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

stormed out.
    “Cunt,” Brady said under his breath.
    “That was totally my bad,” I said. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll get out of it.” He struggled against the tight neck of his costume. “You always carry that chip on your shoulder?”
    “I have issues with power trippers.”
    With great effort, Brady pushed himself out of the armchair. “Well, get used to it. It’s, like, the official psychosis at Disney. Here.” He offered his back. “Can you rip this open for me?” I undid the Velcro at the back of the Pooh suit, then sat down on the sofa while Brady stripped down to his basics. “Since you’re in such a dogmatic mood, how would you feel about helping me with a little project tomorrow night?” he asked.
    “I owe you one. What do I have to do?”
    “It’s nothing dangerous. It just requires a certain—finesse. I need someone who’s willing to color outside the lines a little.”
    “Is it illegal?”
    “Possibly, but it’s not unethical. Is that a problem?”
    For the first time in weeks, I felt a natural, nonregulation smile tug the corners of my mouth. “That’s my favorite combination.”
    “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Wear something dark and bring a pair of construction gloves.”
    The next day was one of those rare, perfect days like you only get after a spring snowstorm in Banff or a sunrise session in Malibu. The air tasted as clean as a blown glass ornament, ripe with ripples of fragrant blossoms that you could almost see on the soft breeze. A little crop of clouds hung in the blue sky, inert like a perfect, painted backdrop. The parks were packed with crowds, every ride decorated with a line that coiled around itself like a conch shell, but still the guests smiled with neighborly joy.
    It was my day off. My body was on a sunrise schedule, so when I woke at dawn, I jumped into my Jeep and drove to New Smyrna Beach. There were shark warnings posted on wooden signs in the sand. I rented a board from a Rastafarian in a hut and paddled out to where a handful of surfers were bobbing on shortboards. It felt good to do something familiar, to connect with nature again, and to contemplate the direction my life was headed. Since moving to Florida, I hadn’t spent a single hour at a skate park. I hadn’t even thought about doing a guerrilla art project. No stencils. No spray paint. For some reason, I was no longer considering the world in an expressive or artistic framework. Was this Disneyfication?
    As I often did in the water, I thought about Michael. My brother and I had never been close. He was born eight years before me, so I got the “benefit” of his counsel more than his fraternal love. Some of his sage bits of wisdom: grow up; get a life; you’re too young to understand. Still, it didn’t stop me from worshipping him.
    When I was twelve, Michael gave me my first surfboard. It was an eight-foot Robbie Dick gun with triple thruster fins, signed by the man himself. I woke up one morning, and there it was at the foot of my bed, wrapped in toilet paper, with a note: “Happy birthday little brother. Michael.” It didn’t matter that it was a hand-me-down or that it wasn’t my birthday. I loved it. While Michael warmed up the Volvo, I attached a leash and put a Peter Pan sticker on the deck where I’d be able to see it as I paddled out.
    I usually stayed inside where the waves were smaller, but I figured, now that I had a gun, I deserved to ride with the older guys. The waves were big that day—in later stories they would grow to be double overhead—but on this special unbirthday, Michael was urging me to catch the sets on the outside, and I was determined not to let him down.
    It took me about fifteen minutes to paddle out, but I wouldn’t have stopped if it took me all morning. When I finally set up on my board, at my brother’s side, I felt like I’d achieved Nirvana. On the outside, the water sparkled like a bottomless