William Rabkin - The Call of the Mild

“Just look straight ahead and keep walking,” Shawn said. “Whatever happens, keep walking.”

Gus didn’t need Shawn to tell him that. He still remembered that terrible day on the Santa Barbara Pier fifteen years ago when he had been targeted for mockery by a particularly cruel mime. By the time he escaped into the crowd, Gus had witnessed such a vicious deconstruction of his walk that he was paralyzed by self-consciousness and unable to get out of bed for a week.

Balling up their trash and tossing it in a receptacle, Shawn and Gus walked slowly but determinedly away from the snack bar, past the bathrooms, and towards the exit. As they rounded the ticket booth, Gus noticed that Shawn wasn’t next to him anymore.

“He’s gone,” Shawn said.

Gus stopped walking, but refused to turn his head to see Shawn behind him.. “You looked back?”

“No,” Shawn said. “Not really. More of a glance. A glimpse, maybe.”

“That’s what they all say, right before they turn into a pillar of salt.”

“Better than being a pillar of Jell-O,” Shawn said.

“Yeah?” Gus said. “Wait until it rains and see which pillar lasts longer.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Shawn said. “There’s more to life than how long you can stand out in the rain without melting.”

“If there is, I haven’t come across it,” Gus said, still refusing to cast a backwards glance. “Can we go now?”

Apparently not. Shawn hadn’t moved. He was staring back towards the snack bar, looking for the vanished mime. “There was something wrong with that mime,” Shawn said.

“By definition,” Gus said.

“No, something else,” Shawn said, still looking back where they’d last seen the mime. “Something I noticed but didn’t register until after we left.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Gus spoke quietly. “You mean like he had a gun pointed at my head?”

“I think I would have noticed that a little quicker,” Shawn said. “No, it was-”

“Shawn!”

“Yes?”

“The mime has a gun pointed at my head.”

Shawn turned back to his partner. The mime stood in front of Gus, his white-gloved hand leveling a gleaming pistol at Gus’ forehead.

“Please,” the mime said. “Don’t make me kill you.”

There was another long, silent moment.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk,” Shawn finally said.

“Put your hands up,” the mime said through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

“Absolutely.” Shawn’s arms shot up in the air. Gus’ followed quickly.

“Now turn around and walk towards the bathrooms.”

Shawn and Gus turned around, their hands high in the air. Shawn waved his back and forth, trying to attract some attention.

“You’re never going to get away with this,” Gus said. “There are dozens of witnesses.”

“And they’re all staring right at us,” Shawn said, waving his hands wildly. With each wave, another few people turned towards them.

Gus and Shawn exchanged a look; then Gus shouted to the throng of parents, kids, and gardeners who were staring at them from the snack bar area. “Help! He’s got a gun!”

Gus didn’t know what to expect. Best-case scenario would be a squad of beefy, well-armed security experts descending on them. Second best might be dozens of cell phones dialing 911 at the same instant. He would have settled for one irate mom with a canister of pepper spray on her keychain.

What he didn’t expect was what happened. The crowd was still for a moment. Then they burst into laughter.

“Don’t laugh,” Gus commanded them. “This is serious. He could kill us!”

But the crowd only laughed harder.

“Has this whole town gone crazy?” Gus asked Shawn.

“Look behind you,” Shawn said.

Gus risked a glance over his shoulder. The mime had hidden his gun under his shirt. To the crowd of onlookers, it might well have been his finger. His painted face was alternating between a mask of furious anger and an impressively accurate impersonation of Gus’ fear.

“I so do not look like that,” Gus said.

“Really?” Shawn said. “This man is holding us at gunpoint, and you’re worried that his imitation of you is too mean?”

The killer mime said something urgent and harsh. It sounded like “ash oon.” Shawn and Gus turned back to look at him and saw that as he said the syllables again, his ruby lips were locked into an evil scowl. Because of course he couldn’t let his audience see him speaking.

“Ash oon?” Shawn said. “I’m afraid we don’t know what that is.”

There was a click from under the mime’s shirt. He had cocked the pistol.

“But if you wanted us to step into the bathroom, we could do that,” Shawn said.

As the crowd cheered them on, Shawn and Gus marched towards the public restrooms, a low, wide building faced with river rock and brown-painted wood.

“Inside,” the mime hissed. Shawn pushed the door open and led Gus in. The mime followed them inside and slid a latch locked behind them, as the faint sounds of applause came through the walls.

The bathroom was surprisingly clean for a public facility in midsummer. The linoleum floor was shiny and dry; the three stalls’ white paint was fresh and unmarked by graffiti. All the discarded paper towels had somehow made it into the receptacles. And the room deodorizer was a mild clove scent.

Still, there were many other places Gus would have preferred to be. And none of them contained gun-toting mimes.

“Take off your clothes and throw them on the ground,” the mime said.

Shawn winced. “My mother always told me not to take off my clothes for strange men in a public restroom.”

“Then I’ll shoot you,” the mime said. “If I have to kill you to protect Rushmore, I will.”

“I know some people really love that movie,” Shawn said,

“but this seems a little over the top. And can you really tell me that Olivia Williams would have ever forgiven that idiot kid after he almost killed Bill Murray?”

“Stop it!” the mime shouted. “Get undressed now!”

“I don’t see a back door in this building,” Gus said. “Once you pull that trigger, everyone outside will know you’re not an adorable mime.”

“If such a thing exists,” Shawn said.

“How long do you think that latch will hold out once the police bring the battering ram?” Gus said.

“I’ve got six bullets in my gun,” the mime said. “Two for you, three for him, and one left over for myself. The latch will hold out long enough for that.”

“How come I get three and he only gets two?” Shawn said.

“Take off your clothes,” the mime said. “I won’t tell you again.”

“What do we do?” Gus whispered to Shawn.

Shawn stared at the mime. Then he lowered his gaze and pulled off his T-shirt.

“You, too,” the mime snapped at Gus.

It took Gus a lot longer to get down to his boxers than it did Shawn, who had apparently dressed with exactly this scenario in mind. Even his shoes were slip-ons, which he slipped off in less than a second. Everything Gus was wearing seemed to have more buttons than he remembered, and his fingers slipped and fumbled with every one. Somehow the laces on his standard brown dress shoes had been tied into triple knots, and it took what felt like hours for him to undo them. After a few more hours, Gus stood next to Shawn, dressed only in his boxer shorts, his bare feet adhering to the linoleum.

“I didn’t say get ready to go swimming,” the mime said.

“All your clothes.”

Gus wanted to sneak a look at Shawn to see what he was going to do. But he didn’t dare. He was afraid he’d find courage in his friend’s eyes, and then he’d refuse to do what the mime was demanding, and then they’d both be dead. He bent down and quickly stripped off his shorts, covering himself with both hands as he straightened up.