Chris Mitchell by Cast Member Confidential: A Disneyfied Memoir Read Free Book Online Page B

If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s intolerance.”
    Whatever I thought I was going to see in the apartment—smiling Cast Members with identical haircuts, sipping spiked punch and crooning about how waaaay-sted they were—I wasn’t prepared for the scene that was unfolding on the other side of that door. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of people swirling through the living room. As far as I could see, they were all young, beautiful, and seminude, abandoning themselves to a reggaeton soundtrack. Couples were paired off without regard to race, gender, or even exclusivity. One group was using tubes of cake frosting to paint an underwater mural, featuring Nemo, on the living room wall, licking off mistakes, and reapplying. As I watched, two girls disentangled themselves from each other to take turns making out with a muscular guy wearing what looked like a Ninja Turtle costume. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol, hash smoke, and something I once smelled in a Vietnamese flea market but never cared to identify.
    A cute blond girl rushed the door when she spotted us. “Brady,” she squealed, “you’re totally late. We almost started without you.”
    Brady whispered something to her, and she darted back into the chaos of the apartment. I followed the friend of fur into the living room, careful not to step in a suspicious puddle in the foyer. I tried to assess the madness, but there was no epicenter. Sweaty Cast Members swirled around the room giggling, brushing against me before being sucked away. I tried to make eye contact. I smiled in a way that I hoped looked natural, but I couldn’t make a connection. Cast Members looked at me through bloodshot eyes, and I would see the lack of recognition pass over their faces like a storm cloud before they turned their backs and walked away. In no time, I was an awkward junior high version of myself, eating Cheetos out of a salad bowl on the kitchen counter, wondering where the bathroom was.
    Suddenly the music stopped and somebody cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Brady announced. “Almost all of us know why we’re here tonight.” His announcement was met with cheers and suggestions of to get fucked up and screw our brains out . “All true,” Brady continued. “All true. But tonight we have a higher purpose—a mission of Truth, if you will, because as Galileo said, ‘All truths are easy to understand once discovered; the point is to discover them.’” Here, he paused for effect, but the crowd of onlookers just blinked in expectation.
    “We’ve gathered here to honor one of our dearest friends in the world, a young man who has shown great potential ever since he came to the Tragic Kingdom two years ago. He has been a friend to all, a booty call to many, and until this day, he has rested easy in the belief that we all think he is straight. Tonight however, we dispel all illusions in outing the newest queen in the Kingdom. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, everybody’s favorite stunt monkey, Nick Elliot!”
    At Brady’s announcement, a cheer went up that rocked the walls of the apartment, and from the back of the room emerged the slight form of the Orlando rollerblader I had interviewed four months before.
    Nick walked over to stand next to Brady, who raised a hand to silence the crowd’s chant for a speech. “Um,” Nick blushed. “Thanks. I guess this is an honor.” He looked up at all the smiling faces in the crowd, and there was something like relief in his eyes. Then he saw me, and the color drained out of his face. “Uh, thanks,” he said quickly and bolted in the other direction.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Brady announced. “Nick Elliot! In honor of our new ’mo, I have party favors for the first five people who can finish this sentence: ‘Bright covered packages tied up with string…’” A dozen people rushed him.
    I pushed through the crowd and eventually found Nick in one of the bedrooms. He was sitting in a