Chris Mitchell by Cast Member Confidential: A Disneyfied Memoir Page A

that’s just the beginning.” He continued with a description so vivid I had to put the phone down and take a deep breath. The next time I heard him talking, he sounded angry. “Are you listening to me?” he said.
    “A ten percent chance she’ll end up with cardiomyopathy,” I parroted.
    “Let me tell you something,” he continued. “I told you the real diagnosis because I thought you were mature enough to handle it. I thought Mom and Dad were underestimating you.” His beeper went off and he stopped talking. When he spoke again, he sounded exhausted, like he’d just paddled through an undertow. “I have to go. Call me when you’re ready to grow up.”
    My early memories of Disney were no different from those of any kid on the playground. I cried when Bambi’s mom died and clapped my hands to bring Tinker Bell back to life. For Halloween, I dressed in character costumes. My favorite was Peter Pan—his wanton disregard for authority, his steadfast refusal to grow up. Peter had principles I could really get behind. If I could have found a way to get to Never Land, I never would have come home. I would have left family, friends, and everything that was familiar and wonderfully mundane for the opportunity to eat at a table with a real gang of Lost Boys.
    Michael was in junior high at the time, but he was something of a prodigy at being an asshole. “Grow up,” he’d say. “There are no such things as pirates or Peter Pan or Fantasyland. When are you going to learn that Disney is not life? Life—” Here, he would indicate the gridlocked traffic or a dog shitting on the sidewalk or some other meaningful symbol. “Life is happening all around you all the time. Deal with it!”
    My mother was quick to shush him. “Tch, Michael. Let him have Fantasyland.”
    As the youngest child, it was my privilege and my curse to be allowed to live in a world of wonder. Now, however, it seemed my brother had a point. My first week at Animal Kingdom was anything but magical. I woke up before sunrise every morning and clocked in at the lab where I developed and filed pictures until noon. The photographers, who worked on commission, would breeze into the lab, dump their spent rolls in my inbox, and bolt back into the park without a word. At lunch, I sat alone at long tables packed with merch vendors and stilt walkers, in clusters of wardrobe-themed familiarity, like galaxies of planets made from related elements. Other than Orville’s endless lectures on Disney etiquette, it was a socially successful day when I exchanged ten words with anyone before the sun went down.
    Orville didn’t trust me to interact with park guests, so he lined up chores that kept me backstage, away from the critical eyes of guests and park management. I relished my time outside the confines of the little lab, when I could enjoy the warm Florida sun on my face and the scent of orange blossoms and honesuckle on the gentle breeze. Every break I got, I would wander around the park, trying to make sense of a world filled with life-sized stuffed animals and roller coasters scored with a soundtrack.
    Animal Kingdom was Tarzan’s park, and Simba’s. Any Disney character that existed in a jungle-themed story found a home there alongside the real creatures of the wilds. It had a soundtrack of jungle rhythms and prerecorded animal sounds scientifically developed to make tourists feel as though they were on a fantastic safari of tame, brightly colored creatures. Timon and Rafiki welcomed park guests in front of the anteater habitat. Baloo and King Louie signed autographs near the kangaroos’ domain. And every day, Mickey and Minnie dressed in safari outfits and posed for photos in kiosks along the greeting trails with families who reeked of frustration and chili fries.
    I spent hours exploring the backstage of Animal Kingdom where the exotic animals had their nighttime dormitories, and vets and trainers scuttled between habitats in electric Pullman carts. I