david and mickey

I’ve known him a long time. Since we were in sixth grade, I think. We’ve stayed in touch that whole time, mostly.

Well, we fall out of touch and then back into touch. We haven’t seen each other in years — almost twenty, I think . . . though I’m not quite sure exactly how long it’s been.

But we’re back together for the evening, heading over to the old mall to see the new Mickey Mouse cartoon that’s just been released. David is excited. I’m feeling sleepy a bit under the weather. I haven’t been sleeping.

Most times it seems like I always haven’t been sleeping.

At the mall, David produces a small swipe card — somehow he’s managed to clone it from one of the security guards, in order to sneak in to the movies without paying. He has one for me as well and I’m feeling a bit panicky as we swipe our way through the back door, coming face to face with a guard.

He ignore us. In our suits and ties, I suppose we look like we belong there, behind the scenes.

I follow David through the hallways to an area behind the movie screen. There is a small riser of stadiums seats, sparsely attended, looking down on a little orchestra pit and a small constellation of microphones. I realize that the movie soundtrack and dialogue will be performed live for the premiere, like an old time live radio show.

For reasons I that aren’t explained, the sound effects are recorded on the film, however.

I watch the actors mug their way through the performance, mildly impressed at how well everything goes. I forget sometimes to watch the screen where Mickey’s antics play out in silvered, larger-than-life magic.

A woman makes her way through the seats, selling concessions. She has the pillbox cap, fishnet stockings, and pin curls of yesteryear. But all she has to sell are oversized chili dogs in greasy wax paper envelopes — far more suitable for a ballpark than a movie.