May 28, 1941 (Burbank, CA)
A short story
As Art Babbitt exited Animation with his personal belongings, the agitated throng clapped him on the back and assured him they would join him on the picket lines the following morning. Studio security did their best to break up the chaos, but they were only three men, and their crowd control consisted mainly of saying, “Come on, fellas. Get back to work, will ya?”
Sitting under a tree nearby, his lunch only half eaten, Rollie Prader thought to himself, “Shit.”
Babbitt’s dismissal ignited the fuse, but discontent had been smoldering at Disney for weeks. Between ham-fisted attempts to create a company-sponsored union and growing pressure from the Screen Cartoonists Guild, a walkout felt inevitable from the start.
Walt and his brother Roy thought a combination of plain talk and entrenchment would stave off the revolution, but most artists considered his behavior short-sighted and condescending. Art Babbitt was one of the studio’s most talented artists and the Guild’s representative on the lot. His firing was seen by many as a declaration of war.
Rollie clung to hope throughout the darkening days, not because he thought a strike could be averted but because he hated seeing his adopted family torn apart. That sentiment must’ve been plain on his face because Bill Scanlon said, “You know, Rollie, Walt’s not your dad.”
Prader hadn’t heard Bill approach. Being startled and having his feelings read so precisely annoyed him. “What the hell’re you talking about, Bill?”
“I know you think Walt rescued you from Dayton. I know the older guys think he saw them through a Depression. I get that, but where does the line get drawn? Walt’s not a dad; he’s a businessman. Keeping the status quo out of loyalty or old time’s sake isn’t a smart play.”
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Rollie looked up at Bill. “I can read between the lines, too, Bill. You’re going out tomorrow and you want us to come with you so you won’t feel bad about it.”
Scanlon nodded and grinned. “I keep forgetting you’re smarter than Joey and Nate.” He rubbed his neck. “Even so. I’m not wrong.”
“I never said you were,” Rollie said, picking up his cheese sandwich and taking a bite. He returned his eyes to the cluster of men around Art Babbitt. Bill finally got the hint and walked away.
The rest of that day very little got done. The last time there’d been such a callous disregard for work ethic, the animators had just moved from Silverlake to Burbank. But that day, the atmosphere had been loose and collegial. This day was fraught with tension. The men staying with Walt remained at their desks, doing their best to appear busy. The men joining Babbitt on Riverside Drive the following morning were energized and eager to embark on their grand adventure.
In the waning moments of his shift, Rollie listened to his stomach growl from hunger and nerves. He wanted to pick up the phone and call the commissary, but Walt had suspended food delivery. The European market had closed to the studio thanks to Herr Hitler. Both Fantasia and Pinocchio lost money. The promise the studio showed in the wake of “Snow White” had all but evaporated. Rollie's dream and his livelihood were so closely tied to the fortunes of the studio his whole future was now in doubt. He wondered where he’d be in a year. Or in five.
Finally, bound by a sense of routine, Rollie watched the final minute of the workday tick away. When the big hand hit the twelve, he stood, pushed in his chair, and donned his jacket. He didn’t have to turn off the lights—he’d been sitting in the dark for five hours.
Outside, the air held a chill, and the sun went down in shades of orange and brown. Rollie was happy the soon-to-be strikers had vacated the grounds.
Standing in a cluster near the screening room door were some of Walt’s better animators—Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston, Milt Kahl, and Ward Kimball. Kimball was gesturing broadly but speaking in hushed tones. Thomas and Johnston were scowling at whatever he said, but Kahl listened intently. Rollie couldn’t hear any of it, and he didn’t want to. He shoved his hands into his pockets and increased his pace toward Riverside.
When he rounded the building, he was surprised to see Terry Kox speaking with none other than Walt Disney. Kox was talking, and Walt listened. Rollie nodded at Walt (who returned the gesture), but he ignored Kox. The gate was in sight when he heard a voice calling, “Prader! Rollie Prader!” It was Kox.
Rollie's lungs deflated, and his head bowed. He knew he couldn’t feign deafness, so he slackened his pace. Terry appeared beside him, and the two men headed toward the exit together. “So,” Kox said. “Are you with us or against us?”
Prader winced. “I dunno, Terry. Which ‘us’ do you mean?”
Kox laughed in a gruesome parody of someone with a sense of humor. “You know… Us. The studio.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d become a duly appointed representative.”
“It’s nothing official. Consider it a volunteer position,” Kox replied, a portrait in Smug.
“I paraphrase Groucho Marx: I would never want to belong to any organization that would have you as a member.”
Again, that monstrous artificial laugh. “Listen, we all know the malcontents are going on strike tomorrow. We just wanted to know whether or not you’d be at your desk come morning.”
“I gotta admit it, Terry… You’re making me damn uncomfortable with all this ‘we’ business.”
Kox scowled. “Again, it’s strictly voluntary.”
“Good. Moving you into management would be even dumber than the behavior that led the malcontents to become…malcontented.”
He sighed. “I get that you don’t like me, Prader, but maybe it’s a bad idea to grind your axe so loudly. Not to mention, it sounds to me like you’re sympathetic to the rabble-rousers.”
“Let’s just say I see what’s driving them.”
“I do too. Arthur Babbitt’s driving them.”
“Even you’re not dumb enough to believe that, Terry. Listen: Stop.” Rollie stopped, and Kox stopped, too. “I don’t want to walk with you anymore, so let me tell you this: I’ll be here tomorrow, but I refuse to make a big thing out of it. Don’t expect me to rally ‘round any flags. I’m not a joiner.”
“Alright, but—“
“Leave it, Terry. I’m done talking. In fact, I’m going to start pretending you’re not here, so you might as well get with the program.”
Rollie left him there, walking out onto Riverside and turning right where it hit Buena Vista. His house was within sight of the studio. Entering the back door into the kitchen, he saw his mother sitting at the table, looking gray and inert. He realized then that he’d forgotten she was visiting.
Teresa Prader did not look up at him; she just stared into her empty coffee cup. “Evening,” Rollie said, but he did not get so much as a grunt. Hanging his jacket on a rack by the door, he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom Camilla and he shared. Along the way, he peeked into Molly’s room to find her within a complex network of matchboxes arranged on the floor. Rollie started to walk past, but couldn’t. “What’s that?” he asked.
Molly looked up briefly from her studied adjustment of one of the boxes. “This is the port of Long Beach,” she said.
Rollie inched into the girl’s room, now thoroughly on the hook. He could see it now—it did look like an impressionistic aerial view of Long Beach. “Okay, sure,” he said. “But why?”
“Ah-ha,” Molly replied. “I’m glad you asked.” Then she moved out to a spot on the rug that would have been the middle of the Pacific. Several plastic dinosaurs waited at this location. “These are plesiosaurs, ancient predators of the deep. This batch has just been shocked out of hibernation by a chemical spill from this damaged tanker ship. Now they’re awake and they’re angry. What do you think’s gonna happen to the port of Long Beach?”
“I dunno,” Rollie said. “But I bet it’s not going to be good.”
“You got that right, Jack.”
“Right then. Carry on.”
Molly didn’t look up, but she did say, “Aye, aye.”
Rollie entered his bedroom to find Camilla sitting on the edge of their bed with her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Your daughter’s destroying the port of Long Beach,” he said.
“They probably have it coming.” She unfolded her hands, opened her blue eyes, and patted the bed. “Close the door; come here,” she said.
Rollie did as she asked. “Something wrong?”
She raised one eyebrow and cocked her head.
“It’s my mother?” He said finally.
“Come on, Rolland. The naive Midwesterner thing will only carry you so far. You know perfectly well. Teresa’s been here for two weeks, and I’ve taken all I can.”
He looked down at his shoes. “Has it been that bad?”
“Rollie, stop. You’ve barely interacted with her, and I know that’s because things have been difficult at the studio, but you’ve seen how she behaves. I don’t want that sort of passive aggressiveness around my daughter. Molly’s smart, and she’s a talented mimic.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll speak to her.”
“Fine, but I want to make sure we’re simpatico. That we’re seeing the same things.”
“Then tell me what you’re seeing…”
Camilla smiled with tired sympathy and took a deep breath. “If I conjecture for a moment, will you not become offended?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Is it fair to say your mother relied upon your father?”
“Oh, yes. That’d be an understatement.”
“I guessed. She didn’t take much of a hand in raising you, did she?”
Prader squirmed and said, “That’s right.”
“Rollie—and, again, I don’t mean to offend—I think Teresa is a child. An arrested child.”
“Go on…”
“When your mother lost your father, she lost a caregiver, a parent. When your father passed, a space was left. A space Teresa needs to fill.”
“You’re saying my mother needs new parents?”
Camilla nodded.
“Does she want us to fill the gap?”
She shrugged, a compact, economic gesture from her waist. “Possibly. She knows she is helpless. That may explain her hostility.” Camilla had been a psychologist before being forced to leave Germany.
Rollie thought for a long moment and then stood. “Right. I’ll speak to her.”
“Would you like for me to come along?”
His relief was palpable. “Oh, God, yes.”
They found Rollie's mother exactly as he’d last seen her. Both of them pulled out chairs and sat down, but their visitor did not acknowledge them. “Mom?” Rollie said again, to no reaction at all. He then snapped his fingers in front of her face.
Finally, Teresa looked up and smiled. “Yes? Hello?”
“Mom… Are you on something?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean drugs. Medication. You’re practically catatonic.”
Teresa smiled wider, and her tone held a trace of mockery. “Catatonic? You and your vocabulary. No, I’m not on drugs. Of course, I’m not on drugs.”
Rollie nodded. “Let me ask you something then: Why are you here?”
She sat up straighter, flicking her gaze between Camilla and her son. “Why am I here? Am I not welcome?”
“We’ll come back to that. Please answer the question. Are you here to spend time with your son? To meet his new family?”
The elder Mrs. Prader hesitated. “Yes, of course.”
“Then why is it that you and I have barely spoken, and you’ve spent no time at all with your granddaughter?”
Teresa gritted her teeth and turned to Camilla. “Did you put him up to this?”
Camilla did not shrink away. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did.”
“And she was right to do it,” Rollie added. “I didn’t want to address any of this because that’s the Prader way. But I’m also not blind. I’ve seen the way you talk to Camilla. She’s done nothing to deserve your snottiness. She’s my wife, and regardless of how you feel about that, you’ll treat her with respect as long as you’re here.”
“So, I’m not welcome then.”
Rollie sighed. “No, you’re not. As long as you’re behaving the way you have been, you’re not.”
“That’s a fine way to talk to your mother.”
“Blood isn’t relevant here. Try and stay on point. Anyway, I have an idea of why you’re here…”
“What’s your idea?”
“My idea is that, since Dad died, you’re not doing well and you want to come here and have us take care of you.”
She shrank back as though Rollie had struck her. She put her hand to her face, and her eyes flickered. “Would that be so bad?” she said. “Yes, your father dying has hobbled me, and now maybe I need help. I was there for you.”
Rollie shook his head sadly and rolled up his right shirt sleeve. When he got to the bicep, he stopped and turned the underside of his arm up. Camilla gasped at what she saw there. Rollie had managed to keep her hands away from it for months. Above his elbow was a tracery of scars shaped like Mickey Mouse. The likeness was good except that Mickey had Xs for eyes and his tongue lolled out of his mouth, making him look dead.
“My God!” Camilla said, seizing his arm for a closer look. “Where did this come from?”
Rollie looked at Teresa but spoke to Camilla. “My dad traveled nonstop when I was a kid—probably on purpose. My mother was in bed during that period, claiming to suffer from one illness after another. We weren’t fooled, though, even then. We knew she was disinterested.”
Teresa looked down into her coffee cup with her big black eyes. “I didn’t know about that. About the scar.”
“Why would you? Maybe it’s not a good idea to let your teenage daughter raise your son.” Rollie held her in his sight, staring her down.
“Angie did that?” Teresa asked.
“Angie did that.”
A loud knock came at their back door. Camilla, her eyes burning, said, “Scheiße.” She opened the door to find Nathan Tweed and Joey Adello.
“Hi, Mrs. Prader,” Joey said, looking around her into the kitchen. “Can Rollie come out and play?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Joseph. This isn’t such a good time.”
Rollie interrupted, standing and pushing in his chair. “It’s all right.” As he walked by Camilla, he said, “I’ll be right back.” Then he stepped through the back door and shut it behind him. It was a chilly night, and the air smelled like rain. He nodded to his friends.
Joey was manic, and Nathan looked uncomfortable. “We’ve been out with Art,” Joey said. “Dinner, then beers. Then more beers. Me and Nate been arguing two things: the strike and when we were gonna come and pull you into the discussion.”
Prader shrugged. “Whoever you are, you’ve already picked a side.”
Adello flicked his head toward Nate. “He hasn’t.”
Rollie turned to Tweed. “Is that right?”
Nathan burped a beer-scented burp. “Politics aren’t my strong suit, Rollie,” he said. “You know that.”
Joey shook his head. “To hell with politics. What does your gut tell you?”
“My gut wants me to go home and get under my bed until all this blows over.”
Rollie laughed. “Smart gut.”
“Don’t encourage him, Prader. This is a historic moment. All of the other studios have unionized. We gotta stand up and be counted with the other artists.”
Rollie locked eyes with Adello. “Alright, fine. But I’m not going out.”
For the second time that evening, Rollie’s words caused someone to appear physically brutalized. “What?! I thought I was bringing him here so you could talk sense to him!” Adello said.
“I see. So, Nate and I should do what our guts are telling us, as long as our guts are telling us what your gut is telling you?”
Joey nodded emphatically. “Right! Exactly!”
Prader patted Adello on the chest. “Sorry, I couldn’t be more help.”
When he reentered the house, Camilla sat alone with only Teresa’s coffee cup to keep her company.
The next morning, Rollie crossed the picket line on Riverside Drive. It was early still, and the strikers were getting organized. Some of them nodded and said hello.
He thought he would make it onto the lot without incident, but then he felt a staggering blow to the back of his head. He stumbled forward and put his hand to his cranium. His fingers came away wet—but not with blood. His head was soaked with orange juice, and a split orange lay nearby. Shaking the shimmer from his eyes, he turned to see Art Babbitt and Bill Scanlon struggling with Joey Adello. Joey screamed at Rollie from the middle of the street. “Come over here, you traitor prick! Come over here, you cowardly shit!” Joey was so wound up that he nearly shook free from the two men.
Finally, an enraged Bill Scanlon gave Joey a right to the jaw that knocked him to the pavement.
Rollie looked at Joey, then turned and walked through the Disney gate.
This short story is part of an interconnected series forming one “meta story”. Eventually, all of those stories will be here on Substack. If you'd like to cut to the chase, please check out the book.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F8PC5SVD
