An Unspeakable Truth

Look at you. Standing there all smug, silent as a lamppost. What happened – flunked clown school, and got stuck on a street corner?

Tragic.

Do you really think those silks and a whip make you look like a Kentucky Derby jockey? That act stinks. How did you even get a permit to loiter like this?

One day you’re in a gold lamé suit, tap shoes and a top hat, like a second-rate Fred Astaire wax figure. Next day you’re sporting the Marine dress blues uniform, hand locked in a perpetual salute. Were you really expecting someone to say ‘thanks for your service,’ you dope?

And last week – painted up in fake marble skin flexing your phony abs, striking that Michelangelo’s David pose. You shamed the artist. Hell, you insulted all of Italy!

You know what your problem is? You have an unnecessary skill. And let’s face it, there aren’t many of you left. You’re like an endangered species, but without any purpose in the ecosystem. People probably raised more of a stink when the Dodo bird went extinct 300 years ago. Maybe you should re-mime yourself why you exist, perform the act of extinction, and be done with yourself.

What do you even make – 50 bucks a day? You’ll never amount to anything doing this. Take me – I tried acting once, auditioned for years, thought I’d be in movies. Got close once, a supporting role in a cat litter commercial but the producer said I talked too loud. My old man said I was wasting time pretending to be something I wasn’t. So, I stopped pretending and scored a job at the Post Office, and now I’m in for life, steady paycheck, good benefits, pension too.

How do you just stand there frozen, like being trapped in a state of being in time like some mythological creature

You’re not going to say a word to me, are you? I get it, stay in character, hide behind silence. People clap when you pretend to fight the wind with that eerie gaze, but if I talk, I’m told “too loud, too much!”

There are openings at the Post Office if you’re interested. You could silently sort junk mail.

Perfect fit.

Whoa, why are you packing up? Your little pot of gold looks rich. Hold up! Don’t walk away from me. I’m making a citizen’s arrest…for being a public nuisance! Don’t make me shoot you. I’ve got a silencer. Ha-ha, kidding.

Ah, I see what you’re doing. Resorting to communicating with me on your stupid blackboard.

YOU’VE BEEN STAKING ME OUT FOR WEEKS. IF YOU’RE TRYING TO ROB ME, I HAVE COP FRIENDS WATCHING OUT FOR ME.

Rob you? Oh, man, don’t be ridiculous. I work for the government.

HERE COMES ONE NOW!

ACT TWO

A uniformed officer approaches.

“Oh, good, Officer. I was just telling this guy he’s…

No, I’m not trying to rob Mister Wannabe Marcel Marceau.

You can’t handcuff me for nothing. I’m not a criminal.

What do you mean, I’m a public nuisance! I’m a respectable citizen. I work at the Post Office.

Get these handcuffs off me!

Oh, now I’m harassing a police officer?

No, I’ve never spent a night in jail! What do you mean, I’ll enjoy my weekend there? There’s no judge on duty until Monday?

Very funny – staycation behind bars but no one serves drinks.

Can’t we work something out here?

Attempted bribery of a police officer – are you insane? I was thinking of an apology to the mime, and I’ll give him all the money in my wallet.”

ACT THREE

The officer smirks. “Plot twist. It’s performance art.”

He drops out of his police uniform, revealing a clown costume, and shakes the mime’s hand. “Best improv we’ve had all month. Thanks for the call, Pierre.”

The mime claps silently, then pulls off his beret with a deep bow.

The cop-clown leans in. “Looks like you’ve been conscripted into the troupe, buddy. Your free-range mouth has been silenced. You’re a mime now.”

The mime scribbles on his blackboard: THANKS FOR BEING MY VOLUNTEER.

“I wasn’t a volunteer, I was humiliated!”

A crowd gathers. Phones are out.

FINALE

For a moment, he freezes while something like the old dream flickers. The avalanche of attention, the weight of a hundred eyes…an audition waiting room, his legs bouncing uncontrollably…a casting director snapping, “Too loud, too much”… His father, arms crossed, saying nothing, which somehow hurts more.

A pigeon 10 feet away stops flying mid-flap. A passing bus sits suspended, wheels hovering above asphalt. Wind hangs motionless in the trees. Time has stopped as if in freeze frame, and all street noise softens like someone turned down the volume of the entire world.

The mime and the clown snap their fingers over the dazed man’s head as if to break his trance but he just stares straight ahead. In unison, both performers press a white-gloved finger to his lips. He tries to speak but can’t. His voice is gone.

The cop-clown bows. “Congratulations. You’ve crossed the threshold.”

Theater lights fade to black.

The audience stands and cheers, unaware of what really just happened.

BIO: Kathleen "Kat" Mulvihill is a former journalist who has reported in the Los Angeles, New Orleans, and Boston news markets in print and television. She put aside the serious news stuff and now pokes at politics and contemporary culture. Her work has been published in Little Old Lady Comedy, Flash Phantoms, The Haven, Haikuniverse, and elsewhere. Kat is a Massachusetts native who lives in the New Orleans area where she hibernates during the Big Easy’s tropical summers, emerging refreshed in fall and winter.