When on Safari, The Careful Hunter Carries a Mime-Rifle

I promised Nelson I would tell a good mime story in the wake of describing Blue Man Group to him. Besides my uncanny ability to summon deer, I can also call an army of mimes to my immediate aid. I will pass on the knowledge of this arcane skill if you promise to use it only if you are in desperate need and there is no other way out.

Back in the day, I used to go to New Orleans all the time. Southern Miss was about 90 minutes away, so Friday afternoon, we’d pile in to my truck and hit the town. New Orleans was a special place. At first, you go to all the places college kids go. But then you find your own places. Good bookstores, quiet places to sit, bars where the real music is. Was? New Orleans at once benefited and suffered from its reputation. You had to go to the Prytania. Eat at Frankie and Johnny’s, and you didn’t show your face there if you didn’t love the Saints.

I got lost in Algiers one night, stopped at a gas station. The cashier was in a cinder block hut with thick glass. He had a box you put money in, so no one was getting to him. I walked up, and before I could say a word, he said, “Son, you turn left over there. You can go east or west after that, but whatever you do, get your a** out of here.” It could be a tough place, but somehow, folks took care of the naïve kid I was in those days. Like the clerk at the A&P who wouldn’t give me directions to some place I was looking for. “You got no business there, boy. Your mama would never forgive me if I told you how to get there.” And no, it was not The House of the Rising Sun.

I had a professor who was a little like Niles and Frasier Crane—everything was supposed to be civilized and proper. We were on our way to see Strauss’ Elektra at the Opera House (I told you it was like Frasier Crane…) We got lost and I stopped and asked for directions at a dive under I-10. Man, was that place under water during Katrina. Anyhoo, we got directions and he asked what the name of the bar was, because the sign had him guessing: “The Shatto.”

I reluctantly told him it was “The Chateau.” He almost stroked out; couldn’t believe he had gone in to not just a dive, but one with such a terrible misspelling!

I could tell you a hundred stories. I’d have more, but one year, a woman shot her cousin for cutting in line at a Port-A-Potty and I figured maybe I didn’t need to go back…

My friend Shawn had this boyfriend. He was not the sharpest tool in the shed. In Jackson Square, there are all kinds of street performers. Tarot card readers, Olympia Brass Band, jugglers, you name it. For a few weeks there was an absolutely beautiful barefoot woman singing old time country with a jug band. They looked like they had just come out of the bayou, and maybe they had. There were also mimes.

Now, I have inherited from my mother a pathological horror of mimes. But I am also fascinated by them, so much so I sometimes want to learn mime. Anyway, Shawnie’s boyfriend saw one who was standing stock-still. She was so still he did not believe she was real. He kept mouthing that she must be a statue. Well, he decided to find out so he smacked her. She was real, alright. She immediately began screaming and shouting, “Richard! Richard!” Mimes descended on him, and it wasn’t silent and it wasn’t, well, mime. He took a beating. I’ve been in some rough places, y’all. And I am telling you, you would rather knock over all the motorcycles at The Satan’s Helpers Biker Bar than tangle with angry mimes.

But: if you are ever in dire need, shout out the mime-underground alert, “Richard!” and help will be there.