Cast Member Confidential:. Chris Mitchell

person. While I’d like to say I was motivated by altruism that day in Frontierland, I was driven by what, in my case, is a more primal instinct: I sensed the opportunity to break the rules and get away with it. So I took it.

      I kicked off my shoes and jumped the railing. The spot where the child had appeared was less than ten feet away, bubbles spritzing the surface where he had gone under. I aimed in that general direction and dove.

      Immediately, I regretted my decision. The water tasted like diesel and expired spinach and smelled like El Porto after a sewage spill. I shot to the surface and tried not to retch. When my eyes focused, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. A crowd of people was standing at the edge of the lagoon, and there were at least three in the water with me. The woman was at the railing, bawling into her hands.

      I was looking for the shortest distance to the shore when I heard a triumphant shout behind me, and the crowd of tourists cheered. A man in the water held up a terrified boy who was, miraculously, still wearing a pair of mouse ears. Several people helped me over the railing onto the grass bank of Frontierland where the frantic woman was already clutching her boy and his savior.

      The lifesaver, I realized then, was none other than Tarzan, who moments earlier had been riding his float, grinning as if he’d just been acquitted. He was six feet tall with broad shoulders and a Neanderthal forehead. Up close, I could see that his head of twisted dreadlocks was actually a wig. He was covered from head to toe in bronze makeup, and shadows had been artfully applied to exaggerate his musculature. He hugged the woman and put his hand on the boy’s head.

      “Keep boy safe,” Tarzan said in broken English. “Children most important thing in world.” He turned around and, for a moment, we stood face to face. “Tarzan very brave. But everybody can be hero.” Then he winked at me and bounded through the crowd. The people parted, cheering as he vaulted back up onto his float, where he was joined by a woman in a yellow pinafore who batted her eyelashes at him and kissed him on the cheek.

      The parade resumed and the crowd around me went back to eating waffle cones and buying souvenirs as if a cartoon character saving a drowning child were just another amusement park spectacle like a barbershop quartet or a sunburned German.

      Afterward, I met Nick in the Disney parking lot and asked him about the experience. He responded to my amazement with an uninspired shrug. Just another day at the office. We drove to the skate park, where we spent the next couple of hours shooting sequences of switch-up grind tricks, then tagged the alleys off Orange Blossom Trail. When we ran out of Krylon, we picked up a couple of Red Bulls from a convenience store and sat down on a curb to do the interview.

      As a general rule, I don’t pass judgment on anyone. In my interviews, I ask challenging, often uncomfortable questions, but I don’t moralize, demonize, or indemnify. People are complicated; that’s why crayons come in boxes of sixty-four. When researching a subject, I start with her or his digital persona. People usually lie in their “About Me” section, but their choice of avatar is, if not immediately revealing, at least an honest foreshadowing of their true character. Nick’s avatar was a slick version of himself—shirtless, with spiked hair and a studded belt. His ringtone was Snoop Dogg’s “Mind On My Money.” His screen name was SaintNicksRevenge. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but considering we both grew up in a skate park, we were family. We spoke the same language.

      “People say Nick Elliot sold out,” I said into the Dictaphone. “Three years ago, he was the X Games Champion. Now, he’s run off and joined the circus. What do you say to them?”

      Nick kept his cool. “I get paid to skate,” he said. “And that’s all I really care about. Fuck them.”

      “But you’re skating for the Corporation,” I goaded. “You’re a wage slave to Disney Inc. How is that satisfying?”

      He finished his Red Bull and crumpled the can. “I know what you’re thinking. You look around Disney World, and you see crowds of sweaty-ass tourists, singing animals, sweatshop-manufactured merchandise, and you think this must be the lamest place in the world. But you’re just seeing the surface, bro. You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on here behind the scenes.”

      “Disney has a dark side?”

      “Dark as dysentery. What do you want? Opium? Koala bears? How about an Uzbeki mail-order bride? I’m telling you, this is the real Neverland Ranch. Michael ain’t got nothing on the Mouse.”

      “You know,” I said. “Radical accusations against Disney have been made before, but nothing has ever been proven. A lot of people consider it conspiracy theory propaganda.”

      Nick checked his watch. “In less than twenty minutes, I can introduce you to a guy who sells acid out of his Pooh costume. He’s at Epcot right now.”

      “So, is that the real reason then? You’ve found a place where you can lead a double life?”

      For the first time, Nick’s cool exterior cracked. “This is going to sound totally fucking lame—in fact, turn off the tape recorder. I don’t want this to go in the interview.” I pretend to do it. “This place has real Magic—I’m serious. There’s almost no crime. Nobody ever dies here. Have you noticed you don’t see those bright green exit signs anywhere? Or telephone lines? It’s not because they forgot; it’s because they make their own rules here. This is what utopia would look like if it were run by eight-year-old architects.”

      “I still don’t see what’s in it for you.”

      “Being a pro skater ain’t easy, dude. My sponsors are constantly on my ass. The kids expect me to rip all the effing time. I eat ibuprofen like Skittles. But here…here, not even the Grim Reaper can touch me. All I ever wanted to do was skate, and now I’ve found something better. I’ve found a place where I can be a kid forever. Besides, the bud that comes through this place is the kindest you’ve ever had.”

      My whole flight home, I thought about what Nick had said and what I had witnessed. Nick Eliot was the guy every kid in Rollerblades wanted to be. He had a pro skate and a video game character, and yet here he was, working for Disney, proselytizing about magic like an apostle. As an action sports journalist, I was well aware of my responsibility to temper all claims of purity with a dose of ironic realism. I skated through Hollywood during the 1992 riots, videotaping skate tricks while looters robbed stores in the background. I did tequila shots before DARE half pipe shows. I protested my own values as a counterpoint to Absolutism.

      And yet, I couldn’t find a cynical twist for my encounter with Tarzan. I had watched a storybook hero save a child from drowning in a place that claimed nobody had died there since it first opened its doors in October 1971—no crime; no natural disasters; no unhappy endings. Was it possible that Disney was the next step in our evolution as a civilization? Nick believed. Either I was involved in one of the most convincing scams of the century or Disney was truly blessed with a legacy of immortality.

      There are times when even the most jaded journalist needs to believe in Magic. For me, this was one of those times.

      Heigh-Ho

      Disney heroes don’t have mothers—Snow White, Pinocchio, Aladdin, Ariel—they all come from broken homes. Mowgli was raised by wolves, Princess Aurora by fairies. Cinderella had a wicked stepmother, Alice had a nanny, and Lilo only had an older sister to watch over her. Bambi’s mother was shot by hunters. Dumbo’s mom was locked up in a cage. The Lost Boys, a gang of parentless runaways, led by the ultimate motherless hero, were always trying to convince Wendy to be their mother. I suppose, Disney is sending the message that you don’t have to have a perfect nuclear family to be a hero, but I preferred to see it the other way around: in order to be a hero, you had to be an orphan…or a bastard.

      From the moment I arrived in Orlando, I was aware that I was entering a manufactured community. The highways were dazzlingly clean, decorated with palm trees and hibiscus flowers, which, even in late January, were bursting with color. Gleaming rental cars jumped lane dividers like frisky salmon churning beneath tall billboards that advertised entertainment at every off-ramp. The sky was as blue as a Costa Rican wave, the air robust with