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.Within a week, I’d lost count of the number of times I heard a child turn to his parents and say, “Eew, Pluto has doggie breath!”Every day, I spent ninety minutes with the mice, followed by an hour and a half with Tigger and Pooh, then Pluto and Goofy, and back to the mice.By three o’clock in the afternoon, I had the routine down.My pockets bulged with extra rolls of film.I smiled at everybody, determined to take the best family portraits they had ever seen.I was becoming, if not the best Cast Member Disney had ever employed, at least not the most egregious.The afternoon mouse greeter, on the other hand, sucked.He was an elderly gentleman with an uncultivated thicket of nose hair, who had a habit of forgetting where he was.Every so often, he’d wander to the back of the kiosk to hum little tunes and admire the hibiscus flowers, leaving the characters alone to entertain the guests and keep the line moving.By Rule Book standards, that behavior warranted at least two reprimands, but he’d been around so long, he had earned himself a teamster’s right to be clueless.Still, he should’ve sensed something was up long before the South American mob arrived.I was one roll away from wrapping up in the kiosk.The shadows were starting to lengthen again, and the moisture in the air around the hibiscus bushes had settled into a gentle simmer.Two Japanese women were jumping up and down, unabashedly giggling with Mickey and Minnie when I first heard the chant.It didn’t sound like much, a rhythmic rumble like a marching band was coming our way.I posed the Japanese pair between the mice, took two photos (one for certain, one for safety) and handed out the claim ticket so they could find their photos later in the day.The old greeter was studiously picking his nose in the back of the kiosk, so I did his job, ushering the women to the exit gate, still giggling and gushing and waving to Minnie.That’s when I saw them.There must have been twenty people in the group, a small, efficient army in green and yellow T-shirts, rolling up the exit ramp like a tidal wave.They were singing as they came, dancing to the lyrics of a homemade Portuguese war song, and taking no notice of anything in their way.There was no mistaking it; they were hooligans.The Japanese women dove over the railing into the hibiscus bushes just seconds before the mob crashed through the exit gate.Minnie, who recognized the signals right away, was already halfway up the Cast Members Only pathway, running as fast as her little legs would carry her.But Mickey was distracted, dancing a little jig for a family of Indonesians.The poor mouse never even saw it coming.Pinned to the back of the kiosk by the advancing horde, I shot an entire roll of film as the mob swallowed the smiling mouse.Six or seven of them grabbed Mickey by all four limbs and hoisted him over their heads.As they passed him into the middle of the circle, they spun him around until his head was sideways, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.One of his shoes bounced on the ground at my feet, before being quickly snatched up by a young boy with the face of a cherub.“Obrigado,” he said and smiled.And then he was gone, consumed by the group, already retreating down the exit ramp, their hostage held high above their heads.I watched until they disappeared around the corner and their song faded away, leaving only BGM and crying children.“That was incredible,” I said to the greeter who appeared, finally, to have noticed something amiss.“What just happened?”“Damn Brazilians,” he muttered.“They think they can get away with anything.”I teetered on the knife-edge of adrenaline.“They took Mickey!” More than anything I wanted to follow them, just leave the camera and my nametag, and join the Brazilians for whatever adventure they planned next.“Don’t blame yourself.” The old greeter mistook my excitement for self-reproach.“These tour groups are all made up of assholes.All of them! And they’re only half as bad as the Family Reunions.” He stabbed my chest with a bony finger and lowered his voice.“Know what I say? Screw ’em.”“Brazilians?”“Guests.Screw ’em all [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Within a week, I’d lost count of the number of times I heard a child turn to his parents and say, “Eew, Pluto has doggie breath!”Every day, I spent ninety minutes with the mice, followed by an hour and a half with Tigger and Pooh, then Pluto and Goofy, and back to the mice.By three o’clock in the afternoon, I had the routine down.My pockets bulged with extra rolls of film.I smiled at everybody, determined to take the best family portraits they had ever seen.I was becoming, if not the best Cast Member Disney had ever employed, at least not the most egregious.The afternoon mouse greeter, on the other hand, sucked.He was an elderly gentleman with an uncultivated thicket of nose hair, who had a habit of forgetting where he was.Every so often, he’d wander to the back of the kiosk to hum little tunes and admire the hibiscus flowers, leaving the characters alone to entertain the guests and keep the line moving.By Rule Book standards, that behavior warranted at least two reprimands, but he’d been around so long, he had earned himself a teamster’s right to be clueless.Still, he should’ve sensed something was up long before the South American mob arrived.I was one roll away from wrapping up in the kiosk.The shadows were starting to lengthen again, and the moisture in the air around the hibiscus bushes had settled into a gentle simmer.Two Japanese women were jumping up and down, unabashedly giggling with Mickey and Minnie when I first heard the chant.It didn’t sound like much, a rhythmic rumble like a marching band was coming our way.I posed the Japanese pair between the mice, took two photos (one for certain, one for safety) and handed out the claim ticket so they could find their photos later in the day.The old greeter was studiously picking his nose in the back of the kiosk, so I did his job, ushering the women to the exit gate, still giggling and gushing and waving to Minnie.That’s when I saw them.There must have been twenty people in the group, a small, efficient army in green and yellow T-shirts, rolling up the exit ramp like a tidal wave.They were singing as they came, dancing to the lyrics of a homemade Portuguese war song, and taking no notice of anything in their way.There was no mistaking it; they were hooligans.The Japanese women dove over the railing into the hibiscus bushes just seconds before the mob crashed through the exit gate.Minnie, who recognized the signals right away, was already halfway up the Cast Members Only pathway, running as fast as her little legs would carry her.But Mickey was distracted, dancing a little jig for a family of Indonesians.The poor mouse never even saw it coming.Pinned to the back of the kiosk by the advancing horde, I shot an entire roll of film as the mob swallowed the smiling mouse.Six or seven of them grabbed Mickey by all four limbs and hoisted him over their heads.As they passed him into the middle of the circle, they spun him around until his head was sideways, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.One of his shoes bounced on the ground at my feet, before being quickly snatched up by a young boy with the face of a cherub.“Obrigado,” he said and smiled.And then he was gone, consumed by the group, already retreating down the exit ramp, their hostage held high above their heads.I watched until they disappeared around the corner and their song faded away, leaving only BGM and crying children.“That was incredible,” I said to the greeter who appeared, finally, to have noticed something amiss.“What just happened?”“Damn Brazilians,” he muttered.“They think they can get away with anything.”I teetered on the knife-edge of adrenaline.“They took Mickey!” More than anything I wanted to follow them, just leave the camera and my nametag, and join the Brazilians for whatever adventure they planned next.“Don’t blame yourself.” The old greeter mistook my excitement for self-reproach.“These tour groups are all made up of assholes.All of them! And they’re only half as bad as the Family Reunions.” He stabbed my chest with a bony finger and lowered his voice.“Know what I say? Screw ’em.”“Brazilians?”“Guests.Screw ’em all [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]