People look at me and say, ‘He’s famous. He’s got it made. What a life!’
And it’s true that I have friends all over the planet and that my life is pretty much a piece of cheese. I’ve certainly got it easier than, say, Jerry, who’s forever being chased by Tom, or poor Pixie and Dixie, with that awful Mr. Jinks. I’m a mouse but nobody chases me, not anymore—except, of course, Minnie, which I like.
But things weren’t always that way. My people weren’t wealthy. Far from it. There were 17 of us and we spent a lot of time running—and scrounging. A single watermelon rind had to last an entire day. A half-eaten ham sandwich was a feast. Would it surprise you to learn that I was the first one in my family to wear clothing?
But like they say, a dream is a wish your heart makes, yadda yadda, yadda. Things began to look up.
My first big deal was Steamboat Willie in 1928. It caused quite a stir, let me tell you. You might not guess that to look at it now. It’s a short film and it’s in black and white. The special effects are pretty primitive by today’s standards. Back in the late ’20s, you know, sound was a special effect. Blue screen? Never heard of it. Digital? What’s that?
And speaking of digits: I had only three fingers and a thumb. That’s all I have even now. At least my eyes have both whites and pupils these days. Back then, they were basically just pupils. (Yes, you could say I’ve had some work done.)
I made a lot of short films after that. Mickey’s Follies. Mickey’s Kangaroo. Mickey’s Nightmare. Gulliver Mickey. Touchdown Mickey. Mickey Down Under. I can’t remember all the names anymore. There were dozens of them.
Those films kept me working all through the Great Depression, for which I will always be grateful. I remember one time, in the mid-’30s, I met a young panhandler on the street. He looked so thin, so weak. I took him to a diner and got him the blue-plate special with all the trimmings. Probably the first decent meal he’d had in months. He told me his name. Woody Woodpecker. True story.
The critics say I did some of my best work in Fantasia in 1940. “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” thing. OK, it went to my head a little. It was crazy, all the attention. But I never had a Britney meltdown or anything like that. The worst thing I ever did was trash a hotel room. Just once, and, of course, I cleaned up afterwards. You think Donald or Goofy never did anything like that? Or Grumpy? Get out of Fantasyland!
When television came along, I jumped in with both bright-yellow shoes. I was always restless, always on the lookout for the next big thing. In the ’50s, I had my own TV club. You wouldn’t call it great art but we sure had fun. I especially liked Fridays: Talent Roundup Day. It was a little like American Idol. You’ve probably heard the rumors about me and Annette. She was like a little sister to me, that’s all. Where do these stories start, anyway?
Around that time, Disneyland opened, so I was really, really busy. I was working so hard at the park and on the show that I didn’t have time to do films. I’ve had to work pretty hard since the ’70s, too, when Walt Disney World opened. Shaking hands with all those kids. Let me tell you a secret: A lot of those little hands are very sticky. I go through gloves like Kleenex.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Not for a minute.
What have I learned from all this?
It’s not always easy, no. But it doesn’t have to be a rat race, unless you let it. Work hard, keep your ears open and never forget to thank your creator.
In my particular case, of course, that would be Mr. Disney.