Fear and Trembling-The Mime


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The Mime

Kevin Forest Frasure

I still remember the day I met the Mime, like it was yesterday.

Easy-to-Read B&W Format

Fiction
Horror

It was a warm spring day when I first met the Mime.

Things were simpler then. The town was smaller. That was back before we had the big megaplex movie theater or stadium seating. We didn’t have the Internet or cell phones. Well, the wealthy may have had cell phones. Heavy metal was king, and rap music was just becoming popular, but the small town I grew up in seemed to still be like The Andy Griffith Show.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. We had some unusual people in my town. We had Miss Jennings. She had to drive over speed bumps five times. Before she answered her door, she had to tap it three times. She could only eat a meal on the hour. If she made soup for lunch, and the soup was done at 12:01, she would wait until 1:00 to eat it. She was a strange woman.

And then we had Frankie. Now, Frankie always had a tall tale to tell. Always. I think he knew everybody and did everything. You know the famous "I have a dream" speech? Frankie helped Martin Luther King, Jr. write it. You know the song "Blue Suede Shoes"? Frankie helped Carl Perkins write it.

They were at a dinner party, and Frankie was wearing some blue suede shoes. Carl Perkins almost stepped on them. Frankie said, “Don’t step on my blue suede shoes.” I tell you, Frankie had some stories to tell.

And then there was me. My name is Billy—Billy the child evangelist. There was not a soul I could not win. Not a one. I was only thirteen years old, and I won more souls than most preachers.

I would win souls at the gas station. I would win souls at the Dairy Queen. We didn’t have a Burger King or a McDonald's. We only had a Dairy Queen. I once lead a man to Jesus while I was trying on a pair of shoes. He was putting some shoes on my feet, and I said, “Hey, while you're down there, do you want to get saved?” And you know, he did. I prayed for him right there. Right there on the spot.

I was the talk of the town. People told me I was going to be the next Billy Graham. They even called me Little Bill. I felt so proud at church. I felt like I was really somebody. Every week Pastor George would ask how many of us won someone to Jesus. My hand was always the first one up. I felt so proud of my accomplishments. And then there was the Mime. He had to go and ruin everything.

The Mime had been the talk of the town for years. If there was a town devil, it was the Mime. I don’t know when he first moved to Murphreeberry, Tennessee, but people talked about him the moment he set foot in town.

He had rough, burned skin, and a pale face. His face was pale because he wore white makeup. That’s how he got the name “The Mime”. He wore a straw hat, and he was thin like he hadn't eaten in years. He had long bony fingers, but what really scared people were his eyes.

There was nothing behind his eyes—no soul, just a blank stare.
Some people said he got the burns on his face because he came straight from hell, that he was some kind of demon. Other people thought he was an alien sent here to collect slaves.

Ann used to be the town whore until I lead her to the Lord. She told me that one night the Mime was watching her. It was late, and she was getting ready for bed. He stood outside her window, staring at her. Those cold soulless eyes could scare a hole through anyone.

People rarely saw him leave his home; when he did leave, he carried a bag with him, kind of like a large white potato sack. Some people thought he was carrying alien equipment, other people thought he was carrying body parts. Who knows?

He walked with a limp that made him even creepier. At night people heard strange noises coming from his house. Some nights it sounded like cats, and other nights like he was playing a broken-down piano. Some people even said they could hear him howling at the moon like a mad man.

I know my pastor had his eyes on him for years. If there was one soul the pastor wanted saved, it was the Mime.

It seemed like something bad always happened to people who reached out to the Mime. There was one time when Fannie May and a church group drove to his house. This was back in 1973. They had some fresh-baked bread and church materials with them. They knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so Fannie just left the materials and the bread on his porch.

Two weeks later, they found Fannie hung in her bathroom. Weird, huh? But here’s the kicker. You know what was inside the oven? Some burnt bread.

Another time, Old Man Jack left a Bible tract on the Mime’s door. A few weeks later, Old Man Jack was found dead by the river, his hands had sliced off. And in his pocket were some crumpled-up Bible tracts.

Everybody was scared of the Mime. Everybody. Even the cops. Pete, a local police officer, once gave the Mime a ticket. A month later, Pete went missing. To this day, no one knows what happened to him.
Everybody was scared of the Mime. Everybody but me.

I was going to save him.

It was a beautiful spring. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was kind of nervous about facing the Mime: There was not a soul I couldn’t save, but the Mime might be a challenge.

I got old Hawk Eye Eddie saved when everyone thought he would be shot in an illegal card game, certainly not saved, but I was young and had no fear.

My buddy Timothy, on the other hand, had plenty of fear. He was a chubby kid, and everyone picked on him at school. I don’t think there was anything he was not afraid of. Spiders, cats, birds—you name it, he was afraid of it. He was even afraid of peas. Yes, I said peas. He thought he would get some kind of infection from eating green peas.

He might have been scared, but he was a mighty prayer warrior, and he agreed to come with me and face the Mime.

We rode our bikes. The Mime lived way out in the country. His house looked creepy. It was a white farmhouse, but the walls looked rough and weather-worn, kind of like the Mime’s face. Dead and worn out, with no soul.

I held my small black Gideon Bible tight in my hands as we approached the house.

Timothy pulled a slingshot out of his pocket.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“The Mime.”

“We’re here to save him, not kill him.”

“It’s for our protection.”

I pointed to my Bible. “This is our protection. Throw it down.”

Timothy threw his slingshot down.

“Do you have anything else up your sleeve?” I asked.

Timothy showed me three throwing stars, a throwing knife and a Swiss army knife. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know if he thought we were evangelist or ninjas.

We knocked on the door. No answer.

Timothy just wanted to leave the Bible on the porch, but I told him we needed a face-to-face encounter with the Mime.

We knocked on the back door. Still no answer.

I was not about to let the devil get the upper hand. We knocked on the windows, and yelled for him to open the door. No answer.

“We are going to have to go inside,” I said.

“Are you crazy?”

“It’s about souls. It’s all about the souls.”

“There's a fine line between soul-winning and breaking and entering.”

“The Bible says to compel them to come in.”

“The Bible also says to love your neighbor as you love yourself, and I don’t think I would love my neighbor if he was breaking into my house.”

“Timothy, I’m the soul-winner. We have to go inside. We'll enter through the basement.”

“I’m not going in any basement.”

“Do it for Jesus, Timothy.”

I decided Timothy would stay on the front porch as look out, and I would enter the basement and face the Mime alone. Timothy liked this idea.

But the moment Timothy set foot on the porch, the door opened, and there stood the Mime.

He grabbed Timothy, and pulled him into the house. Timothy was screaming and a carrying on. I didn’t know what to do. I let all the faith I had inside of me fill me up, and I kicked in the front door.
The Mime’s house was musty and old-fashioned. The curtains were pale green, and the furniture in the living room could have come straight from the 1950s. Even the candy in the candy dish was old.

The Mime threw Timothy down on the couch.

I looked at the Mime straight in the face. “Let my people go, devil.”
He smiled and laughed. “What is wrong with you people? Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“What do you mean devil?” “I’m not a devil. I’m just a man." The Mime had tears in his eyes. "Just a lonely man.”

“Why did you grab Timothy?”

“I was going to tie him up.”

“Tie him up and kill him?”

“No, tie him up and call the police. I didn’t know what you crazy kids were up to.”

“What about the odd stories about you? What about Ann?”

“Ann?”

“The woman you were watching one night.”

“Oh. Her. I am sorry about that. I didn’t want to scare anyone. She reminded me of someone. She reminded me of my muse.”

“Huh? Are you talking about some kind of devil spirit?”

“No, but at times I thought she was an angel. She died in an explosion. I met her in 1963. She was beautiful. We were young hippies in love. We were flower children. We were full of hope and ambition. We were going to change the world, and make it a better place. Bring peace and harmony to all of God’s creatures. But then things went wrong. We started taking really bad drugs. I mean, really bad. We began to hang out with the wrong people. We thought we were doing right, protesting at that school. People got hurt. The love of my life died, and I reckon I died, too. My face was burned. I painted it white. I didn’t do it to hide the burns, but to remember her. I moved here to escape. Try to hide from living.”

He cried, and I saw the Mime as a human, not a monster. A human who needed Jesus.

“Are you saved?” I asked.

“Saved? Saved from what?”

“Do you want to know Jesus?”

The Mime grinned. “I’ve known Him for a long time. If it not for Jesus, I would have killed myself a long time ago.”

A thousand emotions seemed to wash over my body at one time. I was so focused on saving souls that I didn’t see the heart of the souls that I was trying to save. I didn’t see a person. I saw a project. I just saw another notch on my soul-winning belt.

The Mime wasn’t the devil. I was.

I asked him one more thing. “Do you think it's time to wash the make-up off?”

He smiled. “Maybe someday. Maybe someday it will be time.”

Now, ordinarily I would have opened my Bible and really given him a beating, but I didn’t. “Timothy, let’s go home.”

Timothy said he didn’t feel called to be an evangelist. I told him that was okay. That maybe God had other plans for him. That we are not all called to be the next Billy Graham.

The next year, on December 23, the Mime showed up at church.

A hush fell over the congregation. He wasn't wearing any make-up.

He looked at me, and there was life in his eyes. “It’s time to live again.”

He died not long after that, a smile on his face.

I never did become the next Billy Graham. I own a small construction company, and have three beautiful children. I’m content. I’m living.