Chris Mitchell Read Online Free Page A

man hacked my artistic locks into a style that my father would approvingly call sensible . With a creepy sense of familiarity, I realized that I was now sporting the same hairstyle as my brother, the stunt monkey, Nick, Donald Rumsfeld, and pretty much every moral majority nut job who ever complained about indecency in my articles.
    Sensing an impending identity crisis, I headed back to the “World Famous” Budget Lodge in Kissimmee where I had secured an inexpensive roof over my head. The carpets reeked of suntan lotion and diaper powder, and I’m pretty sure the mattress was filled with stuffed woodpeckers, but it had hot showers and clean towels. Over a sink of soapy water, I extracted my labret for the last time and shaved my goatee. My reflection in the mirror looked like a twelve-year-old version of myself, before Glen Plake and Anthony Kiedis became fashion icons, before my brother transformed himself into an irreconcilable tool, and at the time when my mom would spend hours in the garden, tending her roses and humming tunes from Mary Poppins in an authentic English accent.
    On my first day of work at Animal Kingdom, I woke up before dawn, showered, shaved, and gelled my freshly shorn hair into place. In time, this would become subconscious ritual, but on this day, it felt exotic, like I was living the life of a real estate broker in suburban Shreveport. The air outside was thick as bacon grease. It clogged my pores and streaked my windows as I raced down I-4.
    Before heading to the park, I had to stop at the costume warehouse to pick up my wardrobe. I was certain Disney would stick me in culottes and a gabardine blouse like some old-timey photographer, but the lady behind the counter surprised me with khaki shorts, a khaki, short-sleeved button-down, and a safari hat. I looked like Banana Republic circa 1986, but I was stoked. I immediately started planning ways to mod my outfit with personal touches—a Buzzcocks patch safety-pinned to the shoulder, a Warhol image stenciled on the shorts, a few well-chosen ska buttons on the crown of the hat.
    The ink was still wet on my time card when Orville cornered me. “I appreciate that you’re making an attempt to personalize your wardrobe, but there are a few details here that just won’t wash. First of all, tuck in your shirt.”
    I made a plea for fashion. “Don’t you think that’s just a little too neo-Con? Nothing says ‘my mommy dresses me’ like a tucked-in shirt.”
    “Don’t you think I’d come to work in sweats and Genie slippers if Disney allowed it? Second of all, shoelaces must be tied—don’t even try to argue that one. And for Pete’s Dragon’s sake, tighten your belt. Nametag goes on the left side of your shirt. You have to take off no less than one of those thumb rings. Lose the chain wallet and put away the sunglasses. Guests need to be able to see your eyes.”
    I made the wardrobe modifications, and presented myself to Orville, who eyed me like he was sizing up a potential avalanche chute. He ran an exasperated hand down his face. “It’s not even nine yet.”
    The photo lab was already humming with activity. Photographers in khaki uniforms streaked in, dumped canisters of film into the development machine, and ransacked a pile of camera parts before rushing back through the doors. Orville wasn’t kidding about the skill level of these amateur shooters; they handled lenses the way toddlers handle kittens, and Orville watched them in periphery, his dry lips drawn tight against his teeth, his fingers skipping across the debossed letters on his nametag every time a lithium battery cracked against the linoleum floor.
    I reached for one of the cameras on the countertop. “Nikon, huh? I’m a Canon man myself, but I suppose I can work with this.”
    Orville held up a pudgy hand. “Not so fast, White Rabbit. You may look the part of a Disney Cast Member, but you have a lot to learn before I can send you out on your own. Put that camera down