Chris Mitchell (17 page)

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-edition 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:

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.

“What is this show?” I asked.

“This—” Johnny’s proud face was flushed from Scotch and excitement. “This is a reality show about a boy band! Can you believe it?
The Making of the Band
, cast and filmed right here in Orlando!”

“He’s inspirational,” breathed Johnny’s friend.

“Lou Pearlman is making another boy band?”

“They’re going to be called O-Town,” Johnny said.

“He’s inspirational,” breathed Johnny’s friend again.

Seeing that Johnny wasn’t going to do it, I introduced myself to his friend. “I’m Johnny’s roommate,” I said.

“Name’s Jericho,” he said. “Jazz Jericho.”

Jazz Jericho had the crazed charisma of a suicide cult leader. He was wearing leather pants and a long-sleeved silk shirt unbuttoned to the shelf of his smooth chest. Thick hair flowed like dark whiskey from his head, cascading down the sides of his face to splash against his shoulders. His eyes were barely concealed behind the vivid blue lenses of a pair of trendy glasses.

“Jazz is a singer himself,” Johnny offered.

“I’m not a professional or anything,” Jazz said with solemn sincerity. “But I have a dream, and I intend to see it through because if there’s one thing I know it’s this: if I don’t, then somebody else will, and it’s a guarantee they’ll screw it up.”

Something in his eyes triggered a memory. “This might sound a little weird,” I said, “but did you ever do the Magic Kingdom parade?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t a regular, but I sometimes used to swing it.”

“Last year, I came to visit the park, and this little boy fell into the water. I jumped in with a bunch of other people, but Tarzan was the one who pulled him out.”

Johnny gasped. “Ah heard about that! Jazz? Was that you?”

Jazz lowered his eyes, smiling with rehearsed modesty. “The smile on a child’s face is the most rewarding part of the job.”

“Ah can’t believe that was you!”

“I got two reprimands for that stunt, but it was worth it.”

When he wasn’t occupied with the TV, Jazz was obsessively choreographing his hair, alternately dipping his head forward to drop his bangs into his face, then tossing it back grandly like a lion shaking water from his mane. Conceal. Reveal. Drop. Flick. I got the impression that he had cast himself as the leading man in an imaginary play, which he alone was writing, directing, and producing.

Jazz turned to me. Flick. Reveal. “What about you? Johnny says you’re in the entertainment department.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m just a photographer.”

“Just a photographer?” Drop. Conceal. “Did you hear that, Johnny? He’s
just
a photographer.” Flick. Reveal. “No Cast Member is
just
anything. You have a responsibility to be the best Cast Member you can be. The children are depending on you.”

Johnny put his hand on Jericho’s shoulder. “Jazz works for Universal now. I met him singing Christmas carols at CityWalk.” His eyes were heavy lidded, his speech slow and purposeful. “He was singing baritone. He’s amazing.”

“It’s nothing really.” Drop. Conceal. “Oh look! It’s back on!”

My conversation with Jazz had lasted one commercial break, but already I couldn’t stand him. It wasn’t any one thing that he did; it was more like that wary feeling you get when a boozy panhandler is schmoozing you for the dollar bus fare that’ll supposedly take him home to his sick wife. He was too slick, too dishonest with his affectations.

I hoped that he’d follow the predictable course into and out of Johnny’s life, lounging around the leather furniture for a couple of nights, sipping Scotch before one day vanishing for good. But Jazz didn’t go away. He returned to the house week after week, and the more I saw him, the less I trusted him.

And so, while I was never able to prove conclusively that he played a pivotal role in the collapse of my Disney world, I always had my suspicions.

O
ver the next couple of weeks, Calico and I went out on more dates. I spent time at the Magic Kingdom, where I visited her between sets, and she surprised me at DAK with cappuccinos and little flowers that she picked out of the landscape. We held hands through Adventureland, skipped across pontoon bridges, and kissed for the cameras in the dark corners of the Haunted House and the Pirates of the Caribbean.

She showed off pencil sketches of mermaids done by little girls who held notebook paper against TV screens and traced paused VCR images. Ariel fans were generous. They gave bountiful gifts: bead necklaces with silver-dipped sand dollars, hand-painted plastic combs, Dixie cups filled with shells and smooth beach stones.

She found beauty in everything. She sang out loud to the BGM no matter who was listening. When she laughed, her eyes sparkled and every child in hearing range stopped crying to see where the laughter was coming from. There was Magic inside her. I could feel it.

One day, Calico and I both clocked out early and met at Epcot. It was a typical Florida summer day that required shade, mist machines, and, as often as possible, hydration. Because of the wide variety of alcoholic beverages available at the park, Epcot was one of the most popular places for Cast Members to drink. It even inspired a game called Drinking Around the World, where it was required to consume one regional beverage at each pavilion—sake in Japan, beer in England, red wine in France. The goal was to make it all the way around without passing out.

“Are you sure you’re up for this challenge?” Calico flicked a blond hair out of her face and eyed me over the salty rim of her plastic margarita glass. “The last time I played, I went all the way around and back to Africa.”

“How many days did that take?”

“That’s not the point.” She had an adorable pout, all lower lip and flushed cheek. “The important lesson for you to get out of this is, I’m a force to be reckoned with. If you think I’m going to get all drunk and let you take advantage of me, you’re mistaken.”

“Drinking Around the World was your idea!”

Calico smiled, the light of the late afternoon sun warming her face like a blush. “A girl has to maintain her dignity.” She was wearing a denim miniskirt and a tank top with a tiny embroidered Flounder over her heart. Her eyes sparkled like pirate treasure.

It was a beautiful afternoon. We were sitting at one of the sunny patio tables in the Mexico pavilion at Epcot, sipping tropical margaritas through clear plastic straws. In the souvenir kiosks around us, guests sifted through Mexican wares, posing in sombreros and hitting each other over the head with maracas. Everybody was in a good mood, dancing through the park, serenaded by the summer breeze. Occasionally, the wind shifted over the lagoon, bringing us an exotic musical selection from Morocco or the UK pavilion. Licking salt crystals off our lips, we finished our margaritas and moved on to Norway.

The Norway pavilion looked like a little Scandinavian village. Bat recordings swelled from inside the wooden eaves of a rural church, piercing the Nordic folk music with tiny shrieks. We ordered two Ringnes beers and sat on a bench at the foot of a waterfall to inhale the warm, sugary smells of fresh Danish from the bakery. Behind us, a store window displayed Helly Hansen jackets and Swedish chocolate. A guest moved past us, carrying a plate of piping hot meatballs. Calico wrinkled her nose.

“Meatballs not your thing?” I said. “I think it’s the shape. It puts people off.”

“I don’t eat meat.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I just think everything with a heartbeat deserves a chance to enjoy life, you know? I guess you could say I’m vegetarian. I’m trying really hard to be vegan, but I love butter—isn’t that silly?” She put her hand over her heart. “I am addicted to butter. There. I said it. Go ahead and judge me.”

A group of guests walked past, talking in another language. One man said something, and the rest of the group erupted in laughter. Calico laughed with them.

“You understood that?”

“My French is a little rusty, but I got the gist,” she said. “It was a dirty joke. Very unladylike. I couldn’t possibly repeat it. Unless we were in France. Then, I’d have to tell you.”

I picked a bug out of my beer. “And I’d have to pretend not to be offended.”

Calico’s face lit up with nostalgia. “A couple years ago, I did a year at Disney Paris. It was amazing! Have you been? Well, take my word for it. The countryside is breathtaking and the people are so friendly. Everyone warned me about the French before I went, but I never had a single problem. In fact, I kept meeting French families who would invite me to their homes for wine and cheese and music. It was incredible! I must have gained twenty pounds eating all the desserts! I love France!”

“The
real
France? Or some Disney version?”

She threw a wadded napkin at me. “You think I’m a princess? A delicate orchid? No way. I want to see the world. I want to climb mountains and cross deserts. I want to go to Morocco.”

I tilted back the last of my beer. “Lucky for you, it’s just on the other side of this lagoon. If you don’t pass out in the Japan pavilion, I’ll show it to you.”

“Come on,” she said, tossing her empty cup in the trash. “I’ve seen enough of Norway.”

By the time we got to the China pavilion, we were both feeling the effects of the first two countries. We held hands to cross the bridges, but still bumped into guests feeding caramel corn to hungry koi. We ordered two glasses of plum wine from the cafeteria and sat on a teak wood bench in the back row of the theater. Up onstage, a family of preadolescent girls was performing a gymnastic routine, bending themselves in half and balancing glasses of water on their noses.

“So,” Calico whispered, “other than photography, what are you into?”

“For fun?” It had been a long time since anyone had asked me about me. “I like s’mores at the Disney Wilderness Lodge. And Tomorrowland—did you know that every plant in the garden is edible? And anteaters. I never realized it before I worked at DAK, but I really like anteaters.”

She hit me, a little too hard, considering. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I want to pet one.” We watched the youngest girl tie herself in a knot at the top of a pyramid of her sisters.

Between the alcohol and the shared spirit of adventure, the afternoon had become dreamy. Calico and I danced to the BGM and laughed at clouds shaped like Family Guy characters and Bratz dolls. We talked about movies and music and about which theme restaurant had the best onion rings. We knew all the same people, and I was happy to hear she didn’t like Marco either. “It’s like he resents Disney for not being Hollywood,” she said. “If he’d just relax and stop trying so hard, he’d be a lot less annoying.”

We shared a beer in Germany and sat down on one of the benches overlooking the lagoon. A janitor wheeled his cart over to the railing and began to sweep. We lifted our feet when he pushed his broom underneath our bench.

“One time,” Calico took a long sip of beer, “I stole a visor from a kiosk at the Studios.”

“What!”

“I had to have it. It was Ariel and it matched my outfit perfectly.”

“My whole image of you is blown.” My melodramatic sincerity drew her in. She put her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled like vanilla and rhubarb.

“Come on,” she pouted. “You’ve never stolen anything? Not even ‘on accident’?”

“Sometimes I steal dogs from trailer parks, but that’s more philanthropic than criminal.” I considered the outfit I was wearing—skate T-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, almost none of which I’d paid for—and felt ashamed. “Actually, I used to get away with a lot of shenanigans. Before I moved to Florida, I wanted to be an art thief.”

“I want to be a wedding planner.” She handed me the beer and stood up, so she could dance out her words. “I’d make fantasy weddings, and never do the same one twice. Island paradise. Mountaintop hideaway. Underwater dream sequence. People would fly me around the world to design their special ceremony. And the cake would be vegan, and nobody would ever know!”

“Except the butter.”

“Oh, yeah.” She stopped dancing and sank down onto the bench next to me. “I forgot about that.”

Why did I have to be like that? I bit down on my cheeks.

Calico’s face lit up. “I’ll invent vegan butter.”

I was pretty sure it already existed, but this time I didn’t say anything.

A little boy scampered past us, clenching something tight in his fist. He deftly climbed the lagoon guardrail and swung his feet over the top, then opened his hand. For a moment, the sun glinted off his prize, a shiny penny, hammered flat, indented with the Epcot seal. He cupped it between both hands and closed his eyes. I swear I could hear the pixie dust. A stern woman darted across the pavilion, shouting in Cantonese. The little boy braved one quick look over his shoulder, then tossed the coin into the dark lake. It flipped through the air, but didn’t even hit the water before his mother snatched him away from the guardrail and scolded him all the way past the bakery.

“She was not happy,” Calico whispered.

“How many languages do you speak?”

She rolled her eyes. “
That
was basic intuition.”

We strolled past the miniature German village into Italy where Andrea Bocelli was pouring out of the speakers. We ordered two glasses of Italian wine and sat by the lagoon. Just beyond a bank of night-blooming jasmine, guests were staking claim to sections of railing. By this time, the sun had disappeared completely beneath the horizon and the streetlights were beginning to wink on. Around the perimeter of the lagoon, the torchieres flared with hot orange flames that reflected off the water like tangerine spills. I pulled Calico close. Her cheeks were warm and flushed. There was a crackle of excitement in the air.

“The fireworks are starting soon,” I said. “Let’s find a good spot to watch.”

She put her hand on my leg. “If you promise to keep a secret, I’ll show you the best view in the park.”

What could she show me that I hadn’t already seen? I began to plan the look of surprise I’d adopt when she showed me the view. “I promise.”

She led me back to the main walkway. Everybody seemed more relaxed after the sunset. Happier. Flames rose high off the torchieres, warming our faces as we dodged through the crowds. We crossed the border into the America pavilion, but rather than move past the America Gardens Theatre, Calico turned and led me over a low hedge to a spiral staircase. She stepped over a barricade at the bottom of the steps and began to climb, still holding my hand.

“Calico?”

“Ssh!” She kept climbing. “Trust me.”

The staircase rested in semidarkness, but there were hundreds of people just on the other side of the low hedge, jostling one another to be the next in line at the honey-roasted nut stand. I stepped over the barricade and followed her up the spiral. The wine and the winding made my head spin with vertigo, but I focused on Calico’s long, elegant fingers pulling me forward and kept walking. Twenty feet off the ground, the stairs let out onto a deck that measured about ten feet square. We were in what appeared to be the sound booth, totally hidden from the view of anybody else in the park. Calico was resting her elbows on the railing, smiling triumphantly. Under the light of the streetlamps, her eyes sparkled with mischief. I moved to the railing next to her and looked out over the AmGard Theatre lit with white twinkly lights.

“Wow.”

She nodded and looked away, following my gaze around the world.

I could see every pavilion from that height: the pagodas of Japan, the Eiffel Tower in France, and the enormous painted totem pole of Canada. The whole park was laid out before me like a map of the world, and in the very center was the dark expanse of the lagoon, as lightless and foreboding as the great ocean itself. We were above the treetops, above the torches. Nothing stood between the open sky and us. Calico raised an eyebrow, watching my reactions.

“How did you find this place?”

She studied my expression. “I thought you’d like it.”

All at once, in each pavilion throughout the park, the lights dimmed and the speakers crackled. Around the circle, guests jockeyed for position as the announcer predicted an event that would “warm our hearts and dazzle our souls.” He made a sound as though exhaling, and as if in a sudden gust of wind, the torch fires and all the rest of the lights in the showcase suddenly extinguished.

I had seen the Illuminations show dozens of times. The show was meant to symbolize the creation of the universe from Big Bang to present day. Fireworks, lasers, projected videos, and fountain ballet were combined to create what was probably the most dramatic pyro show ever produced. Even so, I’d never felt anything as powerful as the first explosions above our platform. Music surrounded us. Fires lit up the night, painting us orange, then purple, then Maleficent green.

Moving to stand behind Calico, I pressed my chest into her back and breathed her rhubarb-springtime smell. She leaned into me, smiling, and I moved my hands to envelop hers, clasping her fingers along the glossy white railing. Somewhere between the drinks and the danger and the rush and the romance of our isolated hideaway, I found myself transported beyond culpability. We had built a tree fort and nobody else knew the password. The symphony rose around us from speakers in the platform. It vibrated through the soles of my feet, into my chest. In the center of the lagoon, flames burst into the sky. Her fingers moved gently against mine, brushing against my skin like a whisper. I pressed my lips against the back of her neck, my breath in the shallow pool of her collarbone, hot and spiked with excitement.

The music rose and skyrockets launched high overhead. Bits of charred paper fell onto the surface of the lagoon where a pair of ducks scooted around the debris, hoping for something edible in the sudden gift. The night smelled like gunpowder and flowers.

Calico tilted her head, giving her throat to my kisses. Her elbows pressed against the insides of my arms, the backs of her thighs against my knees. Her skin was smooth beneath my fingertips, her breath loud and exciting when she pressed her mouth to my ear.