Have you ever been mimed?
I have, and let me tell you,
when it happened I didn’t have a good time.
We were in Rhode Island, a little town named
Misquamicut, a weird-sounding name, but I kid you nut.
There were five of us, young and full of booze
out to hear a band called “Roomful of Blues.”
We got our beers and were standing around as guys will do,
checking out the scene by which I mean the women, too.
An artsy type, in beret and whiteface decided to
come over and invade our space;
not that it was anything much to speak of;
still, it didn’t need someone to be the freak of.
He stood there and stared, quite the gawker.
I tried to ignore him—I wanted to hear T-Bone Walker.
But every time I shifted, yawned or scratched
he’d reflect it back at me, as if we were matched.
I’m glad I saw him, I might have dug in my ear or
played pocket pool in my groin. That would have
been embarrassing, having to pretend I was looking for a coin.
It was as if I was looking in a mirror;
If I took a sip, he’d drink an imaginary beer.
If I tapped my foot, he would also do so.
It’s annoying to have your own Marcel Marceau.
We had him outnumbered, we could have jumped him.
Still, there’s something about mimes; it seemed unfair to thump him.
Eventually the guy got bored and decided to go away,
an effect I have on people to this very day.