The day after the Disneyana Convention, I was back at DAK. It was an exceptionally muggy day and a disaster, photographically speaking. On the whole, the guests were in a funk. Children, who could only be differentiated by the patterns of ice cream stains on their shirtfronts, screamed when the characters reached out to hug them. And parents, all of whom looked like they would gladly trade their spleens for an hour at a pool with a margarita and a Xanax, protested that they were too sweaty to have their photos taken. As a result, I had only shot three rolls of film by the time I clocked out for the day.
I had no way to reach Calico, but I had a pretty good idea where to find her. I wanted to take her a present, something to let her know that I had been preoccupied with thoughts of her all day at work. Stuffed animals were too predictable, and real animals were sure to put up a struggle. But luckily, Animal Kingdom had one other natural advantage: beautiful tropical flowers.
Calico was at the Magic Kingdom doing love and shoves in Ariel’s Grotto. I finally found her at four in the afternoon, and at least fifty kids were in line ahead of me. I recognized one child, covered head to toe in rainbow sherbet, who had kicked Mickey in the shin with such resolve that the Mouse had to get ER’d. It took thirty minutes to get a private audience with the animated celebrity, but it was worth it to walk into the cavernous Grotto lit with colored lights and see her there, perched on her rock. She was radiant.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed, her hands pressed together in her sequined lap. “What a handsome prince!”
“I had to beat down a Japanese family to get in here before your break,” I said.
“Are those flowers for me?”
“They’re tropical,” I offered.
She examined the rough edges of the stems where I had to hack through them with my car keys. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say these blooms weren’t acquired in the traditional manner.” She took a deep breath of the bouquet. “They’re beautiful.”
I was impressed by the way she stayed in character throughout our exchange.
She handed the flowers off to her greeter. “Would you mind…” As he took the flowers, I felt a general discomfort, as if, up until that point, he had been watching me, but now, he was deliberately not watching me.
Calico smiled at me. “So what can I do for you?”
“You could let me take you to dinner,” I said.
She clapped her hands together next to her cheek. “Oh! I am flattered, but I cannot go out with you because my heart is already promised to another.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Soon, I will marry Prince Eric,” she said dreamily. “And then I will have a husband.”
“Oh, right—of course.” I wiped the sweat off the back of my neck, turned the Magic Kingdom map over and over in my hands.
Her greeter cleared his throat and tapped his watch meaningfully.
“Give me your map,” she said, uncapping a Sharpie. “I’ll give you my autograph.” She scribbled some words on the soggy paper and handed it back to me. “I would never do anything to break Eric’s heart, but you can always come visit me right here at the Magic Kingdom. Bye now.”
It took me a moment to adjust to the bright sky outside the Grotto. Behind me, I could hear Calico’s greeter announcing that Ariel would be taking a short break, but she would be back in just a moment.
Glancing down at the map in my hands, I read Calico’s autograph. “Call me in fifteen minutes!” it said, and below it, a phone number.
Half an hour later, we met at the Cast Member parking lot. She had changed into a pair of jeans and a tank top that spelled out the word Princess in rhinestones across her chest. Released from the red wig, her hair was dishwater blonde and streaked with sweat, pulled back into a ponytail. Without the hair and makeup, she looked older, late twenties maybe. I felt a surge of relief that she was somewhere close to my own age, not another adolescent in the college program.
“So, this is what I really look like.” She shrugged. “Not so glamorous, huh?”
“You look great.”
“Thanks,” she said. “The funniest thing happened right before you walked in. This kid hauled back and kicked me as hard as he could.”
“What? How is that funny?”
“Because it wasn’t me. He could only reach the fin, and—you know. He kicked the rock so hard, he probably broke a toe. He was bawling when he left! Isn’t that funny? I mean, I hope he’s okay and everything, but he like, totally deserved it, right?” Her eyes were deep green, surrounded by long, spiky lashes. It was like looking at a perfect point break through razor wire.
I told her about the same kid’s identical interaction with Mickey, and her jaw dropped. “I knew it!” she said, and her hand brushed my arm. “He totally deserved it!”
She could have told me squirrels grew on trees, and I would have agreed. The rhinestones on her chest flashed distracting Swarovski explosions, but I kept my eyes on her face. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “I know a place that does an amazing Cuban sandwich.”
We had reached her car. She dropped her keys, and I picked them up. When I handed them back to her, my fingertips brushed against her wrist. “I’m sure it’s great,” she said, “but I don’t eat meat.” She opened her hatchback and threw her bag inside. Just before the door closed, I caught sight of a pair of roller skates.
“You skate,” I babbled.
“I need to,” she said. “I have an audition next week to be a roller skating Tinker Bell. I pulled my old skates out of the closet, but I haven’t had time to practice.”
Sensing an opportunity to make a good impression, I smiled. “How about today?” I suggested. “I have a pair of skates in my Jeep.”
She only considered for a moment. “Why not?”
“This is great!” Calico put her arms out to the side and did a little twirl. “I haven’t done this since I was a kid.”
“What were you?” I panted. “A competitive speed skater?”
“I like to go fast,” she said as she pulled ahead of me.
It was golden hour, and the sun was lighting everything with a warm honey glow. Our shadows stretched out behind us, dancing over the pavement. Calico was wearing short shorts that showed off exceptionally toned legs. There was just a hint of tan line above the waistband of her shorts. She looked over her shoulder and caught me staring at her ass. “How long have you been a Little Mermaid?” I said quickly. “You’re really good.”
She spun 180 so that she was skating backward, and did a little curtsy. “Thank you. I do other characters too, but Ariel is my favorite. I just love the way people respond to her.”
“By kicking her?” I teased.
“That boy was an exception. Karma gave him the right punishment. I’m sure of it. Next time, he’ll be more polite to the characters.”
“Next time, he’ll take the wheelchair shortcut to the front of the line.”
“Don’t say that!” She put one hand over her mouth. “Now I feel bad. You don’t think he was seriously hurt, do you?”
“He got beaten by a girl,” I pointed out. “And he cried in front of her. It’ll hurt for the rest of his life.”
She giggled at my lame chauvinism, and it was like landing a perfect trick. As we skated, we talked and, in the guise of a playful crack the whip, I held her hand. She had an adventurous spirit and wasn’t afraid of anything. She liked it when I whipped her ahead of me and then raced to catch up. We watched the sun set over the tailored rooftops of Celebration where streaks of color smeared across the deepening blue sky, like a scoop of rainbow sherbet melting in an abalone dish. Every so often, a car drifted down the wide street and into the mouth of a yawning garage, leaving nothing but silence on the freshly swept streets of Disney’s Tomorrowland community.
“Do it again!” she commanded with princess bravado. “Don’t hold back!”
I whipped her so hard, I threw myself off the skate trail into the grass. By the time I caught up to her, she was sitting on a pa
rk bench next to a fountain, looking up at the darkening sky. The sunset colors had faded, but the fountain lights were dancing against the twilight, flickering a web of prisms against the tree branches. I was dripping sweat from the exertion of the skate. She didn’t appear even to be perspiring.
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Her hands were clasped together like a little girl reciting prayers before bedtime, her head tilted back to stare at the sky.
“That’s Venus,” I teased. “You’re wishing upon a planet.”
Fountain light danced across her face. “Whenever I make a wish, I wish for love. When the clock turns all the same numbers or when I blow a dandelion or find an eyelash on my cheek, I close my eyes and hope that the one I love will find me and love me back. I make my wishes on Venus because only she can bring the sweet fulfillment of my secret longing.”
It sounded like a line from a movie, but I couldn’t remember which one, and, at that moment, with her hair playing around her lips and the moonlight dancing on her eyelashes, it didn’t matter anyway. That night, we kissed in the parking lot, under the stars, and it was electric. I couldn’t wait to see her again.
The next day, I was ordering a sandwich at the DAK cafeteria when Wigger cornered me. “Dude! I heard you nailed an Ariel. Siiiick!”
The speed at which rumors circulated backstage was frightening. “How—”
“Playas gotta play. Looters gotta grab. When you fuckin’ with a mermaid, you gotta watch for crabs! Oh! Snap!” Having a conversation with Wigger was like watching interactive MTV. I did a lot of listening and interjected little expletives during the appropriate pauses. Really? Cool. No way. Most of the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. I just nodded and smiled and punched his fist when he raised it.
“Dude, you gotta see this little hottie I’m working on right now.” His sneakers were unlaced. His headphone cord hung down the sweaty front of his T-shirt, the jack banging back and forth between his knees. “She’s a gazelle or some shit in the Lion King show. Bro, she is fine!” He raised his fist, my cue to knock knuckles with him, but then noticed that I was carrying a tray with both hands.
“Do you want onions on that?” the fry cook mumbled into the sneeze guard.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Timing, what!” Wigger bobbed his head at the cook. “I’ll take one of them too.”
A woman in line behind me reached around to tap Wigger on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” She was dressed in manager wardrobe, nice slacks, a walkie-talkie on her hip. “There’s a line,” she said with amiable authority.
Wigger smiled in a way that was probably intended to be winning. “It’s cool.” He turned back to the fry cook who, despite my request, was lacing my chicken breast with crisp concentric circles of raw onion. “And a side of fries, my man.”
The manager sidestepped me to put herself back in Wigger’s frame of reference. “Actually, it’s not cool.” Her voice was still cordial, but a taut line of tension threatened to tear her patience like a strip of Velcro. “I only have twenty minutes for lunch and I’m next.”
Wigger looked her up and down, and up. “Are you feeling lucky?” he leered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I bet you I can guess your age within one year, plus or minus.”
Behind trenches of condiments, the fry cook chuckled. “Man, I can’t wait to see this.”
The manager stared at Wigger as if he had just proposed a tea party on the ceiling.
The heat was unbearable, and I was standing right in the middle. “Hey Gecko.” That’s what he was calling himself that week. “I’m not that hungry. I’ll split this one with you.” I grabbed my chicken sandwich—onions and all—out of the cook’s hand and retreated to the soda fountain.
Wigger was right behind me. “I totally could have had that one. I know for a fact she’s thirty-one. And a cougar. She wants the tiger bone, yo!”
I pressed a cup to the Coke spigot. “Are you trying to get reprimanded?”
“Bring it on!” he grinned. “This time next month, I’m gone anyway.” He picked up my soda cup and took a gulp.
I snatched the cup out of his hand and put it back on my tray. “Where are you going?”
“Time’s up.” He blew a kiss at the manager. To my immense surprise, she blushed and turned away. “I’m a CP, remember? My tour of duty is done,” he rapped. “And though it’s been fun, when I’m flyin’ first class, they’ll all miss this tiger ass.” Noticing that my hands were free, he made a fist. When I raised my fist near his, he punched it with such force that it knocked my whole arm behind me. “Peace, paparazzo!” He shuffled past me out of the cafeteria, standard issue sweat socks bunched down around the top of his unlaced black Reeboks.
The lady behind the soda counter clucked her tongue. “That looked like it hurt,” she said. “Why’d he punch you?”
I met her look as casually as possible. “It’s hip-hop,” I told her like I’d been having to explain it all my life. “It doesn’t hurt when you do it right.”
Whether it was deliberate distraction or accidental osmosis, I found myself learning more than I ever cared to know about the characters that made up the animated films of Walt Disney. I learned Sleeping Beauty’s real name (Aurora) and which prince went with which princess. Splinters of trivia stuck in my memory and refused dislodge. “Where’s the bathroom?” a guest asked me one day. “Just up ahead on your right,” I said, pointing naturally with two fingers. “Just past the Tree of Life, where you’ll be interested to know there are 325 animals carved into the trunk and branches.” Cautiously, I watched Disney’s Eyes and Ears for reports of a guest passing at one of the parks, but that news never came. Disney World remained immune.
Maybe it was nostalgia, but one night I found myself reading over the Nick Elliot interview. “This is what utopia would look like if it were run by eight-year old architects,” he had said, and at the time, I had struggled to keep a straight face. But after six months in Orlando, I understood exactly what he was talking about. Disney wasn’t just a kid’s Mecca or a family destination. It was a society that embraced every culture imaginable—no matter what the lifestyle. You could be a gay, Southern superfan of boy bands and you would still find happiness in Orlando. My roommate was a perfect example.
Johnny was a quiet guy and a cheerful listener who always had an extra beer on hand. He was relentlessly social, devoted to his friends, and ritualistic in his daily regime. Every morning, he would get up at 8 A.M., shower, shave, drink a protein shake, and go to work. Every afternoon, he would walk in the door at exactly 5:30, change into a T-shirt and his favorite Jeff Gordon baseball cap, and patiently prepare two fingers of Scotch in a glass over ice before settling into the task of checking voice mail and returning calls.
In principle, he did PR for Disney—his specialty was lifestyle brands: cruise ships, timeshares, honeymoon packages—but friendship was Johnny’s real career. He was an empathetic listener and had a horoscopic knack for giving broad-stroked advice. A few selections from his all-purpose didactical stockroom: “You’re a better man than me.” “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.” “Who knew?” As far as I could tell, he held no opinions of his own, so he was never in danger of violating his own principles. If anybody ever noticed his inconsistencies, they didn’t mention anything. He was reliable and sympathetic and people loved him for it. For all the things that Johnny was—compulsive, noncommittal, celebrity obsessed—he wasn’t an asshole. He was something that I was grateful to have in my life again: a good friend.
Despite the promising pickup potential of Orlando area gyms, Johnny didn’t believe in a deleterious workout regimen. For exercise, he ruthlessly cleansed every inch of his apartment. This included each of his beloved, framed boy band photos and, much to my surprise, my bathroom. Every weekend, no matter what the weather forecast, he would wash and wax his glossy black 1977 Bandit-edit
ion Pontiac Firebird, meticulously armor all the tires and dash, and top off any low fluids in his engine.
He didn’t have what anyone would term an athletic body, but he kept himself in good enough shape to claim “healthy physique” in his online personal ads and not be lying. The ads ran like this:
30 something GWM, 5’ 9”, 180 lbs., handsome, good build, clean, wants to spoil a special young man. If you’re cute, I’m rich. Let’s talk!
Every Saturday morning, a new face would emerge from his room, a face that smelled of Oxy Wash and orthodontia. Twenty-four was the oldest. The youngest was barely legal. “Every man has the potential,” he told me one morning after the front door closed behind the bandleader for the Dr. Phillips High Panthers. “But it takes an uncommonly honest man to embrace his true nature as a chicken hawk.”
One night, I walked into the living room to find Johnny on the sofa, watching TV with a guy I didn’t recognize, who looked close to my own age.
“Ah’m glad you’re here.” Johnny waved me into a chair. “Sit down. You have got to see this.”
I dropped into the black leather armchair and directed my attention to the TV where a group of boys were doing a singing and dancing audition. They all had soothingly clean-cut good looks and nonthreatening ethnic characteristics. Suddenly, the face of Johnny’s hero, Lou Pearlman, filled the frame, and they cut to a commercial.
“He’s a genius,” Johnny said. “Just when you think he’s gone as far as he can go, he totally reinvents himself.”
“It’s like he cryonically freezes himself every few years, then comes back as another genius altogether,” Johnny’s friend said.
Chris Mitchell Page 15