The Mime

Daniella Nichinson

One day, among the buds of hawthorns on the Champs-Elysées, the mime found himself trapped. Midway through his routine, he lost his footing and stumbled into one of the walls. He had expected to fall. He had even begun to imagine the phosphorescent bruise that would develop on his side. Before he had a chance to succumb to gravity, the box stopped him. Like a billiard ball, he caromed off the surface. He reached up, but his hand hit the ceiling. Twirling around, he tested the entire perimeter of the box. His eyes darted to match pace with his thoughts. A seasoned performer, he continued with the show.

Hours passed. His movements grew frenetic and unchoreographed. He abandoned the routine altogether. Leading with his shoulder, he rammed himself into the box. The wall stayed intact, but his shoulder throbbed. He shouted for help. No sounds came from his mouth, not even a whimper. In the small space he had, he bent his leg and kicked. He tried to hop and burst through the roof. None of his efforts succeeded in breaking the box.

A crowd started to gather around him. Children looked on with glee, giggling and prancing. Even the parents regarded him in awe, so convinced were they by his performance. The more he tried to yell, the harder he smacked his palms, the louder the audience roared. Coins sailed into his makeshift portefeuille. Men and women scurried to donate bills. People called to strangers so that they might also revel in the mime’s extraordinary gift. When he tried to signal that he was trapped, the audience laughed and applauded his creativity.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed. The usual passersby waned, too, until not a single soul but the mime was left along the avenue. The sun dipped below the horizon. An amethystine sky draped across all of Paris. The mime dropped to his haunches. When his legs fatigued, he shifted onto his bottom. The cold stone stung. He hugged his knees and tried to contain the warmth within the cocoon of his contorted body. Soon, he grew numb to the chill of the February night and dozed off.

When morning came, a frost had crystallized over every inch of the box. He wiped a slab of glass with his shirtsleeve, but the icy fog remained. The mime could make out only the blurred silhouettes of the pedestrians. Whether they were man or woman, wrapped in fur or a simple, tattered peacoat, he could not tell. He wished that he could see his reflection, that his makeup was intact. Someone must stop, he thought. Someone must see the box, so out of place, holding him prisoner. He checked his wristwatch. It was time for his performance.

First, he stretched his arms to the sides, then up above his head. His fingertips pressed into the frigid pane. Tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes. They dribbled down his cheeks and smeared his white-painted face. His nose ran. Still, he continued to perform and to wait for the thaw. He waited for the hawthorns to bloom.

Daniella Nichinson is a fiction writer from Philadelphia where she is a recently disgruntled Eagles fan, an avid tennis player, and an old soul.