Literary Agent Orson: Mime Crime: A Cautionary Tragedy

Three mimes posed before Jackson Square like stone statues: Winged Mercury, covered in gold paint from head to toe, stood frozen in mid flight atop an overturned galvanized steel pail. The Tin Man, also covered in head to toe paint, silver, stood a dozen feet away, stiff, in mid stride. Between the two crouched an unmoving doe. Three lives of glacial stillness. Passing children gawked, taunted and poked, but got only stony silence.

The Tennessee Williams Festival had been a success, and the French Quarter was packed as Orson and his writers sipped Café au Lait at Café du Monde. Nearby a trumpeter blew a decent rendition of Moon River beneath a perfect New Orleans spring sky. Tourists ambled by. The Pontalba apartments bracketed Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral loomed above the whole stage.

“I may not be cut out for writing. I’m just not smart enough. That conference was so intimidating,” Mary moaned.

“That’s silly,” Sara had to lean in to be heard, “you’re one of the smartest people I know,” she lied. The two sat at a table near the low fence in the crowded cafe.

“I heard a funny recipe today.” Mary brightened.

“Tell, tell.”

“So while Europe has slept--” Garth proclaimed.

Mary tried to drown out Garth’s loud mouth. He and Orson sat at the next table, and Garth spoke loudly to be heard over the din. “Like, I’m a vegan,” she said, “Thank God. Because this was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard in my life! Ever. Gross.”

“Wow. That bad?” Sara responded.

“Yes.”

“Islam has quietly established an advance guard throughout the continent,” Garth went on. “Their liberal policies will come back to haunt them.”

That's baloney, Orson thought.

“Remarkable.” Sara leaned and said to Mary. She looked at Garth with contempt, “he’s oblivious.”

“And stupid,” Mary hissed back. “Really, really, really stupid. Anyway, I saw this on Glen Beck in my hotel room earlier.”

Orson tried to catch the eye of a server, but she sped by. Garth was always on some paranoid jag. Bored, Orson checked the mimes. Just then the fawn broke character, got up and walked away. As she passed in front of the Tin Man, he made a giant kissing noise without moving. She crossed Decatur Street to use the public restroom. The Tin Man’s eyes followed her the whole way. Orson noticed Mercury hadn’t moved a muscle, but his eyes strained to look over at the Tin Man. Orson looked closer. To Orson it seemed the Tin Man sneered and tried to look back at golden Mercury. Neither moved. Orson smiled. Now that’s entertainment, he thought.

“Oh my God, you watch Glen Beck? He’s the worst,” said Sara.

“The Islamic birth rate is over 7 children per household and not one western European country even has replacement birth rate,” Garth continued.

Deliver me, oh Lord, Orson said to himself, I will become a believer if you will only deliver me.

“My boyfriend’s addicted to him. But wait, you haven’t heard the worst. Wait till you hear his deranged recipe for slow cooked frogs. Yuck. First of all, if you throw live frogs in boiling water, they’ll jump right out and escape. Beck says you won’t catch those frogs again. Did you know that? I didn’t. So this is how you cook frogs…”

Sara stared at her.

“By 2020 in all of Europe, and half of Asia the Caliphate will be established, and if America’s not careful…” Garth slogged on.

Ugh, I DON”T CARE, I’m here for the entertainment, Orson thought. Wait, did Mercury just move? Orson squinted. It seemed Mercury was straining. I’m imagining things, wishful thinking, Orson thought. The deer returned, and Tin Man’s eyes followed her. He whistled low as she passed closely. She brushed her hair and then struck a new pose. Mercury’s eyes strained to take the whole thing in, but he didn’t move a muscle. Orson was tickled. Hundreds of people around, and only he was aware; only he saw the show within the show.

“You place a dozen frogs in a pot of cold water. That’s their normal habitat, and start a very low flame underneath. You turn the heat up very slowly. Beck said frogs get suspicious if you turn the heat up too fast.”

“Really? Who’da thunk it. I didn’t know frogs were that smart!” Sara realized Mary was joking and played along.

“We’ll be next. Islam seeks total world domination, nothing less. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who sees it,” Garth rambled, but Orson hadn’t heard a word. Mercury was in retrograde. He couldn’t take his eyes off the play. This comedy is just for me, he imagined.

“Turn the heat up by slow increments and the frog grows drowsy. Finally he goes to sleep. Soon enough, voila! Slow cooked frog. Poor frog never knew what hit him. Doesn’t that sound gross?! Ewwwe. I’m glad I’m a vegan!”

Sara blinked and looked incredulous; unsure.

As Orson watched, Mercury leapt off his pail. Orson flinched, "what the..." Mercury stormed toward the Tin Man, who turned and walked quickly up St Ann Street to escape Mercury’s wrath. The scene was so completely surreal, Orson burst into laughter.

They’d never seen Orson laugh before.

“That’s a serious business,” Garth said as he looked on. “I think we’re about to see a mime crime.”

“Mime crime?” Orson doubled in hysterics.

“Are you okay, is he okay?” Sara asked, now worried. No sound came from him. They couldn’t tell if he was laughing or dying.

“Cassandra,” he called Garth, when he could, “it’s part of the show.”

The Tin Man ran weaving and dodging through the crowd as fast as he could, but Mercury gained. They ran into the east gate of Jackson Square, and Orson lost sight of them. “Oh God that was funny,” he wiped his eyes and regained composure. “I haven’t laughed so hard since I was a child. Enough with the dire predictions, Garth.”

If he was hurt by that rebuke, Garth’s face didn’t betray it.

Suddenly the Tin Man burst out of the south gate of Jackson Square and sent tourists sprawling, he dashed across Decatur Street and turned in their direction with Mercury in hot pursuit.

They stood. “Heed my warning: This can come to no good,” Garth prophesied. Orson would have laughed, but he didn’t have time. They drew near and he wanted to see the act’s end.

“Shut up, Cassandra, it’s the final act.” His hands poised to clap as soon as the play was complete.

At that moment, the Tin Man was overcome by Mercury and the pair fell just the other side of the low fence at Orson’s feet. Mercury delivered five very convincing blows to the Tin Man’s torso and then flung something into the English Ivy lining the retaining wall. "You never took anything seriously, never took her seriously, so I deliver you... to Hades," Mercury rasped in Tin Man's ear. Someone screamed . The Tin Man’s silver shirt slowly turned black. Orson stood, hands held high, a pasty stone statue as a scarlet pool billowed around his shoes.