God, he was almost certain he’d discovered his true calling.
Being a character greeter was an ever-evolving tapestry in which the schedule was never the same and obstacles had to be negotiated with on-the-spot finesse. It was a dramatic role that ignited Bobby’s long-forgotten passion for theater. And best of all, the Cast Members in the entertainment department shared his passion—like Scott.
Scott was an Aladdin who performed his role with significance. He trimmed the hair on his arms and plucked his eyebrows into perfect high-arched loop-de-loops around his eyes. He learned the Prince Ali choreography for all the parades, whether he was in them or not. He had dark features and dimples that made him appear simultaneously shy and unconscionably flirtatious whenever he smiled—which he did constantly, whenever Bobby was around.
“Robert, you are too handsome to be a greeter,” Scott said one day. “You should try out for Prince.”
Bobby blushed at the compliment. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I did any acting.”
Now, it was Scott’s turn to blush. Very few people recognized the theatrical skills it took to be a face character. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will teach you everything you need to know.”
And so, when face auditions were announced, Scott drove Bobby to the casting call—and to the callback. And when Bobby made Prince Charming, Scott was the first one to congratulate him with a big hug and a warm kiss on the cheek.
His wife frowned when he told her the good news. “A Prince? Why would anybody want to do that?”
The coordinators began casting Bobby immediately, not just as Charming, but as Prince Phillip and Prince Eric, as well. Soon, the two boys were doing sets together at all four parks.
Bobby taped pictures of Scott to the inside of his locker, next to the photos of his two daughters. He kept a stack of notes and letters addressed in Scott’s handwriting. In no time, the rumors began flying.
“Me? Gay?” Bobby blanched when he heard the gossip. His forced laugh was convincing enough. “What would I tell my wife and kids?”
The rituals of Bobby’s life put him under a tremendous amount of stress. He woke up at dawn and got home after dinner. He rarely saw his wife and never had enough time for his daughters. Soon, migraines and anxiety became a regular event in his life. Witnesses recounted an episode with a lunch tray one day when the salad bar ran out of croutons.
One afternoon, on break between sets, Bobby’s zipper jammed and he found himself stuck inside his Prince costume. Panic rose in his throat until he could hardly breathe.
“Robert, are you okay?” Scott was at his side in an instant.
“Get it off!” was all he could manage. “Get it off!”
Scott easily unhooked the fastener and pulled down the zipper, and, in a moment, Bobby had clawed the costume off his body and thrown it against a wall.
“Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck fuck fuck!” until his voice was hoarse and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
Scott put his hand on Bobby’s bare shoulder. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
Bobby sobbed into his hands. “I’m so tired, so, so fucking tired.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve been on the schedule for, like, nineteen fucking days in a row.”
“I know,” Scott said in a soothing voice. “You amaze me.”
“I need…I need a…I just…I don’t know what.”
“Come here.” Scott put his arms around Bobby’s broad shoulders and stroked his hair. “You are so important to me.”
Bobby buried his face in Scott’s neck, wiping his tears on the Aladdin tunic. If Scott wasn’t holding him, his knees would’ve buckled. And then, he was kissing Scott’s neck and ears and face. And then, his tongue was in his mouth.
Scott pulled back. “Robert?”
Bobby could only nod. He pulled Scott closer and slipped his hands into the Aladdin pantaloons. It was the first time he had ever felt another man’s dick, and it was perfect. He felt Scott’s breath on his mouth, his hand against his stomach. And he thought that if it could just be like this forever, then everything would be fine….
Now, five years later, Bobby is a coordinator. He has a cubicle, a swivel chair, and a personal phone extension of his own. On his desk is a collection of photos, the most important people in his life. There are several of his family: his wife, his two daughters, and his newborn son. And in a special frame, the most expensive one on the desk, he has a black and white of his boyfriend, blowing a kiss from beneath the Aladdin wig.
As a lifestyle, I was surprised by just how gay Disney really was. Almost every guy in the character department was gay, and the ones who weren’t seemed to revel in the ambiguity of their sexuality. The same was true for the women. Three out of five of the girls who worked in the photography department were gay, and the best Princess Jasmine on property, the one who appeared in all the print ads and TV commercials, was life partners with one of the more memorable Blue Fairies. It may have had something to do with the flamboyant nature of the job—the entertainment industry is notoriously fabulous and Disney offers a full range of Mac products and all the glitter dust you can apply. Or if the rumors were to be believed, there may have been a conspiratorial element in
the hiring department.
According to legend, the famous antigay policies of Disney’s early years (the ones that inspired numerous lawsuits in the eighties) attracted the attention of a militant gay rights group, which sought to change the policy from within. They dispatched a single agent, who took a modest position in the company and worked his way up the chain of command until he alone wielded the final say for all job interviews in the entertainment department. It wasn’t long, so the story went, before homosexuality became the single, qualifying criteria for Cast Members, and the payroll began to fill with gay employees. As an alternative to the gay conspiracy theory, there was another popular notion that, at least for women, sexual preference came down to a simple lack of selection.* Possibly the simplest solution was the best: that over the years, Orlando had become a strong, stable community for “alternative” lifestyles.
After a couple of months at Disney, I was beginning to figure the place out. Guests didn’t care if I had my hands in my pocket or pointed with one finger. They wanted to have fun. From the moment they handed the parking attendant their money in the morning until they bought one of my photos at night, they flowed from ride to restaurant to souvenir shop. The best I could do was stay out of their way. A smile, some polite words, and Disney Magic would do the rest.
The character performers played no small part in this magic act. No matter how much alcohol had been consumed the night before, no matter how many pills, the characters were able to pull themselves together onstage. They did this because they were professionals who genuinely loved what they did. Characters didn’t earn a lot of money. An entry-level fur position made just above minimum wage and a face character, even after years of experience, made only a couple dollars more. People who were looking to get rich quick sold Florida real estate; people who loved the sound of children laughing became characters.
As one of the most coveted positions on property, people traveled around the world to become a part of the character program, and they went to extraordinary lengths to get the role they wanted. It wasn’t uncommon to see a performer researching her new role by studying archived Donald Duck movies.* I knew one girl who stuffed her shoes with fresh Maxi Pads every day just to get the extra half inch she needed to be Pluto. It took a degree of pathos and emotional clarity to be a good performer and maybe something a little more Machiavellian to be an outstanding one.
Chris Mitchell Page 12