Joe and the Mime on Open Mic Night
or
Depressing Songs of the Pacific Northwest
By Wadin' Boot
I came for moral support. My friend Joe had written eight songs about Pacific Northwest disasters and tonight he would debut them in front of a select audience of friends (me) and family (whoever shows). I mean I already knew the songs, but this would be his bigger, bolder debut. This was at open mic night at the Blue Moon tavern in Wallingford not far from Interstate 5. Tuesday night. So not exactly crowded on account of Covid-19 limping along. The Blue Moon's not a family friendly place and no one in Joe’s family had seen him play in maybe 5 years or so. Joe was pretty sure none of his family would come and I was absolutely sure of it. Given I am his only friend, we both knew the crowds were likely to be slim to none. Nevertheless, the boos or claps of the crowd were judge and jury of whether or not you got to continue. Given turnout was likely to be minimal, If I clapped loud he might get through all 8. Or maybe if others showed, he'd get through just one. He, typical Joe, was optimistic that all 8 would be played.
I was looking forward to beer. Maybe flirting with someone cute. Inviting them to my table.
That guy playing, that’s my friend Joe, helluva guy Joe. Writes Pacific Northwest Disaster songs. Why? you say... well... because they're beautiful. Speaking of beautiful, what’s your name?
Though looking around the bar prospects looked dim for any flirting. It looked like the entire clientele would soon be making their way back to a tent camp within 300 yards of the tavern.
Stale coughs and the sounds of booth laughter soon came to order. The MC, a gangly kid who had the air of a failed post-doc (ponytail, aggressively vertical multi-color striped button-down shirt, boot cut jeans with tactical boots splendid with zippers and buckles) introduced himself as Danny. From Indiana. Started up with:
“Once in a Blue Moon we do this. Actually, every Tuesday we do this. And the general rules and codes of the evening”
“You put your names in the monkey barrel-”
Points to a jar I cannot see.
“I draw ‘em out.”
Indiana Danny looked around while snapping his fingers. He was scanning the room.
"Crowd likes you, you stay up, if they don't, you're off..."
He's still snapping
“Anybody see the monkey barrel?”
“I always say it’s better to have a barrel full of monkeys than a monkey full of barrels..”
Silence. A pinball machine is getting humped by an aggressive player out of sight.
“Jolie, can you bring me the barrel please?”
The waitress emerged. Beers in either hand, the broad opening of a huge clear plastic barrel of what once housed a thousand cheese balls in her mouth. She was working harder than anyone in the entire place maybe ever had.
Indiana Danny thanked her. As soon as he had the barrel in his possession and her mouth was free, she said
“Fuck you Danny, get your own barrel next time.”
Jolie said it close enough to Indiana Danny’s mic to amplify all throughout the bar and provoke some modest hoots and one low whistle. Tensions and anticipation for this show were-somewhat improbably- building.
Danny’s pale midwestern hand waved her off and kept going in the air like an oblivious Royal might before entering a courtroom. He guided his fluttering hand into the barrel’s enormous maw to draw what looked like one of two folded pieces of paper out.
He held it close, then far away, squinted again, mumbles something about “can barely read this bullshit” and said:
“Pam Tomine…come on up, you’re our first victim…everybody, give a round of Blue Moon applause for our first play-aaah tonight, Pam ……… Tomime”
Somewhere in the bar a black shape was rising along with the sounds of chair legs being pushed back
“Watch it..”Jolie says, pissed, more beers in her hands.
Joe turns to me.
“Oh thank god, I don’t want to be first”
A spattering of claps, Joe and I among them. Maybe a total of four people clapping.
“I doubt the other two people actually listening will care about your songs Joe.”
“Yeah you said that already. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Most people are here, like me, so they can talk their friend out of ever doing this sort of thing again.”
“Do you think there is an unwritten open-mic rule for long term success, like, say, if you and you alone come to perform, and not one of your friends comes, that you are bound to fail? Or that maybe, in fact, it’s the exact opposite, that you are likely to succeed because there’s no, you know, pressure?”
“I suspect if you have no friends showing at open mic night it’s because you have no friends period.”
The beers arrive. Joe, ever polite, thanked the waitress. Who immediately asked if we wanted more.
“Yes please”
Joe said nothing.
“I also think the more open mics you do- particularly with age- the more open mics you do, the number of friends you have declines in a mathematically predictable, non-linear fashion. Meaning exponential decline, Joe. It is absolutely inevitable."
“So that would make you like the last of the decaying isotopes that I could still call a pal then, right?”
I shook my head in pity.
“Speaking of radiation. You think I should open with One-eyed Girl From Hanford Reach?”
We watched the first performer arrive on the low stage. They, no doubt, would be miming. Entered stage right with an invisible rope, staircase, escalator and door gag. Full face paint and black shirt, white gloves, black pants pegged an inch above white socks, church shoes. Beret. Once on stage it looked like they might be taking a selfie.
Indiana Danny tried to hand them the mic. Which the mime refused. Instead pantomiming an opening of a door, pointed at themselves and then Blue Moon neon sign. No one said anything
The most homeless looking of the regulars, who had been watching all this with a studied gaze, started laughing. And blurted out:
“It’s open mime night Danny, Open Mime Night.... get it Danny? Open Mime Night at the Blue Moon…it's a mime pun....delivered without words....now that's funny”
And as soon as that guy said it some of the other drunks in fact did get it and were laughing, and a half dozen more disheveled heads swiveled and began to watch.
“Seems like there is Hot Mime Action at Blue Moon we didn’t know about…”
“Seriously, who knew? I don't know about Hot though”
At first they were miming stuff that made no sense to us. Which I found liberating as I didn’t have to concentrate on Joe. I mean I love Joe and all but acting as his reassurance, his confidence, particularly when sober, was a tough ask. Plus figuring out whatever the mime was doing was, admittedly, sorta interesting.
They, the mime that is, appeared to look in a book, select something out of it, hold it up to their eye, nod in an exaggerated huge amplitude manner like say one of those California central valley oil pumps on the edge of a dead almond grove. With the other hand they pushed something towards whatever imaginary thing was in the left hand, then created an air knot. I mean you could only describe it as that. It was the kind of exaggerated bowtie loop-de-loop knot you’d do with a kid’s shoelace. Nevertheless, an invisible object was now tied to an invisible line. And then they took another selfie with an invisible phone.
“He’s taking a selfie. He tied something to something else.”
“yep, that’s a selfie. How do you know it is a he?”
I swig the beer. Pilsner.
“Maybe I start with Toutle Lahar? That’s kinda upbeat, no”
The mime was now marching in place. Babying one hand, not swinging it as much, and pushing things out of the way with the other. Maybe they pushed branches from a nothing shrub. Sometimes they would duck or shift invisible blackberry fronds at eye level, but they still kept the right hand right at hip level. After more marching they stopped. The left hand now took off an invisible hat, tucked it in the right armpit, and squeegeed imaginary sweat from the white face. Which had an unintended consequence of removing a fan-like arc of zinc off of the forehead to reveal a less brilliant, more angry, sorta pimpled forehead. They looked like mime Bowie.
This was an endocrinologically young mime, apparently. Thankfully. An old mime wouldn’t make the rookie mistake of smudging their ghost. A young mime might still, fortunately, particularly if they had friends, never become an old mime.
Joe was softly singing his own song, a habit that went surprisingly well, at least initially, with the other performance in front of us
“Toutle La-har,
Toutle la-ho,
I never thought,
That’s how she’d go”
“They’re doing another selfie. Documenting pimple action.”
“Don’t be a petty shit Joe. I think the selfie is like some kind of punctuation. Scene change or something. Every selfie means a new idea.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense. You and the mime are on the same invisible wavelength.”
The mime was now still holding the right hand kinda still, though the left seemed to be pulling something from the right hand and tossing it over and past the mime’s left hip.
“I think I know what’s about to happen Joe.”
“You think I should do Stanwood Flood?”
“No, I mean whatever you want Joe, I meant with the mime.”
“The Stillaguamish
Was looking calmish
But the rain sure came
Unlike Jenny Coltrane”
“Bet that mime’s going fishing. Fly fishing…”
Sure enough the Mime starts false casting invisible line with no doubt a deceiver on one end. They are good too, pulling in a double haul, tilting their head to watch the clear head rocket behind, loading the glass to shoot ahead, shifting their weight off back foot and then forward, no wrist breaks, nothing too far back, no tailing loops, the metronomics of it getting slower, the false casts are longer and longer
“Goddam mime is fly fishing everybody” says the homeless guy, who was really into it before but is REALLY into it now.
“Jesus that’s a lotta line they got out…”
One of the other regulars says
“Looks like maybe 90 feet….”
“I woulda said 120….”
The mime catches one of the barflies eyes, nods enthusiastically and she says:
“That mime can fucken’ cast, that’s for sure….”
“it’s not even a goddamn spey rod, just a single-hander….”
“Looks like a 9 foot 6, maybe a 7 weight? 8 Weight?”
More of the crowd are talking, speculating.
“Sorta stiff action for glass, but that fucken’ Mime though, that Mime can fucken’ cast….”
“Never seen anything like it…”
“better than Rajeff…”
“Brazda too.”
“Anyone’s better than Brazda. Like Joan Wulff in her 90’s is better than Brazda…”
“That’s Mime’s like, for sure, the Roderick Haig-Brown of Miming….”
“but better”
Consensus among the disheveled is achieved.
Joe finally pays attention.
Half the bar’s heads are swivelling like fans in a tennis match, watching the line reach it’s back maximum, and then swiveling the other way to watch it rocket forward. Some of them stand up because they legitimately can’t see the action. Which makes them all basically stand up.
Then the mime stops on the forward swing, lets the invisible 7 or maybe 8 weight move down a notch or two, leaves the left hand open. You can practically hear the line snaking out through the guides. You can also hear the pinball machine and traffic on 45th..
“They got that cast right by the bank, up the top of the run….”
“Hey I recognize that run, that’s *&^&*( on the Skagit”
“No fucken’ way…..”
The mime is once again nodding.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Water’s a little higher than usual, some of the gravel bars have changed, but you’re right”
"Dude those Bald Eagles are watching the Mime, even they know how awesome mimes are....plus bald eagles LOOK like mimes"
"cos they wear black and white"
"Dude, you are so right!"
There’s like eight sex-indeterminate people now standing watching where the fly landed in the river, which is probably out by Petco on the other side of 45th in one reality, but in the heart of the Skagit river as far as the eight devotees to Steelhead fishing who now live within 300 yards of the Blue Moon and or Interstate 5 are concerned.
The mime is letting the fly swing, keeping the line tight, tracking the fly through the water with the rod pointing at it. Suddenly the rod stops, the mime’s face looks surprised, in the way a mime looks surprised, super overblown and comedic, mouth open @Mingo style.
“They got a hit...”
“Whatever you do, please, please, please don’t trout set that…”
“You got this Pam.”
“Strip set that on three”
12 really homeless looking folks, some of whom are way high, are now standing in front of the mime, shouting advice. And yet, through some combined joy and hive Blue Moon Steelheader mind, they all start counting together
“one….”
Pam Tomime is nodding slower now, counting with them, eyes squinting, mouth now more like Zoolander, blue steel attentions, cheeks sucked in.
“two…”
Pam’s white glove is gripping the line tighter with the left hand, sweat is erupting around the pimples on their forehead.
“three”
With that the left hand is jerked sharply back and then the hand jitters a little and the arc of avid homeless steelheaders, now numbering a full two dozen, burst into cheers…
“You got him, lift your rod”
And now the mime is channeling the chorus of North West steelheaders. Who, though voices are many, express their concerns as one.
“Keep following him.”
“Move out of the deeper current, slow, steady…”
“keep your line tight Pam…”
Pam is ashen, on account of both hooking the largest, heaviest, strongest invisible steelhead of their life and the smeared zinc cream all over their face looks basically like white ash.
“Get that mountain whitefish on the reel”
“That’s a steelhead you asshole…”
“That thing earned the reel in the first 7 seconds…”
"Eagle's gonna steal it if you wait too long..."
The ribbing is good natured. This is the best thing that has happened since the free coffee, cardboard and sharpies at Occupy Skagit, 2018
Joe is looking white too. The mime is absolutely killing it. Joe knows Snohomish Superfund is going to draw no applause whatsoever.
“Hey someone get a net, whose got a net?”
“Scrap Iron, go get your net….”
A sorta methed-up looking waif in shit-stained jeans and a filthy checked shirt and trucker's hat bolts out of the Blue Moon.
“Scrap Iron’s getting’ the net Pam, you gotta tire this one out…”
“Probably take him all of 5 minutes, his Van’s not far..”
"no way's that Steelhead quitting in 5 minutes..."
The mime is quivering. They are, at times, assuming improbable angles that could only be made with a considerable counterweight on the end of the line. Not quite Hemingway Vs 800 lb marlin, but you get the point.
“Jolene, can you get the Mime a drink.”
“Are you fucken nuts? It’s a goddamn mime, you moron…”
I hand a being whose entire outfit appears to be two filthy hoodies and flip flops my second beer.
“Give them this, it’s a Pilsner.”
Hoodie guy says “Pilsner coming through for the mime…”
Like a crowd surfer at a punk rock show, the Pilsner is delivered, overhead, rapidly through the still growing crowd, without spilling a lick.
“I got the net!”
“Scrap Iron got the net”
The crowd parts, chanting Scrap Iron's name, and indeed, Scrap Iron, who looks like his namesake, has a large knotless net worthy of a fine Skagit bruiser. Into his other hand, like he has run this relay a million times before, someone gives Scrap Iron the baton of pilsner, and despite being out of breath, he still leaps with the net and the pilsner on stage with the mime, who, the mime that is, continues fighting a hell of a beast. Still no pilsner spills.
Scrap Iron raises the pilsner to the lips of Pam, who parts them. My Pilsner is poured, and glug glug glug goes Pam’s Adam’s apple which up until now had been difficult to discern. The crowd cheers, Scrap Iron thrusts the net up like a gladiator raising his sword to the crowd, and as it is with Popeye and canned spinach, the Pilsner appears to kick start Pam’s energies for the second stage of the fight, reeling that steelhead in.
“Jesus, you see that thing jump?”
“that’s probably thirty pounds, forty inches”
“You don’t see them like that anymore…”
“no shit, it’s because it’s mime you morons…”
Jolene appears to be hard working, efficient, though, frankly, a very concrete thinker. (Note to self Jolene from Concrete could be one of Joe's new songs)
The mime is making progress, the crowd is cheering, now chanting "Pan ToMime" repeatedly, they seem to be reacting to any run attempt with cheers, one Steelhead bum is biting his filthy nails. The mime is reeling in, which looks sorta masturbatory and probably explains why Mime's don't do many fishing skits, at least ones where they rope monster Skagit chrome.
And then there is Joe, looking at the table, crestfallen. He notices nothing other than the Mime has the crowd in a way he never has. He knows he will absofuckinglutely bomb.
Scrap Iron is a pace or two forward of the mime now, he's still on stage, he is dipping the net, he moves the handle up 60 degrees, the crowd goes absolutely nuts, bums are high fiving, Pam is kneeling in the invisible water, wetting their gloved hands, getting ready to tail this glorious fish.
“That’s a wild fish, unclipped…”
“Don’t take her out of the water”
Pam doesn’t, cradles the fish, arms are spread about four feet, knees in the invisible gravel.
“Scrap iron, you gotta take a photo.”
“Take the photo Scrap Iron…”
Scrap iron reaches in to the Mime’s top upper pocket and pulls out the invisible phone, futzes with it a bit…
“Hurry up, you’re gonna miss it”
Bobbles it in his hands, but catches it. Then holds the invisible camera up and takes the photo. Takes a few from different angles,, moves around behind Pam and takes a selfie with Pam and Scrap Iron and the fish.
And then the crowd goes silent, wondering for a second what Pam will do with it.
And with the photos done, they reach forward, slide the deceiver’s hook from the fantastic jaw of this gorgeous fish, and gently lower the fish back into the water. Pam lets it revive.
And then releases it.
No one claps this time, no one hoots and hollers. A tear is rolling down Pam’s cheek, and then another. Scrap Iron is dabbing at his reddened eyes. Some sniffles are coming from the crowd.
Pam stands slowly, brushes the imaginary water from their black stage pants, shakes their church shoes, picks up their imaginary rod, sights the door, steps off the low stage, and walks through a parting sea of reverent fans and out of the Blue Moon towards Ezells or maybe Golden Oldies. The mime is applauded all the way out.
Indiana Danny tries to walk the gap the mime just made in the crowd, but the bums and drunks have closed it and Danny is bouncing his way towards the stage, pivoting, weaving, holding the monkey barrel and the mic above his head. He finally has made it, though as he gets on stage, the fans have dissipated, they have returned to their booths, their barstools, their corners, their concrete realities.
Some have gone out to smoke. Scrap Iron is re-enacting how he landed the fish, the pinball machine is making lost ball noises, and Indiana Danny raises the mic to his lips. He’s pulled the only remaining stub of paper from the plastic barrel.
“And our second, and perhaps only other open Mic plaaa-yaa tonight is….. Joe Jenkins….C’mon up Joe”
Joe gets up slowly, his banjo twangs.
“you got this buddy….”
“Start with Oso Slide ain't a linedance…it’s your best opener. Plus all these guys love that river and already know the story. Don’t let the mime intimidate you, you got this.”
I say that with confidence. I flag Jolie for some more, I watch Joe tune and pick for a minute. And I think about the mime and that giant fish.
or
Depressing Songs of the Pacific Northwest
By Wadin' Boot
I came for moral support. My friend Joe had written eight songs about Pacific Northwest disasters and tonight he would debut them in front of a select audience of friends (me) and family (whoever shows). I mean I already knew the songs, but this would be his bigger, bolder debut. This was at open mic night at the Blue Moon tavern in Wallingford not far from Interstate 5. Tuesday night. So not exactly crowded on account of Covid-19 limping along. The Blue Moon's not a family friendly place and no one in Joe’s family had seen him play in maybe 5 years or so. Joe was pretty sure none of his family would come and I was absolutely sure of it. Given I am his only friend, we both knew the crowds were likely to be slim to none. Nevertheless, the boos or claps of the crowd were judge and jury of whether or not you got to continue. Given turnout was likely to be minimal, If I clapped loud he might get through all 8. Or maybe if others showed, he'd get through just one. He, typical Joe, was optimistic that all 8 would be played.
I was looking forward to beer. Maybe flirting with someone cute. Inviting them to my table.
That guy playing, that’s my friend Joe, helluva guy Joe. Writes Pacific Northwest Disaster songs. Why? you say... well... because they're beautiful. Speaking of beautiful, what’s your name?
Though looking around the bar prospects looked dim for any flirting. It looked like the entire clientele would soon be making their way back to a tent camp within 300 yards of the tavern.
Stale coughs and the sounds of booth laughter soon came to order. The MC, a gangly kid who had the air of a failed post-doc (ponytail, aggressively vertical multi-color striped button-down shirt, boot cut jeans with tactical boots splendid with zippers and buckles) introduced himself as Danny. From Indiana. Started up with:
“Once in a Blue Moon we do this. Actually, every Tuesday we do this. And the general rules and codes of the evening”
“You put your names in the monkey barrel-”
Points to a jar I cannot see.
“I draw ‘em out.”
Indiana Danny looked around while snapping his fingers. He was scanning the room.
"Crowd likes you, you stay up, if they don't, you're off..."
He's still snapping
“Anybody see the monkey barrel?”
“I always say it’s better to have a barrel full of monkeys than a monkey full of barrels..”
Silence. A pinball machine is getting humped by an aggressive player out of sight.
“Jolie, can you bring me the barrel please?”
The waitress emerged. Beers in either hand, the broad opening of a huge clear plastic barrel of what once housed a thousand cheese balls in her mouth. She was working harder than anyone in the entire place maybe ever had.
Indiana Danny thanked her. As soon as he had the barrel in his possession and her mouth was free, she said
“Fuck you Danny, get your own barrel next time.”
Jolie said it close enough to Indiana Danny’s mic to amplify all throughout the bar and provoke some modest hoots and one low whistle. Tensions and anticipation for this show were-somewhat improbably- building.
Danny’s pale midwestern hand waved her off and kept going in the air like an oblivious Royal might before entering a courtroom. He guided his fluttering hand into the barrel’s enormous maw to draw what looked like one of two folded pieces of paper out.
He held it close, then far away, squinted again, mumbles something about “can barely read this bullshit” and said:
“Pam Tomine…come on up, you’re our first victim…everybody, give a round of Blue Moon applause for our first play-aaah tonight, Pam ……… Tomime”
Somewhere in the bar a black shape was rising along with the sounds of chair legs being pushed back
“Watch it..”Jolie says, pissed, more beers in her hands.
Joe turns to me.
“Oh thank god, I don’t want to be first”
A spattering of claps, Joe and I among them. Maybe a total of four people clapping.
“I doubt the other two people actually listening will care about your songs Joe.”
“Yeah you said that already. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Most people are here, like me, so they can talk their friend out of ever doing this sort of thing again.”
“Do you think there is an unwritten open-mic rule for long term success, like, say, if you and you alone come to perform, and not one of your friends comes, that you are bound to fail? Or that maybe, in fact, it’s the exact opposite, that you are likely to succeed because there’s no, you know, pressure?”
“I suspect if you have no friends showing at open mic night it’s because you have no friends period.”
The beers arrive. Joe, ever polite, thanked the waitress. Who immediately asked if we wanted more.
“Yes please”
Joe said nothing.
“I also think the more open mics you do- particularly with age- the more open mics you do, the number of friends you have declines in a mathematically predictable, non-linear fashion. Meaning exponential decline, Joe. It is absolutely inevitable."
“So that would make you like the last of the decaying isotopes that I could still call a pal then, right?”
I shook my head in pity.
“Speaking of radiation. You think I should open with One-eyed Girl From Hanford Reach?”
We watched the first performer arrive on the low stage. They, no doubt, would be miming. Entered stage right with an invisible rope, staircase, escalator and door gag. Full face paint and black shirt, white gloves, black pants pegged an inch above white socks, church shoes. Beret. Once on stage it looked like they might be taking a selfie.
Indiana Danny tried to hand them the mic. Which the mime refused. Instead pantomiming an opening of a door, pointed at themselves and then Blue Moon neon sign. No one said anything
The most homeless looking of the regulars, who had been watching all this with a studied gaze, started laughing. And blurted out:
“It’s open mime night Danny, Open Mime Night.... get it Danny? Open Mime Night at the Blue Moon…it's a mime pun....delivered without words....now that's funny”
And as soon as that guy said it some of the other drunks in fact did get it and were laughing, and a half dozen more disheveled heads swiveled and began to watch.
“Seems like there is Hot Mime Action at Blue Moon we didn’t know about…”
“Seriously, who knew? I don't know about Hot though”
At first they were miming stuff that made no sense to us. Which I found liberating as I didn’t have to concentrate on Joe. I mean I love Joe and all but acting as his reassurance, his confidence, particularly when sober, was a tough ask. Plus figuring out whatever the mime was doing was, admittedly, sorta interesting.
They, the mime that is, appeared to look in a book, select something out of it, hold it up to their eye, nod in an exaggerated huge amplitude manner like say one of those California central valley oil pumps on the edge of a dead almond grove. With the other hand they pushed something towards whatever imaginary thing was in the left hand, then created an air knot. I mean you could only describe it as that. It was the kind of exaggerated bowtie loop-de-loop knot you’d do with a kid’s shoelace. Nevertheless, an invisible object was now tied to an invisible line. And then they took another selfie with an invisible phone.
“He’s taking a selfie. He tied something to something else.”
“yep, that’s a selfie. How do you know it is a he?”
I swig the beer. Pilsner.
“Maybe I start with Toutle Lahar? That’s kinda upbeat, no”
The mime was now marching in place. Babying one hand, not swinging it as much, and pushing things out of the way with the other. Maybe they pushed branches from a nothing shrub. Sometimes they would duck or shift invisible blackberry fronds at eye level, but they still kept the right hand right at hip level. After more marching they stopped. The left hand now took off an invisible hat, tucked it in the right armpit, and squeegeed imaginary sweat from the white face. Which had an unintended consequence of removing a fan-like arc of zinc off of the forehead to reveal a less brilliant, more angry, sorta pimpled forehead. They looked like mime Bowie.
This was an endocrinologically young mime, apparently. Thankfully. An old mime wouldn’t make the rookie mistake of smudging their ghost. A young mime might still, fortunately, particularly if they had friends, never become an old mime.
Joe was softly singing his own song, a habit that went surprisingly well, at least initially, with the other performance in front of us
“Toutle La-har,
Toutle la-ho,
I never thought,
That’s how she’d go”
“They’re doing another selfie. Documenting pimple action.”
“Don’t be a petty shit Joe. I think the selfie is like some kind of punctuation. Scene change or something. Every selfie means a new idea.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense. You and the mime are on the same invisible wavelength.”
The mime was now still holding the right hand kinda still, though the left seemed to be pulling something from the right hand and tossing it over and past the mime’s left hip.
“I think I know what’s about to happen Joe.”
“You think I should do Stanwood Flood?”
“No, I mean whatever you want Joe, I meant with the mime.”
“The Stillaguamish
Was looking calmish
But the rain sure came
Unlike Jenny Coltrane”
“Bet that mime’s going fishing. Fly fishing…”
Sure enough the Mime starts false casting invisible line with no doubt a deceiver on one end. They are good too, pulling in a double haul, tilting their head to watch the clear head rocket behind, loading the glass to shoot ahead, shifting their weight off back foot and then forward, no wrist breaks, nothing too far back, no tailing loops, the metronomics of it getting slower, the false casts are longer and longer
“Goddam mime is fly fishing everybody” says the homeless guy, who was really into it before but is REALLY into it now.
“Jesus that’s a lotta line they got out…”
One of the other regulars says
“Looks like maybe 90 feet….”
“I woulda said 120….”
The mime catches one of the barflies eyes, nods enthusiastically and she says:
“That mime can fucken’ cast, that’s for sure….”
“it’s not even a goddamn spey rod, just a single-hander….”
“Looks like a 9 foot 6, maybe a 7 weight? 8 Weight?”
More of the crowd are talking, speculating.
“Sorta stiff action for glass, but that fucken’ Mime though, that Mime can fucken’ cast….”
“Never seen anything like it…”
“better than Rajeff…”
“Brazda too.”
“Anyone’s better than Brazda. Like Joan Wulff in her 90’s is better than Brazda…”
“That’s Mime’s like, for sure, the Roderick Haig-Brown of Miming….”
“but better”
Consensus among the disheveled is achieved.
Joe finally pays attention.
Half the bar’s heads are swivelling like fans in a tennis match, watching the line reach it’s back maximum, and then swiveling the other way to watch it rocket forward. Some of them stand up because they legitimately can’t see the action. Which makes them all basically stand up.
Then the mime stops on the forward swing, lets the invisible 7 or maybe 8 weight move down a notch or two, leaves the left hand open. You can practically hear the line snaking out through the guides. You can also hear the pinball machine and traffic on 45th..
“They got that cast right by the bank, up the top of the run….”
“Hey I recognize that run, that’s *&^&*( on the Skagit”
“No fucken’ way…..”
The mime is once again nodding.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Water’s a little higher than usual, some of the gravel bars have changed, but you’re right”
"Dude those Bald Eagles are watching the Mime, even they know how awesome mimes are....plus bald eagles LOOK like mimes"
"cos they wear black and white"
"Dude, you are so right!"
There’s like eight sex-indeterminate people now standing watching where the fly landed in the river, which is probably out by Petco on the other side of 45th in one reality, but in the heart of the Skagit river as far as the eight devotees to Steelhead fishing who now live within 300 yards of the Blue Moon and or Interstate 5 are concerned.
The mime is letting the fly swing, keeping the line tight, tracking the fly through the water with the rod pointing at it. Suddenly the rod stops, the mime’s face looks surprised, in the way a mime looks surprised, super overblown and comedic, mouth open @Mingo style.
“They got a hit...”
“Whatever you do, please, please, please don’t trout set that…”
“You got this Pam.”
“Strip set that on three”
12 really homeless looking folks, some of whom are way high, are now standing in front of the mime, shouting advice. And yet, through some combined joy and hive Blue Moon Steelheader mind, they all start counting together
“one….”
Pam Tomime is nodding slower now, counting with them, eyes squinting, mouth now more like Zoolander, blue steel attentions, cheeks sucked in.
“two…”
Pam’s white glove is gripping the line tighter with the left hand, sweat is erupting around the pimples on their forehead.
“three”
With that the left hand is jerked sharply back and then the hand jitters a little and the arc of avid homeless steelheaders, now numbering a full two dozen, burst into cheers…
“You got him, lift your rod”
And now the mime is channeling the chorus of North West steelheaders. Who, though voices are many, express their concerns as one.
“Keep following him.”
“Move out of the deeper current, slow, steady…”
“keep your line tight Pam…”
Pam is ashen, on account of both hooking the largest, heaviest, strongest invisible steelhead of their life and the smeared zinc cream all over their face looks basically like white ash.
“Get that mountain whitefish on the reel”
“That’s a steelhead you asshole…”
“That thing earned the reel in the first 7 seconds…”
"Eagle's gonna steal it if you wait too long..."
The ribbing is good natured. This is the best thing that has happened since the free coffee, cardboard and sharpies at Occupy Skagit, 2018
Joe is looking white too. The mime is absolutely killing it. Joe knows Snohomish Superfund is going to draw no applause whatsoever.
“Hey someone get a net, whose got a net?”
“Scrap Iron, go get your net….”
A sorta methed-up looking waif in shit-stained jeans and a filthy checked shirt and trucker's hat bolts out of the Blue Moon.
“Scrap Iron’s getting’ the net Pam, you gotta tire this one out…”
“Probably take him all of 5 minutes, his Van’s not far..”
"no way's that Steelhead quitting in 5 minutes..."
The mime is quivering. They are, at times, assuming improbable angles that could only be made with a considerable counterweight on the end of the line. Not quite Hemingway Vs 800 lb marlin, but you get the point.
“Jolene, can you get the Mime a drink.”
“Are you fucken nuts? It’s a goddamn mime, you moron…”
I hand a being whose entire outfit appears to be two filthy hoodies and flip flops my second beer.
“Give them this, it’s a Pilsner.”
Hoodie guy says “Pilsner coming through for the mime…”
Like a crowd surfer at a punk rock show, the Pilsner is delivered, overhead, rapidly through the still growing crowd, without spilling a lick.
“I got the net!”
“Scrap Iron got the net”
The crowd parts, chanting Scrap Iron's name, and indeed, Scrap Iron, who looks like his namesake, has a large knotless net worthy of a fine Skagit bruiser. Into his other hand, like he has run this relay a million times before, someone gives Scrap Iron the baton of pilsner, and despite being out of breath, he still leaps with the net and the pilsner on stage with the mime, who, the mime that is, continues fighting a hell of a beast. Still no pilsner spills.
Scrap Iron raises the pilsner to the lips of Pam, who parts them. My Pilsner is poured, and glug glug glug goes Pam’s Adam’s apple which up until now had been difficult to discern. The crowd cheers, Scrap Iron thrusts the net up like a gladiator raising his sword to the crowd, and as it is with Popeye and canned spinach, the Pilsner appears to kick start Pam’s energies for the second stage of the fight, reeling that steelhead in.
“Jesus, you see that thing jump?”
“that’s probably thirty pounds, forty inches”
“You don’t see them like that anymore…”
“no shit, it’s because it’s mime you morons…”
Jolene appears to be hard working, efficient, though, frankly, a very concrete thinker. (Note to self Jolene from Concrete could be one of Joe's new songs)
The mime is making progress, the crowd is cheering, now chanting "Pan ToMime" repeatedly, they seem to be reacting to any run attempt with cheers, one Steelhead bum is biting his filthy nails. The mime is reeling in, which looks sorta masturbatory and probably explains why Mime's don't do many fishing skits, at least ones where they rope monster Skagit chrome.
And then there is Joe, looking at the table, crestfallen. He notices nothing other than the Mime has the crowd in a way he never has. He knows he will absofuckinglutely bomb.
Scrap Iron is a pace or two forward of the mime now, he's still on stage, he is dipping the net, he moves the handle up 60 degrees, the crowd goes absolutely nuts, bums are high fiving, Pam is kneeling in the invisible water, wetting their gloved hands, getting ready to tail this glorious fish.
“That’s a wild fish, unclipped…”
“Don’t take her out of the water”
Pam doesn’t, cradles the fish, arms are spread about four feet, knees in the invisible gravel.
“Scrap iron, you gotta take a photo.”
“Take the photo Scrap Iron…”
Scrap iron reaches in to the Mime’s top upper pocket and pulls out the invisible phone, futzes with it a bit…
“Hurry up, you’re gonna miss it”
Bobbles it in his hands, but catches it. Then holds the invisible camera up and takes the photo. Takes a few from different angles,, moves around behind Pam and takes a selfie with Pam and Scrap Iron and the fish.
And then the crowd goes silent, wondering for a second what Pam will do with it.
And with the photos done, they reach forward, slide the deceiver’s hook from the fantastic jaw of this gorgeous fish, and gently lower the fish back into the water. Pam lets it revive.
And then releases it.
No one claps this time, no one hoots and hollers. A tear is rolling down Pam’s cheek, and then another. Scrap Iron is dabbing at his reddened eyes. Some sniffles are coming from the crowd.
Pam stands slowly, brushes the imaginary water from their black stage pants, shakes their church shoes, picks up their imaginary rod, sights the door, steps off the low stage, and walks through a parting sea of reverent fans and out of the Blue Moon towards Ezells or maybe Golden Oldies. The mime is applauded all the way out.
Indiana Danny tries to walk the gap the mime just made in the crowd, but the bums and drunks have closed it and Danny is bouncing his way towards the stage, pivoting, weaving, holding the monkey barrel and the mic above his head. He finally has made it, though as he gets on stage, the fans have dissipated, they have returned to their booths, their barstools, their corners, their concrete realities.
Some have gone out to smoke. Scrap Iron is re-enacting how he landed the fish, the pinball machine is making lost ball noises, and Indiana Danny raises the mic to his lips. He’s pulled the only remaining stub of paper from the plastic barrel.
“And our second, and perhaps only other open Mic plaaa-yaa tonight is….. Joe Jenkins….C’mon up Joe”
Joe gets up slowly, his banjo twangs.
“you got this buddy….”
“Start with Oso Slide ain't a linedance…it’s your best opener. Plus all these guys love that river and already know the story. Don’t let the mime intimidate you, you got this.”
I say that with confidence. I flag Jolie for some more, I watch Joe tune and pick for a minute. And I think about the mime and that giant fish.
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