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

universal symbol of “Cut!” then wagged back and forth in my face. Without a sound, Sunny straightened up and finished her set. Later, she pulled me aside by the bathrooms.
    “You can’t talk to Mickey like that.”
    “I was afraid you were hurt,” I said. “Nobody heard me.”
    “I’m fine. Thank you,” she added. “But don’t ever talk like that to a character again.”
    I didn’t do much better with the others. As the days passed, I spent hours in the kiosks, punctuated by ten-minute intervals backstage, where I recharged on Powerade and tried to stay out of everyone’s way. In the break rooms, some Cast Members read books. Some listened to music. For the most part, however, break room activities included those things you might do if you were, say, sitting around a campfire or attending a slumber party: telling stories, singing songs, 7 Minutes in Heaven—pretty much anything that killed time.
    Disney performers had their own language, a combination of institutional jargon and backstage shorthand. Some of these were basic acronyms. Disney’s Animal Kingdom was referred to simply as DAK. The Festival of the Lion King show was FOLK. Cast Member was CM. Property-wide, the soundtrack that played over the loudspeakers was called Background Music, or BGM. If a Cast Member was part of the college program, she or he was a CP.
    Characters had nicknames. Cinderella was known as Cindy. Gideon was called Shitty Kitty. When the original animated crew, composed of Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, and Pluto, appeared together, they were referred to as The Fab Five.
    Some expressions, outlined in Employee Manual, were used by Cast Members to conceal those less Magical aspects of a family vacation. Janitors referred to a pile of puke as a “protein spill.” Should a guest encounter serious physical problems that required outside medical attention, security would call for an “alpha unit” rather than that decidedly unmagical vehicle known as an ambulance.
    Then, there was the lexicon of the entertainer, the terms that allowed character performers to speak in codes that even the administration wouldn’t understand. The one-minute visit, composed of a hug and kiss, an autograph, and a photo, was affectionately referred to as a “love and shove.” Children who came to the park because of the efforts of the Make-A-Wish Foundation were simply “Wish kids.”
    If a performer got in trouble, she or he got a reprimand. If the performer got injured, she or he might get an early release, or an ER, to go home or to the doctor. If the injury persisted, the performer might get restrictions, basically a low-impact job that allowed the Cast Member time to heal. Restrictions could be anything from greeter duty to trash detail, depending on the nature of the affliction and the disposition of the coordinator.
    Everybody wore a set of basics beneath their costume, a pair of gray shorts and a white T-shirt, issued every morning in quantities of three by the Zoo. Basics served the dual purpose of absorbing sweat on a sticky day while allowing male and female Cast Members to share a single break room. Each performer got her or his own fur and, at least theoretically, every costume was washed daily.
    A typical break room conversation went like this:
    “I just did two back-to-back Shitty Kitty sets. My back is killing me.”
    “Why don’t you get ER’d and take restrictions?”
    “No way! They’ll stick me in the Zoo, or I’ll get stuck cleaning up protein spills all day.”
    “It’s better than another day in Cindy doing love and shoves for Brazilian Tour Groups. I tell you, that BGM is driving me crazy!”
    Like any language, it felt a little unnatural at first, but within a few days time, I was speaking like a natural-born friend of fur.
    Within the walls of the break room, performers could relax and be themselves. There were sofas and easy chairs, bathrooms, towels, TV, and, of course, plenty of Powerade. At their most