Saturday dawned bright and clear. The sun sparkled on the windows of the buildings. I decided I would use the morning to visit world famous Central Park. I planned my whole day of sight seeing. First, the Park, the Empire State Building would follow. The Metropolitan Museum would round the day. As I left the hotel at 8:05 am, my fate became irrevocably entwined with a mime just beginning his act at the same minute just seven blocks away in Central Park.
The sun may have been shining, but the air smelled of a strange mixture of diesel exhaust and a week old container of General Tsao’s chicken with extra soy sauce. The Latino doorman asked me if I needed a cab. I asked for directions to the Park and decided I would walk. There were more people crowding the sidewalk than you find in all of Montgomeryville, Indiana during the Fourth of July parade. I saw a shadow fall into step with mine. Looking left, I saw a wrinkled face leering at me from under a filthy NY Yankees baseball cap. His greasy hair stuck out straight out above his ears, like a pair of wings pushed out by the cap. His head looked like a fat goose attempting a take-off. He offered a toothless grin when he saw me notice him. I stopped short when he asked me for money. The man’s breath smelled like stale beer and his body smelled of sweaty feet and urine. He reeked.
“What will you use it for?” I asked, sure I was about to get a sorrowful tale about his hard life and how he just needed a decent meal or a clean bed.
“To get a bottle of Hooch, you idiot.” was his retort. Based on his honesty, I flipped the panhandler a quarter. He flipped me the bird and shouted an obscenity about how cheap I was. I could only stare dumbfounded. Here I had given a man a quarter of a dollar to put towards a bottle of liquor, and he was ungrateful. The ways of New York were certainly confusing.
Eventually, I came to the Park. The trees were just coming to bud, and the grass was poking a hesitant green through last years’ brown leaves and thatch. The faint chirps of birds were audible against the hum and buzz of the city. Some kids lazily kicked a ball near the bench were I sat to rest. I relaxed and took in the ambiance of the world’s most famous park.
Do you know how sometimes you get that funny feeling that gives you a chill and stands your hairs up on end? You know that creepy kind of jumpiness that makes you physically shudder? A shadow fell across the left side of my face just as I got one of those creepy, shivery, jump-in-your seat, cold chill, and hair rising on the back of the neck feelings. I looked up to see a man, about five-foot six, leering at me through white face paint and a red painted mouth. He was wearing a stripped shirt and a derby hat with a daisy in the band. He gestured with white-gloved hands. Oh God, it was a mime. Did I mention I hate mimes?
He laid a small plastic container on the ground near my feet. I could hear the jingle of coins as he placed it on the ground. I guessed he expected me to pay for his performance. The mime began to go into his act. Now I have to admit I am not the croissant and arts kind of guy you might expect. I really prefer John Wayne and Clint Eastwood to the opera. I have only seen brief mime performances on TV, but it was clear even to me, this guy was bad. It took me nearly a minute to figure out the jerky motions and contortions were supposed to represent an imaginary tug-of-war. I have to say, looking back; it was at this moment where I made my mistake. I laughed.
I looked the guy right in the eye, painted on tears and all, and said, “Man, I hope this is your very first day of this mime crap, because you suck. You are really bad.” He pretended to cry and plunged into his routine with a renewed effort. He pretended to be blown backward by a strong wind. I rose from my bench with a laugh and moved down the sidewalk. I was followed by the mime.
He ran about twenty paces ahead of me and began to mime sweeping the sidewalk. I moved around him. He trotted in front of me and pretended to look wistfully at an imaginary something in his hand -- maybe a flower. I laughed at his lousy performance and moved around him quickly with a shake of my head.
He again blocked my path and went into the trapped-in-a-box routine. This time he refused to move out of my way. I stepped left; he mirrored me, all the time badly pretending to push on an imaginary wall. I moved right. He was still there. His face was a study in concentration. It was almost as if he was obsessed with getting my approval. I began to get mad.
At this point, I faked left and rolled to the right, a move that left many a linebacker clutching at empty air in my day as running back for the Montgomeryville Eagles. The striped demon with the painted face anticipated my every move and stayed right with me, never breaking a motion in the bad glass wall act. He was beginning to breathe hard from the exertions of the mime and staying with me. Sweat streaked his makeup. I pushed him aside with my forearm and moved quickly ahead. He circled behind and appeared on my right flank. He made a quick sidestep and tripped me.
I looked up from the concrete as he moved into a live statue routine. I stood up and hit him. Hard. I broke his nose and split his lip. I hit him again as he fell. I kicked him in the ribs. I told him to stay away from me. I guess I was a little angry.
The next few minutes were a little hazy as I got my bearings and headed in the direction of the hotel. My pulse slowed and I was just beginning to look back at the entire episode in amazement when rounded a corner past a large azalea bush. There stood the crazy mime. His white face was smeared with sweat and tear tracks. Blood dripped from his nose; his lips were a bloody pulp. As I stopped short, he began the rope pull act again. It was still bad. He did the wind thing again. It was worse. He was crying, but he still had not said a word. I was in shock. As I moved to go around him, he again blocked my path, now frantic in his gestures and movements.
I am a pretty big guy, about six-three and two hundred and twenty pounds. I grew up on a farm and have always worked hard. I work out with free weights every other day. This mime made me lose all reason. He had to be stopped. I hit him with every ounce of strength I could summon. I then gave him a left hook to the midsection and followed with a right uppercut. As he rocked back on his heels, I measured him with a left jab and followed with a strong straight right to the chin. He dropped like a tree.
I quickly walked from the park heading for my hotel. I needed a beer. I had to get out of this crazy town. Eddie and I were supposed to see the Mets on Sunday, but I was ready to head out now.
As I moved through the revolving door of my hotel and straight for the bar, I missed a figure rounding the corner. He wore a dirty, ripped striped shirt. His hat was crushed. His face was bloody and he was crying. There was a look of hate in his eyes that gave everyone who saw him pause. They avoided him with a shiver and that “hair standing up–on-your–neck” feeling you sometimes get.
The sun may have been shining, but the air smelled of a strange mixture of diesel exhaust and a week old container of General Tsao’s chicken with extra soy sauce. The Latino doorman asked me if I needed a cab. I asked for directions to the Park and decided I would walk. There were more people crowding the sidewalk than you find in all of Montgomeryville, Indiana during the Fourth of July parade. I saw a shadow fall into step with mine. Looking left, I saw a wrinkled face leering at me from under a filthy NY Yankees baseball cap. His greasy hair stuck out straight out above his ears, like a pair of wings pushed out by the cap. His head looked like a fat goose attempting a take-off. He offered a toothless grin when he saw me notice him. I stopped short when he asked me for money. The man’s breath smelled like stale beer and his body smelled of sweaty feet and urine. He reeked.
“What will you use it for?” I asked, sure I was about to get a sorrowful tale about his hard life and how he just needed a decent meal or a clean bed.
“To get a bottle of Hooch, you idiot.” was his retort. Based on his honesty, I flipped the panhandler a quarter. He flipped me the bird and shouted an obscenity about how cheap I was. I could only stare dumbfounded. Here I had given a man a quarter of a dollar to put towards a bottle of liquor, and he was ungrateful. The ways of New York were certainly confusing.
Eventually, I came to the Park. The trees were just coming to bud, and the grass was poking a hesitant green through last years’ brown leaves and thatch. The faint chirps of birds were audible against the hum and buzz of the city. Some kids lazily kicked a ball near the bench were I sat to rest. I relaxed and took in the ambiance of the world’s most famous park.
Do you know how sometimes you get that funny feeling that gives you a chill and stands your hairs up on end? You know that creepy kind of jumpiness that makes you physically shudder? A shadow fell across the left side of my face just as I got one of those creepy, shivery, jump-in-your seat, cold chill, and hair rising on the back of the neck feelings. I looked up to see a man, about five-foot six, leering at me through white face paint and a red painted mouth. He was wearing a stripped shirt and a derby hat with a daisy in the band. He gestured with white-gloved hands. Oh God, it was a mime. Did I mention I hate mimes?
He laid a small plastic container on the ground near my feet. I could hear the jingle of coins as he placed it on the ground. I guessed he expected me to pay for his performance. The mime began to go into his act. Now I have to admit I am not the croissant and arts kind of guy you might expect. I really prefer John Wayne and Clint Eastwood to the opera. I have only seen brief mime performances on TV, but it was clear even to me, this guy was bad. It took me nearly a minute to figure out the jerky motions and contortions were supposed to represent an imaginary tug-of-war. I have to say, looking back; it was at this moment where I made my mistake. I laughed.
I looked the guy right in the eye, painted on tears and all, and said, “Man, I hope this is your very first day of this mime crap, because you suck. You are really bad.” He pretended to cry and plunged into his routine with a renewed effort. He pretended to be blown backward by a strong wind. I rose from my bench with a laugh and moved down the sidewalk. I was followed by the mime.
He ran about twenty paces ahead of me and began to mime sweeping the sidewalk. I moved around him. He trotted in front of me and pretended to look wistfully at an imaginary something in his hand -- maybe a flower. I laughed at his lousy performance and moved around him quickly with a shake of my head.
He again blocked my path and went into the trapped-in-a-box routine. This time he refused to move out of my way. I stepped left; he mirrored me, all the time badly pretending to push on an imaginary wall. I moved right. He was still there. His face was a study in concentration. It was almost as if he was obsessed with getting my approval. I began to get mad.
At this point, I faked left and rolled to the right, a move that left many a linebacker clutching at empty air in my day as running back for the Montgomeryville Eagles. The striped demon with the painted face anticipated my every move and stayed right with me, never breaking a motion in the bad glass wall act. He was beginning to breathe hard from the exertions of the mime and staying with me. Sweat streaked his makeup. I pushed him aside with my forearm and moved quickly ahead. He circled behind and appeared on my right flank. He made a quick sidestep and tripped me.
I looked up from the concrete as he moved into a live statue routine. I stood up and hit him. Hard. I broke his nose and split his lip. I hit him again as he fell. I kicked him in the ribs. I told him to stay away from me. I guess I was a little angry.
The next few minutes were a little hazy as I got my bearings and headed in the direction of the hotel. My pulse slowed and I was just beginning to look back at the entire episode in amazement when rounded a corner past a large azalea bush. There stood the crazy mime. His white face was smeared with sweat and tear tracks. Blood dripped from his nose; his lips were a bloody pulp. As I stopped short, he began the rope pull act again. It was still bad. He did the wind thing again. It was worse. He was crying, but he still had not said a word. I was in shock. As I moved to go around him, he again blocked my path, now frantic in his gestures and movements.
I am a pretty big guy, about six-three and two hundred and twenty pounds. I grew up on a farm and have always worked hard. I work out with free weights every other day. This mime made me lose all reason. He had to be stopped. I hit him with every ounce of strength I could summon. I then gave him a left hook to the midsection and followed with a right uppercut. As he rocked back on his heels, I measured him with a left jab and followed with a strong straight right to the chin. He dropped like a tree.
I quickly walked from the park heading for my hotel. I needed a beer. I had to get out of this crazy town. Eddie and I were supposed to see the Mets on Sunday, but I was ready to head out now.
As I moved through the revolving door of my hotel and straight for the bar, I missed a figure rounding the corner. He wore a dirty, ripped striped shirt. His hat was crushed. His face was bloody and he was crying. There was a look of hate in his eyes that gave everyone who saw him pause. They avoided him with a shiver and that “hair standing up–on-your–neck” feeling you sometimes get.
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