Thomas Burt | Belonging Reading Task | 12BTM1

Five minutes, and I go out there to make them laugh. 5 minutes to clear up my blotchy makeup, and to

make sure I’m hushed up tight ­ I’ve got to go out there, but I’d better not offend anyone, mustn’t let a

peep slip out. I’m just a mime. Just a mime. Wind me up, and I’ll make you laugh. Go for it ­ it’s what

I’m here for. Let me see if I can bumble, fumble and fool around with my Ben Nye in a way that you

deem hilarious. See if my waxy, greased up face is the sort of fun you’d like.

We’re going out of style, you know. Coulrophobia, and all that nonsense. The public’d rather I walked

around with a meat cleaver, leering at little ones, or had the flesh practically dripping from my face as I

chase you, frantically lurching around some post­Apocalyptic background.

In the beginning, this all felt so wholesome. I miss that feeling; the love of the audience crashing down on

you, clamouring to be let in backstage to schmooze, to suck up to the smell of the greasepaint. But,

well, you can’t take an audience home with you, can you?

It’s time I get back to it, my one man show ­ a lone wolf in the glare of the footlights. On a Broadway

stage, a 50 piece orchestra will mourn my comrades gone forth before me, playing a soul wrenching

melody. The audience is hushed, in awe of my bewildering confidence; I take one step forward,

another, another, further out onto the thrust of the stage and I crack my lips and from the bottom of my

being comes a primal roar, a primitive expression of my hardship, my blood, my sweat, my tears, the

sheen of perspiration covering my forehead manifesting into drips and rivers and finally it comes, it’s

unleashed to the world as a shouting, bellowing, sonorous “HELP!”.

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I’m shocked, to say the least. I. Am. Shocked. To say I’m just shocked would be an understatement to

the highest degree and yet I’m still standing there, shocked, in disbelief of my own incompetence. The

lights dip, and for the first time I can see my audience facing me. This was not what they were expecting;

not what they paid for, this is not what they came to see, and the dropped jaws in the audience,

obviously ruffled by the clamour of my screamings, and it all seems to indicate I’ve rattled a few skulls,

but they close.. They close? The jaws that I’ve so rudely dropped are closed, and a strange, strange

noise starts to emanate from the crowd. Almost like a clipped cry of pain, a contraction of the

diaphragm, each sounding distinct and unique, building, growing until the audience shakes the hall with

screams of their own ­ they’re laughing? Laughing at me?

I could almost cry. I feel my eyes moisten, my ducts pumping as hard as they can, but I hold it together.

One foot forward, in front of the other, like a dancer preparing to pounce, I give a generous wave to my

gracious audience and close my lips. Bowing low, my head almost tumbling into my knees (and to my

relief, giving way to another chuckle from the audience), I raise my face to the roof; to the sky above it,

giving my thanks to Dionysus, who seems to be finally on my side, my permanent­painted, banana­like

smile spreads, and my long red shoes start to tap and saunter. A full white face with precise and delicate

red and white features, I’m beaming now. I’m bumbling, fumbling, making a fool of myself ­ and they

love it.

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