Chris Mitchell Read Online Free PDF Page B

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