Mime's Eyes

Part of a day through a mime's eyes.

Mime’s Eyes

 

I was looking down upon a group of 28 people, though two of them were not paying attention to me.  The time was 9:19:41 on a fall day- 23 days prior to the equinox- but paradoxically the crowd was good.  There was a 67.2% chance of earning over $200 if the crowd persisted.  Studying them, I was amazed at their diversity.  Even after all the years of living like this, their secrets amaze me; large, small, more, less, they all keep secrets.  Myself included.  I guess Neil Gaiman was correct when he wrote about secret worlds, those things that existed without out us wanting to admit their existence.  Case in point, the cross dresser standing in front of me that clearly did not have to be wearing a bra.

 

To clarify, I was standing on a bench that was 1.82 meters at the back, that was 0.91 meters high at the seat, and 3.26 meters wide.  Approximately of course, for it was not a perfectly blocked bench. I stared straight ahead, catching a glimpse of my white-painted hands as I mentally scrolled through the options of my act.  The classic, and therefore expected, box was my choice in order to optimize the money gained. A metallic knell sounded as my shoes hit the ground after 1.023 seconds. Everyday was exactly the same; nothing changed. Despite variation in the routine, even the act followed the same structure.

 

            While these thoughts flashed through my head, following the same channels and ducts, my body acted impulsively.  Muscle memory took over and I started moving, locked up in a piece of my imagination.  The walls closed in around me, and the people clapped. Was it because they were entertained or cruel, actually wanting to see a box close in around me? I often questioned the nature of the people watching.  If I really were in that box, would they have clapped then? How would they watch as the ever-shrinking box suffocated me?  My estimate was that out of the 24 still remaining 18 of them would watch but not help, 1 would help, and the other 5 would clap, jeering at me while the box imprisoned me for whatever reason.  Maybe just existing.

 

            The act came to a close.  I had continued with the rope routine and 12 other performances followed.  One group of people called my movements mechanical.  What had they seen?  Anything at all?  My chest started beating wildly and I searched for escapes.  If such a sentiment took hold on the other viewers, they might leave.  My livelihood would be gone.  They left at 10:52:39, impeccable timing for a short break.  I had earned $112.25.  There was a spectator who gave me $75.00. But my gratitude was reserved; he hesitated 7 times while looking at me, as if considering whether or not I was worth it.  In the end of the day he did put the money in.  I saw no hostility in his face, which had allowed me to finish the act.  That and the fact that he was disguised.

 

            The beard the man wore was obviously fake; the bands, while slight, were quite visible, and it was 2 shades off of being his natural hair color.  The stomach, which was portly- was a fat suit.  Well designed to be subtle, but not well designed enough to go unnoticed. I noticed 1123 things that did not match up; to go over them would take 2 hours 32 minutes 5 seconds.  As I say, everyone keeps secrets.  But his secrets gave me the strength to continue with my act.  Until, that is, I heard the group who called me mechanical.  One woman defended my act, enjoying it out of morality rather than merriment. She argued that I was just making my way.  That it is not my fault that this is the only skill I have.  She was closer to the mark than she knew with that statement.  My escape from their shrewd criticisms was the water bottle .56 meters away on the 1.82-meter high bench.  I started sipping feverishly though my body temperature was perfectly normal.  In 23 minutes and 51 seconds, I was ready to begin again.

 

This set of acts lasted 2 hours 47 minutes and 34 seconds and earned me $243.85. This set was fortunately free of scares as I intentionally focused on the more inherently fluid of my acts.  Yet there was still one memorable spectator, the first of the day (but not the first ever) to think it funny to toss something other than money into my box.  In this case, a rotten apple.  An object not offensive as some of my past payments, but a spectator more audacious than most.  Remaining for 15 minutes 17 seconds, he dared to watch 2 full sets without giving me a single coin in recompense.  These are the people who make me not want to continue my career.

 

Beyond this one person, the crowd was generally fine.  103 people stopped to watch me, 67 for longer than five minutes, and 79 gave money.  This was a good day for money.  Yet my time slot was running out; a new act was coming.  I had to clear out to give the woman space.  She was quite talented at her act, yet she did not give people what they wanted, so she earned less than I did.  She was a contortionist, and could fit herself in a .6x.6x.6 meter box easily, while being 5’4 herself.  It was easily enjoyed by an average of 72.76% of the crowd every time she did it when I was present, yet only 23.65% gave money because her act did not connect with the people.  They always left feeling unsatisfied.

 

I decided not to stay to watch her act that day.  I felt an urgent need to return home.  I greeted her before rushing back to my apartment.  It was a 172.23 square foot apartment with 4 windows, 1 bed, and 1 kitchen to celebrate what some of the other performers called the bachelor life.  Nothing would be cleaned for a few days.  Clothes were strewn over the floor; 4 pairs in all coordinated as closely as possible, though none of them truly met the standard for perfect coordination as the hues differed slightly between each outfit.  On average the hue separation was 5.2 shades, almost unacceptably large; if it had been 7, then it would have been unacceptably large.

 

However, today I was not interested in the clothes or in anything.  My desire was to get rid of the white paint that covered my face.  I desperately grabbed a washcloth, trying to find my face.  Scrubbing.  More Scrubbing.  I watched the white flake off my face, as little by little it came off.  The rush of water and my own ragged breathing, desperately reaching for each gasp, filled the room, pushing everything �" the numbers, the thoughts, everything �" away until there was nothing.  No more feeling, no more hearing, no more paint.  Instead there was just a face in the mirror looking back at me.  It took me a second, as always, to remember that it was my face.  My face of metal.  And I wondered then: what would all those people think of me if they knew?  How would they react?  Fear?  Maybe.  Love?  No.  Hatred? Possibly.  And as all these thoughts flooded into my head, I made the decision.  This would be my last will and testament.

 

There is nothing to leave behind except this letter.  Everyone, except for the reader of this, will believe I died in an apartment boiler explosion.  The universe is better without me.  That I know.  My body has gone critical.  No pieces are to be found.  This is a warning: do not make any others like me.  Not because we are dangerous or evil.  It is because we know we will not be accepted.  Not even as social outcasts.  For that reason do not create any more.  Until the monster learns to control itself, that which the monster creates as it’s playthings must stay very far way.

 

Goodbye.

Author's Note

A little piece I wrote, and I like to use as an introduction to my style of writing. It is edited somewhat, but I would love to hear feedback on this. On anything.

Reviews

[mcnultyyouprick]

surreal! I thought the style was economic and moved at a good pace. I think maybe there was one too many examples of how the narrator is able to analyse/measure everything. When I re-read it the part about the cross dresser stood out in my mind...seems there's something clever going on there that I couldn't work out!