[Short Story] – Confessions of a Closet Mime

In 2002, I decided to come out of the closet… artistically speaking. I had always wanted to do some sort of crazy performance art, and walking around town as Taceo the Mime gave me a fun new creative outlet. This story was a natural extension of my experiences, and most of it is based on events that actually happened.

Because of the title and the theme, some people never seem to get past the surface and assume that I’m using this as an allegory to talk about a homosexual’s “coming out” experience. Being straight and happily married, I’ve never had to deal with such an experience, so I would have a hard time writing about it. No, what this story is really about is what happens when we find ourselves searching for a way to express whom we really, truly are and find that unique outlet that gives us a chance to finally speak up for ourselves. For me, mime was a passing fancy to pass the time, but for Tara in this story, it’s more of a spiritual awakening.

Confessions of a Closet Mime

By Sean Jordan
July 18th, 2001 (Revised February 11th, 2002)

Day 1

They say you should keep a journal whenever you take up a hobby. Not that I usually care what “they,” whoever they are, have to say. But in this case, it’s good advice. And I’m stalling.

I’m really nervous about even writing this, but I need to get it down on paper, if for nothing else than to affirm the truth to myself. So here goes… I’m just going to write it and sit here and read it.

I’m a mime.

Wow. I actually had the guts to get it on paper. And it feels good, I guess. It’s just too bad I can’t tell anyone else.
I should explain – it might help me sort things out a little bit. My name’s Tara Lindberg. I’m a senior in high school, an aspiring artist, and a hopeless failure so far as my parents are concerned. And you are… a piece of paper in a cheap spiral-bound notebook that has “Physics” written on the cover. Nice to meet you, and sorry about all this secrecy. And yes, I’m stalling again.

The problem is that my family has zero appreciation or interest in anything I enjoy. They want me to go to some big college and be an engineer, or a doctor or a lawyer or someone important-sounding who makes a lot of money. But I want to be an artist. I don’t know what kind; I’ve never had a chance to discover what I’m good at doing. Every time I’ve tried, my parents have told me I’ve got my head in the clouds and have kept me from exploring.

I’ve tried painting. I’ve tried music. I’ve tried drama and dance and poetry. I even flirted with puppeteering and sculpting at different points. But I’ve never been able to stick with any of them. After all, every attempt I’ve made to enrich my life artistically has been shot down by my family so that I won’t get “sidetracked” in my journey to become what they want me to be.

And that’s why I’m so nervous about this mime thing.

I don’t know how or where I got the idea to give pantomime a try. I remember when I was in the sixth grade I went trick-or-treating as a mime as a subtle joke (after all, how can a mime ask people for candy? No one got it.). Since then, I’ve practiced pantomime on my own, making faces at myself in the mirror, acting out strange scenes with invisible objects in my room, and even mimicking peoples’ motions to learn how they move. After years of doing this without thinking about it, it’s only recently occurred to me that maybe this is my form of expression that will unleash the artist within.

Someone’s coming, so I’ve got to stop for now. I’ll write more later.

Day 2

Only one day into the realization that I’m a mime, and I’ve already hit a major snag. This time, thankfully, it’s not my family. But it could turn out to be a much more practical concern; after all, how is one supposed to learn pantomime when there aren’t any mimes in the area to teach it?

The head of my high school’s drama department wasn’t exactly helpful. “I know there are some people who give clowning lessons,” she said. “That’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

One’s an art and the other’s a comedy routine, I thought about saying. That’s like comparing the fall play to the Three Stooges. But I bit my lip, thanked her, and left, not wanting to give away my secret. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to think of how I could explain the difference between clowns and mimes to a layman.

On the surface, I suppose, mimes and clowns are fairly similar; they both wear makeup, they both try to entertain through physical humor, and they both have a tendency to perform at carnivals, fairs, parades, and other “children’s” events. But that’s where the similarities end. Mimes wear makeup and costumes so that their facial expressions and body movements can be read clearly; clowns wear them because they attracts peoples’ attention and make them laugh. Mimes rarely use props; clowns carry around arsenals of them. And, of course, the major point: mimes are silent, completely focused on nonverbal communication, while clowns tell bad jokes and ask people if they’d like balloon animals.

I think the truth is that somewhere down the line, mimes and clowns became arch-enemies. The clowns obviously won; that’s why mimes are so scarce these days. I have this picture in my head of an epic battle where clowns wielding giant novelty double-bladed axes are cutting down legions of surprised-looking mimes who are feebly waving invisible rapiers in a vain effort to defend themselves. Maybe that explains my rather irrational fear of clowns, too; as a mime, they would, after all, be my natural enemy.

But then again, maybe I’m reading too much into things. And on that note, reading is exactly what I intend to do – I was, at least, able to find a couple of books on pantomime at the library, and I’m hoping they’ll be helpful.

Day 3

I really think people should be required to cut down their own trees if they want to waste paper. Especially the author of “Mime for Morons,” an insultingly worthless book that points out all of the obvious things about pantomime with none of the necessary instruction on how to seriously approach the art… or the theory behind it.

Most of the book explains simple mime “tricks” like “how to get trapped in a box,” “how to walk an invisible dog,” and “how to blow up an invisible balloon.” There is no technique to the movements; the author is more concerned that they’re “exaggerated and amusing” than artistically expressive. What a joke.

The other book, however, was almost too much – it was written by a serious French mime who was heavily into the theory and who assumed quite a bit of knowledge on the part of the reader. Much of the practical information I was looking for – instructions for exercises, basic movements, and the like – was alluded to but never given. I enjoyed learning more about the ideas a professional mime had about the art, but it really didn’t help me to move farther in my own practice. So I guess I’ll have to keep working on things blindly until I can find some better resources.

My mother almost caught me yesterday during one of my little practice sessions. I was trying to climb through an invisible window, and as I envisioned it in front of me and began trying to figure out how to open it and put my leg over the sill, she opened my door and walked into my room with a pile of laundry. Quickly, I went into a different pose and acted as if I’d been exercising, and she looked at me oddly.

“What were you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Stretching,” I said, standing up straight and looking at her as if it was a stupid question. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said with a look of disbelief on her face, and left. I decided to play it safe and work on facial expressions for awhile after that, just in case she tried to barge back in and catch me in the act.

I really don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep this from my family, I really don’t. But I can’t give them the opportunity to ruin this for me before I get a chance to see just where it can take me.

Day 4

I gave my first performance today, and I think it went pretty well.

I told my parents I had a project to work on and that I’d be home late after school, which bought me a couple of hours in the afternoon to give this mime thing a try. As soon as my last class was over, I darted out of the building and across the street to the city park. I made a beeline for the restroom and, once inside, quickly changed into black pants, a white shirt, black suspenders and white gloves. Next, I pulled out a can of white shoe polish and painted my face white and highlighted my eyebrows and lips with a black makeup pencil. Looking in the mirror once I was finished, I felt rather ridiculous, but after a moment, I smiled. I’m a mime now, and no one can stop me, I realized. I hid my bookbag under one of the sinks and went outside to begin exploring.

At first, all I did was walk around nonchalantly, pretending to whistle and looking around as if I was simply out for a stroll. No one seemed to notice me at first, but as I got closer to the park’s playground, I noticed several children dart away from me towards their parents in terror. “She’s just a mime,” they’d explain, and beckon me over to try to show their little ones that I wasn’t as scary as I looked. Most of them warmed up to me after a moment, and a few even boldly asked me why I couldn’t talk. I just shrugged, not really knowing how to explain without speaking.

One parent really rubbed me the wrong way, though; she kept asking me to “do that trapped in a box trick.” I refused, flailing my arms around to show her that there was no box, and she got frustrated after awhile and, hissing some expletives at me, walked away. I wanted to convey to her that I’m an artist, not a dog, and that I don’t do tricks, but I couldn’t think of a good way to show her that. So I threw an invisible tomato at her instead.

After about an hour of this routine, I was beginning to realize how little I could really do. The few actions I had been practicing, which involved making invisible balloon animals, pretending to juggle, and walking into an invisible door and trying to get it open, began wearing thin very quickly, and the small audience I eventually attracted got tired of my performance pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before I got tired of it too and, sighing silently, went back to the restroom, changed my clothes, and started cleaning the makeup off my face. And then I realized the big mistake I’d made.

Had I thought things through a little better, I might have realized that white shoe polish is really hard to get off your skin, particularly the face. I spent about 30 minutes scrubbing myself raw with a washcloth before finally settling for a slightly pale complexion. Thankfully, my parents weren’t home when I got back; all I found was a note saying that they’d gone out to dinner and a movie and not to wait up for them or throw any parties.

My brother, however, was a different story.

“I saw you out there today,” he said as I was looking over the note. “What were you doing?”

“Pantomime,” I said nonchalantly, hoping my disinterested tone wouldn’t clue him in to my secret. “I just thought it’d be fun to do something crazy for a change.”

“Weirdo” was all he said in reply. I just hope he won’t mention it to mom and dad before this weekend. I think I’m going to spend Saturday morning at the mall, giving myself another shot at this mime thing. Because, truth be told, I really enjoyed my little performance today.

And for the first time in a long time, I really felt like I was expressing myself.

Day 5

So, a valuable lesson has been learned: shoe polish is really hard to get off your face. Maybe there’s a trick to it I haven’t figured out. But it doesn’t matter; after a quick trip to a theatrical makeup shop today, I picked up some tips and supplies that should help me out at the mall tomorrow. Hopefully, this stuff will come off a little easier.

The experience of buying it was an interesting story, actually. I walked into the store a bit nervously, not sure of how to ask for what I really wanted. I glanced up towards the woman at the counter, who was eyeing me with a bored look on her face. She looked like a colorblind gypsy, wearing a strange-looking outfit full of clashing purples, greens, and blues, her face so caked with makeup that I almost thought she was wearing a mask. I’m not really sure I want her advice, I thought, but after looking around for a moment in frustration, I approached the counter gingerly.

“I’m, uh, looking for some makeup,” I said nervously, turning to face her. She said nothing and simply stared at me blankly, as if she wouldn’t come to life unless I gave her some specific command. “Uh… white face makeup, actually. And a black makeup pencil.”

She stared at me for a moment. “What, are you a mime or something?” she asked finally, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Uh, no! No way! Of course not!” I protested quickly, and then, with a sinking, selling-out feeling, “I’m, uh, dressing up like a clown for a kid’s party.”

“Clowns, mimes, they’re all the same when it comes to makeup,” she said, and pointed towards a shelf with her eyes. “Clown white’s over there, and makeup pencils are right next to it. What size do you need?”

Embarrassed, I walked over to the shelf and picked up a pencil. “Uh, this one should be about right,” I said with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Um, sure!” I replied with a shrug. “I just need something to draw some stuff on my face and highlight my eyebrows.”

She rolled her eyes. I was beginning to wonder if any other parts of her body could move. “I don’t think that’s what you want. Maybe you should let me help you out here. What kind of face do you need?”

I looked down, a bit ashamed. “You said it already. A mime.”

“OK, so what you need is some clown white, a lip and eye pencil, and a thicker one for outlines,” she said, and suddenly came to life, getting up and picking several items up from around the store. Her actions were careful and almost practiced, and I had a sense, for just a moment, that despite her appearance, she did know what she was talking about. “You got some baby powder at home?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, a bit surprised. “Why?”

“Wash your face with cold water, dry it, and start putting on some of the white with your fingers,” she said, gesturing lightly with her fingers. “Smear it on, then smooth it out, and then powder it and let it set. Give it a few minutes, and then you can start outlining. What color do you want your lips?”

“Uh, black,” I said, surprised. She reached past me and picked up another little container.

“Mimes usually do red, but you can do black. Lip gloss would probably be the best thing for that. Put it on, then outline with your liner. I’d try mascara for the lashes and a medium sized outline pencil for the eyebrows. You got gloves?”

“Gloves?” I asked, surprised.

“Mimes wear white gloves, don’t they?” she asked, but didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Seven dollars. You need anything else?”

“Uh, nope, I think that’ll do me,” I said in a bit of a daze as she rung up my order. “Uh, thanks. I’m kind of relieved you’re OK with this whole mime thing.”

The woman looked at me blankly. “I grew up in San Francisco,” she said dully. “Believe me when I say I’ve seen everything, mimes included.”

“Uh, gotcha,” I said, and quickly paid her. As she took my money, she smiled lightly.

“It’s nice to see we’ve got some culture around here, at least,” she said, her voice still devoid of much emotion. A dull twinkle lit up in her eyes for just a moment. “People around here are too conservative – suck the life right out of you. Been a long time since I’ve dealt with any mimes. Great people, you know. Quiet. But a lot of fun.”

I thanked her and started to leave, a little unsure what to make of this. “You’re always welcome to perform here,” she said as I opened the door. I turned around and looked back at her for just a moment. She had a slightly excited look on her face.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks again.” And I left, wondering if I’d awakened something in this clearly artistically-starved woman.
Unfortunately, walking into my house with a bag from a theatrical makeup store didn’t exactly thrill my parents.

“Not the drama thing again,” my dad groaned as he spotted the store’s masked comedy and tragedy logo. “C’mon, Tara, I thought you were done with that stuff.”

“Her brother said she was out in the park dressed up as a mime yesterday,” my mother said curtly. My dad’s face furrowed a bit as he looked up at me in anger.

“A mime? Is that true?” he demanded.

“I was just having some fun,” I said darkly, glaring back at him.

“Fun?” he exploded. “Didn’t it occur to you that people might recognize you out there? That they might talk about what bad parents we are to let our daughter go out parading like some kind of…”

“…deviant?” my mother finished for him, returning my glare. “Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself, Tara?”

And so here I am now, sitting in my room, the result of an explosive argument about expression and free thought. They took my makeup away, but I’ll get it back. After all, I’ve still got a performance planned for tomorrow morning.

Day 6

Today was an interesting day.

I got up early and retrieved my mime makeup, and then spent a few hours in my room practicing some movements and warming up. When 10:00 rolled around, I put on some black pants and a white shirt, threw my hat, suspenders and makeup into a plastic grocery bag, made some excuses to my family about needing to run errands, and headed off towards the mall, seriously psyched about performing.

I changed in the ladies’ room, drawing a little more attention to myself than I would have liked. Several women, on their way in and out, gave me odd looks as I applied the makeup, and eventually one little girl boldly walked up and asked me what I was doing while she waited for her mother.

“I’m turning into a mime,” I said with a grin. She stepped back, but I stooped down and gently placed her face on my face so that she could feel the makeup.

“Is it contagious?” she asked, terrified. I laughed.

“No, but it’s fun,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”

She seemed a little more at ease now, and looked up at me curiously.

“Don’t you hafta be quiet?” she asked.

“In a little bit, when I draw a line around my face,” I said. “Then I’ll be a mime.”

She watched silently as I put on my lip gloss and began outlining my eyes and lips. “Do you have a name?” she asked after a moment.

“Mimic,” I said without hesitation, thinking to myself Where did that come from? The girl smiled.

“That’s pretty,” she said. Suddenly, her mother walked onto the scene and, with a disapproving sigh, dragged her daughter away. “But I was just talkin’ to the mime, mom!” Her mother lectured in return about talking to strangers. As I began outlining my face with a black oval, I thought but I’m not a stranger. I’m a mime.

Moments later, I was walking around the mall nonchalantly as if I was window shopping. Everywhere I went, people were staring at me, waving, pointing, or making remarks. I tried to pretend as if I was oblivious to them, and even pretended to be whistling as I strolled along.

I passed a security guard, who gave me an odd look and went for his radio. I heard him say something about a mime into it, but he didn’t approach me, so I continued walking.

Eventually, I wandered into the food court and decided to give a small performance. I joined a line for a pizza place and, after tapping my foot and looking at my invisible watch every few seconds with a silent sigh, I strode up to the counter confidently when it was my turn to order. I pretended to muse as I looked up at the menu, ignoring the stunned look on the face of the teenage boy who was running the register. Finally, after a moment’s deliberation, I pointed at one of the pizzas in the display case and made a triangle with my hands before patting my stomach and licking my chops.

“You want the pepperoni, right?” the boy asked with a puzzled look on his face. I nodded with a hungry smile on my face. “All right, you want a drink with that?”

I nodded, and pointed to the Coke logo on the soda fountain. “All right, Coke then. $4.50.”

I pulled out my invisible wallet and, opening it up and looking in it, looked up rather sheepishly as I turned it upside down. The boy rolled his eyes.

“No money, I see. Well, sorry, but we can’t sell you anything if you don’t have any money. Next!”

The customer behind me looked a bit perplexed as well, so I shook his hand, pretended to tip my hat, and walked away. And, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the security guard from earlier walking into the food court.

Before long, I was back in the mall, so I resumed my strolling routine. As I reached another courtyard area, I stopped for a moment and pretended to lean against an invisible wall as I looked back and forth, trying to decide where to go. A few children approached, and I stood up straight, pretended to pull some balloons from my pocket and began blowing up invisible balloon animals. One of the kids caught on right away and asked me for a cat, so I labored away and extended my hands after a moment. He smiled as he took the invisible animal from me, and a few of the other children made requests. I began blowing up another invisible balloon, but suddenly jumped backwards, startled, and began waving my fingers in the air. Another one of the kids realized what was going on and shouted “the balloon popped!”

More children were gathering now, and I made a few more balloon animals before leaning back on my invisible wall and breathing heavily as if I needed to take a break. “Is that wall real?” a girl from the crowd asked. I nodded and, gently taking her hand, placed it flat in the air next to mine as if it were connecting to an invisible surface. She seemed very surprised as I did so, and several of the other children followed her lead, placing their hands near mine in the same fashion.

“It’s real!” one of them cried.

“No it’s not!” another one said. “It’s fake!”

“I can feel it!” the little girl shouted. Other children began chiming in, and an argument over whether or not the wall was actually there broke out. I walked away, smiling; none of the children seemed to notice. But after I got a few feet away from them, I felt a very real finger tapping on my shoulder. I jumped as if surprised and whirled around suddenly, pretending to have a big stick in my hand to ward off the finger’s owner. And I found myself face-to-face with the security guard from before.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing?” he asked.

My eyes got wide and I pretended to hide the stick behind my back with one hand as I explained with the other. “I’m window shopping,” I gestured, moving my lips as if I was speaking.

The guard looked at me strangely. “All right, well, whatever you’re doing, you can’t do it here. The makeup’s a security problem.”

“Really?” I gestured, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.

“Yep. Burglary,” he said, matter-of-factly. “No one knows who you are.”

I smiled nicely. “But I’m very nice,” I gestured, fluttering my eyes a bit.

“Performance artists have to be cleared by the main office,” he continued. I looked at him blankly. “Monday through Friday. Nine to Five.”
I held my free hand up to my face like a telephone receiver.

“555-5251,” he said without missing a beat. “OK?”

I nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, and pointed towards a door. “The exit’s right over there.”

He turned around and started to walk away, so I bonked him with my stick. He didn’t seem to notice, but some of the passerbys who had been watching the confrontation started laughing. He turned around and, looking at me sternly, pointed once more towards the exit. I stomped towards the door, throwing my stick to the side and scowling. Several people began clapping as I left, and I looked back at them sadly.

Once I was outside, I sat down on the pavement for a moment and pretended to be writing something on an invisible board I picked up from the ground. After a moment, I stood up and began marching around, carrying an invisible sign, shaking my fist, and silently shouting in protest. Most of the people who passed by were genuinely confused, and a few shouted out things to me, mostly inane comments about being trapped in boxes and so forth. Eventually, the mall’s public safety patrol car rolled up next to me, and two security officers got out and approached me. A small crowd of curious people began to form.

“Listen, this is very cute, but if you don’t stop, we’re gonna have to call the cops,” one of them said.

“What’re you guys gonna do?” someone called out. “Tell her she’s got the right to remain silent?” This got a few chuckles from the crowd, but the security officers didn’t look amused.

I held up my index finger and mouthed “First amendment rights.”

“That’s free speech!” someone in the crowd shouted. “You haven’t said anything!”

“Private property,” one of the officers said. “We’re trying to be nice about this, but if you’re going to be a nuisance, we can have you arrested.”

I saw a someone in the crowd start taking pictures, so I decided to stand firm. With a resolved glare, I held out my hands as if to say “cuff me.”

The officers looked exasperated. “Listen, ma’am,” one of them said, then thought about his words for a moment. “Yeah. You can hear, you just can’t talk.”

I stuck my fingers in my ears. Several people in the crowd laughed.

“Call the cops,” the other one said, shaking his head in disgust. “We’re not getting paid enough to deal with this.”

At this point, I realized I’d probably pushed things a bit too far. “No wait,” I gestured, holding up my hand. And slowly, sadly and heavily, as if bearing a great burden, I walked away, past the crowd, out into the parking lot. A few people booed, but most of them just shook their heads and walked away.

One, however, chased after me. “Hey, mime, hold on a second!” he said. I turned around, and waited for him to catch up. “I’m Merv Robertson, from the Herald. I got a few pictures back there, and was just wondering if I could get some caption information.”

I smiled and began mouthing my name and address. He grinned and shook his head.

“Maybe I’d better have you write it down,” he said, handing me a notebook. “You can do that, right?”

So I wrote down my name, Mimic the Mime, and a brief explanation of what’d been going on. He looked it over carefully as I handed it back to him and said “Um, I need your real name too.”

“That is my real name,” I gestured and nodded. He looked a little confused, but said “Um, OK, thanks!” and walked away. I turned around and, trying to keep myself from laughing, made my way towards my car. Once I climbed inside, I grabbed a towel and a bottle of water and, as I placed the towel over my face and broke the outline with a corner, I started laughing so hard I was having trouble breathing. And I didn’t stop for a long time.

Day 7

As of today, I’m out of the closet.

And boy, am I in trouble.

There was a picture of me in the paper this morning standing in front of the security officers. The caption named me as “Mimic the Mime,” but my parents recognized me right away. And, unfortunately, so did several family friends who called later in the day, rather concerned to see that I’d pulled such a crazy stunt.

They threatened to take away my makeup, but when I wouldn’t give it to them, they took my car keys instead. I was lectured up and down about how this artist stuff is a pipe dream and how I need to face the reality that I’ve got to get a real job if I ever want to make money. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not allowed to be a mime anymore. And, as I sat there, silently pretending to listen, I was trying very hard not to laugh at the irony of a situation where I was expressing what I felt – a dull, quiet boredom – through my actions.

It’s not like they can stop me anyhow. I don’t have to dress up or wear makeup to be a mime. I don’t even have to stay silent. I just have to let my motion express my emotion. And let my creativity be poured into finding new and different ways to do it.

I was thinking about the old cliche of the mime who’s trapped in the invisible box. The mime begins by exploring her surroundings and discovers that she’s trapped in a world where the walls are closing in. But as she begins to push, she realizes that the walls can move backwards as well. And then suddenly, she pushes a wall down and escapes into a world where there are no boundaries – and where every obstacle is a new adventure.

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Writing Scraps

by Sean J. Jordan