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At him, Garen focuses attention back toward me. He puffs his chest out again and he shouts, dad wears Mom's dresses and makeup like you do. When he sees me with my mouth agape he attempts to clarify. But only when Mom's not home, he says. I know the absolute worst thing I can do in this moment is to look at Garon's parents, but that's what I do. Their hands are clasped and their smiles remain plastered, but nothing registers in their eyes. It's like four vapid orbs gatewaying into an abyss. Then she shoves away his hand and turns to look at him, and it's like I can already see her about to say, honey, is that true? And I can already imagine him struggling to come up with some way to receive. And then I'm like, nah, this fool is so boned. And in this moment the only thing running through my mind is, I'll be damned. That binder doesn't cover everything, after all, they don't pay us enough for this shit, zach says. Zach and I are slumped in our chairs in the break room. We're still in costume. In the far corner, Annabel is having lunch with her daughter. In the past, as Ariel, Annabel was legendary for how she connected with the kids. There would be a line of children with their parents snaking around the corner, patiently waiting to hug her and tell her about school and their pets, and she would smile with delight and say, tell me more. Then Annabelle had her daughter when she returned from maternity leave. She had put on a little weight. They gave her an take a new job as a fully covered Mickey or leave her Mickey headpiece sits on the table as her daughter cries and says she doesn't like to be left in employee child care. I'm so sorry, sweetie, annabel says. She looks exhausted. Did so what did you say to that train wreck family? Zach asks. I shrug. Garen's mom had marched toward us and was about to yank Garen away when I stood and gently held her hand. Ma', am, I said quietly. She tried to shake my hand off. Her back and shoulders were as rigid as a springboard. Just let us go, she said, and her shoulders slumped and I saw tears begin to well around her squinting eyes. I nodded. Can I just say something real quick to Garen? I asked. She hesitated and then she tightly nodded. I knelt down and grabbed Garen's hands once again. He looked confused, as if he might cry too. I leaned forward and I spoke directly into his ear. Young man, I said, and he whispered a tiny yes back. Hercules wants you to know, I said, that no matter what happens, your mom and dad love you very much. Okay? He nodded. So I want you to be brave and I want you to be strong, and I want you to listen to everything they tell you, okay? He nodded again, and now I whispered, hercules wants you to go give your mom and dad a big hug. Can you do that for Hercules? He nodded one last time, and he ran to his mom and hugged her tight. And he ran to his dad, who had been standing unsurely in the background. Then they were gone and my shift was about over, so I stood and walked back to the break room. I think for a moment I guess I stayed on script, I tell Zach. He stares. I mean, the script's not half bad, I say, and he nods and loses interest. Jay looks up from his spreadsheets when I come home that night. His company lets him work from home, so most nights I find him surrounded by reams of paper. He doesn't let the cancer stop him from putting in a full workday, so he's meticulous about tracking his hours. How was your day? He asks. Total shit show, I say. This woman found out her husband is a cross dresser and their son is probably going to blame himself for the next 10 years. So just another Disney day, he says. Yep. How was yours? He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes before he reaches for a stack of papers and pointedly lifts one. Jeremy, he says. We need to talk inheritance and insurance. I've run some initial calculations and the projections indicate I tune out when he begins to use big words, but he gets more animated as he picks up steam on his findings, and he's sexy as fuck as he incessantly taps his paper with his pen. But I can't sit still, so I strip off my shirt and I straddle him. He stops talking. Ah, he says. Let's talk about your impending death some other time, I say. Later. I step out of the shower and find Jay curled up on the sofa. His glasses, off kilter, are hooked onto one ear and hanging on his forehead over wisps of his fine hair. He snores lightly. I stare at his face. You know, when he's awake, he always looks as if he's worried about something. Probably because he is worried about me. Probably. He likely has months left, and the only thing he seems to have on his mind is whether I'll be okay after he's gone. It's only when he's asleep that he looks relaxed. He snorts and traces of a thin smile begin to form. I wonder what he's dreaming about, and that makes me smile. I was back home with Jay for summer break when we first learned about the cancer. But, well, by then we had been together for two years. The prognosis was bright then, and Jay was adamant that I return to college. I'll be cured before you come back, he said. That night, meaning to get out of the house, we went to P F Chang's. Are we celebrating anything special tonight? Our server asked. Just our health, jay said gently. Oh, that's very sweet, the server said, smiling. She studied us and she said, well, you two look as healthy as it's my birthday. I cut her off. Her mouth curved into an O, and she said she'd give us a minute to look at the menu. Jay turned and gave me his look. What? Health doesn't get you free cake at P F Chang's, I said. I suppose that's true, he said. We were subdued for most of the dinner. It was toward the end, after dessert, that I could no longer hold back. What if things go wrong? I blurted out. I was reeling from too many apple martinis. Jeremy, he said, do you realize statistically how many standard deviations off we need to be to see the treatment fail? I said nothing. It's a little under three, he said. Expressed numerically, that equates to okay. Okay. He reached for my hand and nodded. I'm going to be fine, Jeremy. You have to trust me. And you have to trust in the numbers. I relented. In the darkened room, the candle flickered over his creases and reflected tiny orange flames in both lenses of his glasses. He's all lit up in fire, I thought, and I believed. But I should never have left him. Everybody's in a shitty mood in the park today. This happens sometimes. Some days with no reasonable explanation, foul moods spread and take over entire sections of the park like a contagion. By mid morning under the already wilting sun, tempers flare within families and in groups of middle school friends, tomorrow's Space Mountain dome standing glumly in the backdrop. This includes Cody, the 8 year old, bald headed Make a Wish kid who's sitting in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. He glares as his parents stand helplessly to his side and as the swath of media photographers fumble with the cameras draped around their necks and do not take photos. Cody's mom approaches him and places her hand on his frail shoulder. Honey, she says, is there anything we can do to make you happy? I want to go home, he says, and I make a wish and Disney public relations people wince in unison. But sweetie, she says, isn't. Isn't this what you wanted to do more than anything in the world? What changed? Disneyland sucks. He shouts and I see two photographers quietly pack their cameras back into their cases. Dad is starting to unravel and I see him approach Cody with his fists clenched. Before I realize what I'm doing, I find myself standing between Cody and his dad, my face lit up in smiles. I motion subtly at his dad before I kneel down and face Cody. Hi there, young man. Your name is Cody, right? Cody stares at my biceps with wide eyes. My physique generally has that effect on most boys who regularly worship Marvel superheroes, and I can imagine, tragically, that the effect is greater on a kid as sick as Cody. He nods and looks at my eyes shyly. Young man, I say, I hear you on your discomforts. It's too hot and it's too crowded and everybody's in a bad mood. He nods emphatically. So tell me, I say, if you could do anything right now, what would it be? His face brightens. Video games, he says. I nod in complete agreement. I say, hercules loves video games. What's your favorite? And he shouts, minecraft, and I silently sigh in relief. That's like the one game I have knowledge of. That's Hercules favorite game, I say, and he looks as though he might jump out of his wheelchair and hug me. What are you working on right now? I ask, and Cody smiles and closes his eyes for several moments as though he had transported himself out of Disney and into his Minecraft world. When he opens his eyes, they are shining. I found a way that I can fly forever, he says. I say Hercules wants to hear all about this. The photographers take their cameras back out of their cases, and as the cameramen begin to record from a distance. Ho. Cody explains to me in a feverish pitch and with two animated hands the mechanics and items he acquires before he sprints and dives off a cliff and launches himself higher and higher into an infinite horizon, eventually so high, in fact, he explains, that the game stops rendering his image and he disappears entirely from the screen. That is very high, I agree. But go, Cody, I say. If you fly beyond the horizon and disappear, won't you miss your parents? It's just a game, Hercules. Touche, Hercules. Yes, Cody? I'm dying, you know, he says. From the corner of my eyes. I sneak a peek at Cody's parents. They stare intently at their son. I know, I say. Hercules? Yes, Cody? Will you come to my home and play Minecraft with me? I say. Nothing. So we can fly forever? He says, looking to his eyes, and I can see that he is bracing for the inevitable. No, I have an even Better idea, I tell him as I begin to smile. He looks up. Peter Pan's flight is a short walk from here. Have you been on the ride? He shakes his head. Hercules promises you, I say, that riding. That ride feels just like fly. How about we take that flight together, just you and me? He considers this for a moment before he says a quiet okay. I turn to his parents for permission, but they already look like they might throttle me with gratitude, so I stand and take Cody's hand as his mom pushes his wheelchair behind us. The photographers and media and Public Relations Team Corporate quietly follow, and the crowd ahead splits to make room when they see the procession. But I have eyes and ears and heart for only Cody. Script be damned, he has me eating out of his hands as he patiently explains master level tips on how to rule over Minecraft Domain. A photo of me kneeling and clasping a smiling Cody's hands makes the front page of the local newspaper that next morning, along with the caption Local Hero Captures the hearts of Boy and Disney Community over breakfast. Jay lowers the paper and raises his eyebrows. You sure work hard for $9 an hour, he says. They should promote me to management, I say crossly. I couldn't sleep last night. Or at least a plain Gaston. Now that's a real man, jay says as he dodges the Cheerio. I flick at him. He returns to the paper and I get ready to leave for work. The Orlando roads are slick with rain this morning and the traffic is heavy. I've always wondered why they chose to build the happiest place on earth in practically the wettest city in the country. I like it when it rains, though. I stare past the windshield wipers sweeping frenetically to keep my vision unobscured. Outside is a sea of gray. With every gust of wind, sheets of rain shimmer. Trees shudder. I hear the approaching wail of sirens. I pull over and stare at the ambulance as it passes by and then turns at the intersection in the opposite direction from home. I remain parked by the curb. The sirens fade until I hear only the rain pelting the roof of the car and the furious beating of my heart. I rest my eyes and feel the heat radiate through my closed eyelids. Yesterday, on Peter Pan's Flight, while waving a very temporary goodbye to Cody's parents and the media folk, I helped Cody step on board the suspended galleon that served as our flying ship. We settled into our seats and launched high into a dark London night. We flew over Tower Bridge and Big Ben before rising to clouds of wispy white fluff swaying under giant whirring fans made invisible behind the cloaks of night sky. Sky below a sea of tiny golden lights, villages of homes shining kerosene lanterns twinkled and pulsed as if the constellations lay not above us but below. I looked at Cody. His face was spellbound as we glided and swooped over mountain peaks and into the heart of Neverland. At one point, our galleon dramatically lifted high into the sky to escape the wrath of an enormous crocodile. Cody whooped and wrapped his arms around me. I squeezed his shoulder and pointed down at the crocodile, who now held Captain Hook in the clutches of his jaws. As the galleon emerged through the exit that led to the disembarking zone and to Cody's parents welcoming us back, Cody sighed and rested his head on my shoulder. How'd that feel, Cody? I said. Was that just like flying or what? He sighed again and embraced me and said, that was way better than Minecraft. I squeezed him tight before I stood and helped him off the galleon and into his waiting wheelchair. After insisting to Cody's parents that it was not a big deal and posing for a final round of photos, I said my goodbyes and jogged back to my post in Tomorrowland. As I navigated between the throngs of people making their way to their next attraction, I imagined that it had been Jay and me flying on the galleon. J being Jay would peer over the ledge at the city below, and he'd squint and point out the placement of Big Ben. Seems off. It should be over there. I'd tell him to shut up and enjoy the ride. He would remain silent for a moment, and then he'd look up toward the ceiling and say, the engineering in this facility is really quite remarkable if you stop and consider. Shut up, I would say again. I close my eyes and shiver when the cold air blew over my ears. In the distance, I'd hear Peter Pan and Hook's swords whirl and clang in battle as the darling kids cheered and whistled. Jay would turn to me and pause and cock his head and he'd say, is everything okay, Jeremy? And I'd grip the ledge so hard that pain would shoot up my wrists, but he wouldn't see that, and I'd smile and say, yeah, just hungry. Let's get a turkey leg after this. And for the rest of the ride we would remain quiet, our galleon propelling us above a dark ocean and gliding toward the exit, where sunlight would peek in from around the corner and the cast members board would remind us to watch our steps on our way out.
