The Sneezing Mime

Feature Story — Winter in the City 

** Dedicated to Jacob and Lucia, who always tolerate my miming.

I will never forget the first time I saw the mime.

I must have been three or four, walking up the stairs of the 14th Street Union Square station with my dad. It had just snowed, the kind of snowfall that makes the whole city feel muffled, like someone turned the volume down. A light blanket of white covered the park, the benches, even the bronze statue in the center.

There he was.

A mime.

Right in the middle of the square, performing as if the entire city had shown up just for him.

His face was painted pure white, with black eyebrows drawn in careful angles, black lips, and little crosses beneath his eyes. He wore a black beret, a striped shirt, suspenders, perfectly pressed black pants, and shiny shoes that reflected the winter sky. He looked mysterious, yet somehow warm, like a character who had stepped out of a storybook and into the soft flurries drifting over Union Square.

He walked straight up to me, shook my tiny hand, and then continued shaking hands with people who were not actually there. He handed me an imaginary balloon with careful, delicate movements. I did not ask my dad anything. I just held his hand and stared, mesmerized, as the mime performed for an invisible audience of thousands, possibly millions.

From that day on, he became part of my childhood landscape.

I saw him often and always in Union Square, always creating entire worlds out of thin air. He had a way of matching his performances to the seasons. In spring, he plucked invisible dandelions from the cracks in the pavement. In summer, he fanned himself dramatically and pretended to faint onto the concrete, only to pop back up and widen his eyes in shock. In fall, he jumped into imaginary piles of leaves, popping out like a jack in the box.

Winter was when he truly came alive.

Winter in New York turns everything into a stage. Steam rises from the subway grates like special effects. The streetlights glow golden against the snow. People walk faster, bundled in big coats like moving mountains. The whole city feels sharper, quieter, and somehow more magical.

The mime treated winter like his favorite toy.

He caught snowflakes on his tongue. He froze solid with exaggerated shivers until someone “handed” him a hot chocolate. He built imaginary snowmen so convincingly that, once, I could have sworn I actually saw one standing beside him.

When I was eight, I loved him enough to become him.

My school had a Halloween contest, and I dressed up exactly like the mime from Union Square. My mom painted my face the same way, and when I looked in the mirror, something shifted. Being a mime made me feel free, like I could step into another world and everyone would play along.

That winter was one of the coldest in New York’s history. The fountains froze mid splash, and people all over the world stared at photos of frozen water hovering in the air. Snow piled up on the curbs in stiff gray mountains. My dad and I were walking through Union Square during a blizzard when I saw him again.

The mime was out there, fearless in the snow, bent over an imaginary snowman. His movements were so careful and thoughtful that I handed him two real sticks I found nearby, perfect for snowman arms. He took them with a grand gesture, ready to place them onto the invisible creature when his eyes suddenly widened.

His nose twitched.

He inhaled sharply.

ACHOOOO!

The sneeze was enormous. It was the kind of sneeze that echoes off buildings. It was not just one. He had a full sneezing fit, completely uncontrollable. Snowflakes scattered. The imaginary snowman was forgotten.

A crowd gathered. Kids pointed.

“He’s not supposed to do that,” a boy said, half laughing.

I did not laugh.

I did not point.

Under all that white makeup, I could see the red patches on his cheeks, the embarrassment he tried to hide.

My dad offered him tissues, and the mime accepted with a dramatic bow. When we walked away, I saw him packing up early. For weeks after, he was not there.

One afternoon, I walked into a birthday party for a boy named Danny and froze.

The mime.

Right there in someone’s living room, twisting balloons into animals and making an imaginary poodle jump all over him, was the mime. The room erupted in laughter.

When he finished, I approached him, suddenly shy. Speaking to a mime felt strange. It felt like breaking a spell.

“Hi,” I said.

He shook my hand. He shook it again. He shook it again until I giggled.

He remembered me.

“I’ve watched you perform since I was three,” I told him.

He put his hands under his chin and tilted his head, touched by the memory.

“I dressed up as a mime for Halloween.”

He beamed.

I hesitated before mentioning the sneeze. He looked away. He knew exactly what I was about to say. His shoulders lifted in a dramatic, embarrassed shiver.

“It was freezing,” I began.

He shook violently.

“You’d been outside for hours.”

He nodded and inhaled as if holding back another sneeze.

“And then…”

He sneezed. We both burst out laughing.

A circle formed around us. The mime clapped for attention, grabbed my hand, and suddenly we were performing together.

He “opened” a door in the air, and I stepped through. He sprinkled imaginary magic dust overhead, and I mirrored his movements. We hopped across invisible lily pads, painted rainbows in the sky, and found gold at the end.

The room cheered.

The mime squeezed my hand, bowed, and I bowed beside him.

That was the first time I realized something important.

Behind all the layers of makeup, performances, and magic tricks, he was just a person. He was a real human being, surviving winters in New York one snowman, one handshake, and one sneeze at a time.

That made him even more magical than I had ever imagined.

-Shamie Cuthbert