Amber Earns Her Ears: My Secret Walt Disney World Cast Member Diary (3 page)

After another quick chat with Mom (mothers like to stay updated about these things, and I needed to get some of the excess adrenaline out of my system), I went to World Geography — where all of my excess energy was immediately drained by an educational video.

Thus began one of the longest waits of my life.

“HAVE YOU CHECKED THE mail today?” my Dad asked me.

“No! I mean, yes, I’ve checked, but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to.”

“So nothing from the Mouse yet?”

“Dad, if I’d heard from Disney, I think the entire world would know by now.”

Never had I been so diligent about anything. My CareerStart interviewer told me that Disney would contact me in one of three ways: by e-mail, by phone, or by snail mail.

I was going crazy, constantly checking all three. My computer screen was always open to my e-mail while at school, and I double-checked it at home on my cell phone (rather than wrestle with the evil that is dial-up). Only I was allowed to retrieve the mail from the mailbox, and I constantly grabbed for the phone when it rang, looking for a 407 (Orlando) area code or the official number for Disney’s CareerStart.

I couldn’t be separated from Disney fan sites, either. I shared my wait with dozens of other hopefuls; I even joined a Facebook group of the most devoted applicants. We discussed everything from how we passed the time to what classes we hoped to take if (
when
) we were accepted. One of the members sent me an invite to “like” the Electric Umbrella’s page; it saddens me to say that I didn’t recognize the name (though in my defense, I have a rule to eat only in the World Showcase when in EPCOT, and Electric Umbrella is a quick-service restaurant in Future World), but it was Disney, so I accepted.

Two weeks passed.

Disney had told some applicants that they’d hear back within 2-3 weeks (those were the optimists). Others were told 3-4 weeks (the most common response), and some unfortunate souls were told that their agony could last up to 6 weeks. We all fervently hoped we were not in the last group.

I annoyed my family and friends daily. The only topic I seemed able to discuss was Disney. I talked about the parks, about how I was going absolutely crazy waiting to hear back, the amazing things I’d heard from past participants, what role I wanted, where I wanted to work, and much, much more. I’m fairly certain that sometimes I even got on my own nerves; honestly, couldn’t I think of anything else to talk about?

Clearly not.

Of course, not everyone was hoping I’d get accepted. My co-workers at the animal clinic weren’t too enthused at the prospect of me leaving; I had been there for a long time, and knew a lot of stuff that would not be fun training others to do. There was even talk of cloning me, or giving false bad references to Disney. While it was all in jest (or at least, I think most of it was), I did attempt to moderate my enthusiasm when at the clinic. I’m not saying that it worked, but at least I made the effort.

At three weeks I was starting to get nervous. I was seventeen, after all. Even though I have an excess of enthusiasm for Disney, I thought that my age might be my potential downfall. I didn’t think I said anything wrong in my interview, but I kept going over that first five minutes, when my interviewer had put me on hold to check the arrival dates. Did the recruiters take age into account? Surely they did.

Seventeen…

It sounded awfully young to move to Florida by myself. Perhaps they didn’t think I would be able to handle it. Maybe they thought the work would be too much for me, and I would quit and go home. What if they lumped me with other teenagers they knew, the ones who are more likely to text on the job than actually learn something? If I called them after I’d been rejected, would they give me an honest answer?

All I could do was wait. I couldn’t speed up the process (as much as I would have liked), and there was no number I could call to convince Disney that just because my birthday was only two weeks before move-in, I would still work hard.

So I continued to check the mail. I kept my e-mail open. I spent my time in journalism class quickly proofreading others’ articles for the newspaper or writing something of my own, and then it was back to the Disney sites.

My anxiety was a convenient source of agitation for my family. Not that I blame them; I would probably have done the same thing. Sometimes the mail truck would supposedly come two or three times in a day, usually at the most inconvenient times for me. Usually, I brushed them off; didn’t they think I had made a point to figure out when the mail came?

One of these times I was in the shower, and my dad knocked on the door.

“Have you checked the mail today?”

“Um, yeah. I checked it a little while ago. There wasn’t anything there.”

“Well, I just saw the mailman. He may have had something for you.”

As much as I tried to ignore this hint, just as I had all the others, my excitement built despite my suspicions. I have a long driveway, and just watching me walk it up and down is enough to amuse my family. I’m not exactly the active type.

I threw on some sweat pants and an “I ‘Heart’ Grumpy Guys” T-shirt, slipped into some flip flops, and went down to check the mail. It was all I could do not to run. The knowledge that my family would be watching from the window was enough to keep me at walking pace.

As soon as I got past the bushes that would block me from view, I sprinted the last few feet, crossed the road, and wrenched open our old, battered mail box.

There it was.

My beautiful, large envelope with Mickey Mouse standing in the top left corner. My name was on the front. Just the size of the envelope was reassuring; it was big enough to fit a yellow folder (the universal sign of acceptance for the CareerStart Program; the College Program uses purple folders).

Forgetting that I loathe running, or that my driveway is basically uphill, or that by now my entire family would be watching because Dad had told them that my folder was in the mail (the mailman had actually tried to give Dad the mail, but he made him put my envelope back in the mailbox so I could retrieve it), I rushed up the driveway.

Probably not the wisest thing on my part, because it took me a few minutes to catch my breath after I finally made it back into the living room. I lay on the floor, surrounded by everyone, as I tried to breathe normally and sit up. Eventually, I did, and with hands shaking from adrenaline, I tore open the envelope.

There it was.

Orange-yellow in color, “Disney CareerStart” printed in bold across the front. I was holding the key to a new world.

Beaming, I opened the folder and read aloud my acceptance letter.

Dear Amber:

Congratulations! You have been selected to participate as a Quick-Service Food&Beverage Cast Member on the Disney CareerStart Program for the Spring 2010 Season!

THE SMELL OF COFFEE filled the air. My sister, Hayley, and I sat in our regular spot: a small table by the window, watching passersby as they entered Barnes&Noble. As I sipped my berry soda and watched Hayley take the first bite of her sandwich — an odd creation made with turkey and apples — I ran through my mental checklist of the many things still to accomplish before the start of my Florida adventure.

As soon as I recovered from my dash up the driveway and the shock of my acceptance into Disney’s CareerStart Program, one of the first things I did was write a shopping list of all the items I would need for living on my own.

Here, again, Disney fan sites and fellow participants proved their usefulness.

Disney’s official CareerStart site offered a general list of necessary items like bedding, televisions, Ethernet cables, and business attire. I was more than happy to copy it down. Past participants also gave their advice as to exactly how much to pack (naturally, I failed to follow that advice), and those who had also just been accepted into the program feverishly debated such essential questions as whether we should buy shower curtains and hangers before we left, or wait until we arrived and hope the stores hadn’t run out.

Another quandary quickly arose: we had been accepted, yes, but our shopping wouldn’t be just for ourselves. What would our roommates think of our personal taste in decorations, tablecloths, and bath mats?

Some people chose to let fate select their roommates. They would arrive in Florida blind, knowing no one and having no clue as to who they would be living with for the next four or six months (College Programmers have the option of a shorter program, lasting just four months).

Others knew exactly where they hoped to live, how many bedrooms they were going to have, and who would sleep in those beds.

I wasn’t quite sure which path to follow.

The thing about choosing a roommate is that you never really know a person until you meet them. You can chat all you want on the internet, but until you meet face-to-face, it’s difficult to judge whether you’ll get along. If it turned out that I couldn’t get along with my roommates, I could request that Disney move me into another apartment — but that entailed a $50 fee and possibly hurt feelings or a nasty farewell scene.

I felt it better to arrive not knowing anyone. Sure, I’d be taking a chance, but not much more than if I had arranged to room with someone I’d never physically met. So I decided to let fate decide. I’d stand in line at check-in, strike up a conversation with the people around me, and select on the spot the people I’d be living with for the next six months.

Roommate surveys dominated the online forums. People sent private messages and exchanged cell phone numbers, trying to gauge compatibility. I answered the generic questions and sent sporadic messages, but only half-heartedly. While I’d have liked to arrange the color scheme of the bathroom, or how many televisions would be in the apartment, it wasn’t something that dominated my thoughts. And I’m a fairly introverted person by nature; the idea of striking up a conversation with a complete stranger and asking whether they were interested in becoming a roommate? Not my idea of fun.

So I continued to shop. I had a list of things to buy, categorized either as “personal” or “room”, all color-coded with different pens. When I bought an item, I checked it off my list and then stored it in one of the green tubs that now lined a section of my room.

Weekends became shopping expeditions, usually in the company of my younger sister. With the windows down and music playing loudly, I would drive us the forty-five minutes to the shopping center where we would patrol the aisles of Target accumulating towels, washcloths, an iron, plates, and cups. Even the most mundane items were exciting, as they symbolized the beginning of an amazing exploit.

Our trips would inevitably end with a visit to Barnes&Noble, where we’d sit in the little café and eat a late lunch during which Hayley would try to talk me out of buying yet another book, and I would usually override her logic. We’d talk of my plans for Florida, the general air of excitement, the things that I had yet to buy. It was a nice little ritual we established before I moved away.

Christmas came in the midst of everything, and with it a vast array of things to take with me: a mini ironing board, a coffee maker (the most essential purchase), and a dozen other useful items.

I told what I knew about the program to countless friends and family members, sometimes multiple times if they were in the habit of forgetting things.

And each time I told it, my excitement grew.

The days were creeping by: a few weeks before, I had finally graduated from high school, and now I spent much of my time at the animal clinic, working as many hours as possible before I’d have to leave for good.

One day, as I was meandering through my favorite unofficial Disney fan site, I saw that I had a private message from someone named Paige, a girl who’d seen my roommate survey on the College Board forum. We had a lot of things in common, she pointed out, including our favorite show,
Gilmore Girls
. Anyone who liked
Gilmore Girls
, she wrote, couldn’t be all bad. I looked her up on Facebook, and after a few more messages, we agreed to be roommates. So much for letting fate decide!

After the initial conversation, we didn’t really talk much. I was too daunted by the awkwardness of getting to know a stranger online to initiate conversations — after all, what would I say? So I let it lie; we had common interests, and that would give us things to discuss once we arrived in Orlando. I was fine with that.

Later, two other girls from Facebook, Violet and Rebecca, asked to stay with us. We agreed, and we all chatted back and forth for awhile. But it was still a long time before we would move, and conversation lapsed again. The only other thing Paige and I discussed before arriving was the color scheme for our bathroom — green and blue.

Honestly, I didn’t exert much energy in planning for my move to Florida.

Most of the things I bought were common-sense items for anyone moving anywhere and starting from scratch. As much as I loved my family, I had been formulating these kinds of lists for years. Some things I bought for fun — brownie mix, for example — but most of it was practical. I knew I was going to be taking my car, and that Disney would provide a parking space. I had picked out my roommates, knew there was a Target near the apartment complexes, and made some acquaintances who’d be starting the program along with me. Our Facebook group planned a dinner the night prior to check-in for us to meet and say hello. I wasn’t sure if I would go or not, but at least it was an option.

So, as the day of departure drew nearer, and my shopping list dwindled to stray items, the surreal nature of my situation slowly began to dissolve. Not that it ever left, really, but it began to sink in that I was doing this.

As I packed up Dinosaur on my last day at home, shoving boxes behind seats and shifting my bag of books so the trunk would close, I thought to myself with a smile that by this time next week, I would be an official Disney Cast Member.