Ride the Titanic! Read Free Page B

Disney’s Indiana Jones Stunt Spectacular; an outdoor, life action stage show filled with exploding fireballs and narrow escapes, and a spectacular ending with Indy and Marian flying through the air in a desperate attempt to escape the pursuing Nazis.
    As an Imagineering intern during my junior year at college, I busted my butt to make an impression on my dad and Geena’s dad by working night and day on the show’s programmable logic controller system – the device that lets stunt people trigger their special effects when they want them, not when the computer says.
    My labors paid off when Indy and Marian barely – but safely – cleared the billowing explosions from fire cannons and white-hot fizzing titanium fragments, while the crowd cheered in amazement. In that moment, deep down my soul, I became a legitimate player in the hot, noisy, fabulous world of live theater. Gone was my dream of building bridges, from now on I would figure out ways to jump off them instead.
    ‘No way!’ Fiona says, thumb-texting furiously.
    Geena says, ‘Adam?’
    ‘Missed the bus. Again.’
    ‘How many times this week?’
    ‘Twice – no three times. Could we. . .’
    Geena grabs her car keys. ‘Tell Romeo we’ll pick him up. But from now on he takes the bus or walks.’
    Outside on the deck our cocker spaniel, ‘Lady’ ( and the Tramp . . . get it?) gives a muffled, gentle bark which means she’s sighted intruders but isn’t planning on biting them. Moments later, a tap on the front door, and my father-in-law Joe Corelli’s voice booms, ‘Buon giorno, tutti. Siamo qui!’ followed by his wife Marianna, her voice as comforting as a warm calzone;
    ‘ Dove i bimbi?’
    ‘In cucina, mamma,’ Geena calls.
    Her parents EXPLODE into the kitchen like a happy thunderstorm. Kisses, hugs, ‘How are you, how are the boys, have some coffee, have to go, come on Fiona we’ll be late, mamma, the boys just ate, Pop, don’t clean the pool, it’s fine, bye honey, good luck with your interview,’ and Geena and Fiona are gone, followed seconds later by Marianna, dancing into the living room, cradling ‘my little gorgeous Angela and handsome Arturo’ in her arms, crooning an Italian song and bouncing them like two risen pizza doughs ready for the oven.
    Joe and I stare at each other for a long moment. The sudden peace and quiet is a comfort.
    ‘Coffee?’ I finally say.
    ‘ Piacere . With grappa if you got some.’
    ‘For you, always.’
    Joe sits there, a fireplug of a man; broad neck and shoulders of a common laborer like his Sicilian ancestors, thick, blunt fingers drumming the table, black hair on his forearms curly and dense. But during the past year the hair on his head started turning white. I swear it began the day he retired. I never use the ‘R’ word around him, because as far as Joe’s concerned, Disney shoved him out the door.
    But please, after forty-plus years of devoted service as a concept artist, they gave Joe a fat pension, a lifetime golden pass to visit ‘The Shop’ any time he wants, to reminisce to his heart’s content as a valued, former employee. Sure, he isn’t working there anymore, but Disney takes care of its own. That being the case, it’s also a for-profit company, and companies need to grow. It’s their nature. People grow old. It’s our nature. The two don’t mix.
    Joe doesn’t see it that way.
    Sure, he had farewell parties, honors from management, all the way up to the CEO, but the door to his future closed nonetheless, and now he sits trapped in my kitchen, sipping his grappa -laced coffee and drumming his fingers, with nothing to do but clean our pool which doesn’t need cleaning, and what’s more, the poor guy can’t even swim.
    I sip my coffee. The heat of the grappa adds to the feverish heat in my brain. ‘Got a second?’
    ‘Got a million. Fire torpedoes.’ Joe served four years in the Navy, mostly on subs. Says stuff like this all the time.
    I gulp down my coffee, take a