Mike Voltz was educated at Temple University in Philadelphia, PA. He currently writes in Los Angeles where he lives with his girlfriend, the bodybuilder and actress Nikki Fuller.

It was a fine day to spend in the park and it seemed most of the town agreed. It was one of those days where everything merged into perfection; the breeze, the sun, the sky. Only the occasional piece of litter gave any hint that it was not completely manufactured, or that we weren’t living in some talented, terminally benign artist’s rendering of a park at midday. If there is such an artist, I suppose his market would be hotel rooms with the occasional greeting card on the side. I doubt that I’ll every see my work displayed either place; I suspect that most of my stuff ends up at the bottom of drawers or discarded in the trash. Probably that would be the case with the little girl.

She shifted in her mother’s lap and I didn’t think she’d last much longer, especially with the sun laying down fire on the part of her hair. It was long and blonde, tied back into a ponytail; that hair alone would be enough to have boys jumping through hoops by middle school, assuming she didn’t resent it and dye it some ridiculous shade.

I drew in her nose and smiled at her as I touched mine. "Almost done," I said and offered her mother a quick, apologetic glance for taking so long. The creased cardboard sign amid drawings of celebrities next to my feet said "Your Caricature Done In 10 Minutes Or It’s Free." We were probably closing in on that now. A couple circles for freckles, a few wisps of that blonde hair coming free and blowing around her face, and for a finishing touch, a little bouquet of made up flowers.

What’s your name, honey?" I asked.

The little girl was too shy to tell me, or maybe that was a response to me calling her honey. Some kids don’t like to hear that particular term of endearment from anyone but their parents. Maybe that’s smart; my mind insisted on a picture of a man in a long coat with sunglass holding open the door of his car and saying ‘Come on, honey, climb in. See, I’ve lost my dog. You like dogs, don’t you…’

In any case her mother looked down at her, sort of folding herself to look into her daughter’s face. "Tell the man your name," she said and looked at me with a bemused smile.

"Kyra," the girl said.

I wrote her name at the top, bracing it on a diagonal in the corner and underlined it. Then I detached the paper and turned it around for Kyra’s inspection.

"Do you like it?" I asked. She nodded, smiling and trying to hide her eyes in her mother’s sundress. "Here." I rolled it up and held it out to her. "A present for being such a good model, Kyra."

"Well, isn’t that nice," said her mother. After a bit of urging, Kyra descended and approached me with her chin down, and took the picture.

"Thank you, Mr. Artist," she said and went back to her mother giggling.

"Are you sure you want to give it to her?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She called me an artist and I consider that the best payment I’ve gotten all day." That wasn’t a lie, either.

"Well, thank you," her mother said and they drifted away. There were plenty of things to do in the park besides make polite conversation with the caricature artist. They moved further away and I watched the way Kyra’s mother’s sundress flirted around her ankles. The same breeze riffled the papers on my easel and I stood up, letting it touch the small of my back where sweat had collected while I worked.

I was set up along a low stone wall that forms one side of a large flower garden with a fountain at the center, a mermaid with water running through her hair. All different types of artists use it to make a few extra bucks during the summer, always assuming the big break hasn’t come; I’ve been doing this since college, five years now, and it’s pretty much the same group. You got your letterers, mostly older Asian men; they’ll write your name in capital letters made up of palm trees on islands and drinking flamingos. Those are always the ones that draw little crowds. People seem to be entranced with the technique of dipping the little folds of leather in the ink and turning them just so. They draw the names on long, white scrolls of paper and it makes a fine present for a little kid or a girl. The caricature artists are little further down, in a group of our own; I didn’t really notice this issue of stratification until a group of anthropology students came and studied us. Sat down on the grass right across the walk and jotted little notes while we sat there and drew pictures of them grooming for lice. Mr. Saiku drew a series of atolls and jumping dolphins that spelled ‘suck it.’ Showing this caused a flurry of writing. Caricature artists do an okay business, mostly kids like my new friend Kyra. And then there are the real artists, or artists with real pretensions. Only a few, and they have it the hardest. The general opinion seems to be ‘If you’re so great, what the hell are you doing here?’

I saw Mr. Rosetti coming down the walk with his cart, full of buckets of shaved ice and rattling bottles of syrup. I waved to him and he came over, with sunlight running in the diamonds stamped on the side of his cart.

"Hey, Johnny." He stopped in front of my easel and the little umbrella threw a circle of shade on my feet.

"Hi, Mr. Rosetti."

"You want something? I can’t chat today. Too many people want something cold, and that prick Slawson is out today." Mr. Rosetti looked as if he might enjoy shoving Mr. Slawson’s remains into his own ice cream cart.

"Poacher," I said. "I guess I’ll have one."

"What flavor?" He was already reaching in, scooping the ice into a paper cone. Little flakes of it drifted up and melted in the black hair on his wrist.

"My fav’rit flavor: cherry rayyd," I said, grinning.

"You’re too damn young to know that song. Stay away from the oldies, Johnny, that’s my generation."

"Mr. Rosetti, you can’t always get what you want." He looked at me as if he wondered whether or not I was mocking; I wasn’t, at least I don’t think so.

He pulled out a bottle of cherry syrup and squirted it onto the ice, turning the cone as he did so. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of ones.

We exchanged, shaved ice for crumpled money.

"Take it easy," I said.

"You too. Now don’t be drawin any pictures of me walking away with my Italian ass hanging out, hear me, Johnny?"

"Loud and clear, but I thought you were Mexican." He gave one last look as he wheeled the cart away, and it told me everything I needed to know about Mr. Rosetti’s views on Mexicans. Older Italian men, most of them anyway, seem to have an unshakable core of latent racism; they joke around it but it’s there, like a steel rod up their backs forcing them to stand straight. The shadow of the umbrella traveled along beside him like a black puppy and I pulled the cover over my easel and started following him.

"Done, Johnny?" asked Oriana and I waved.

"For now. Watch my easel for me?"

"Sure."

I walked off and wondered if she was watching me go. I was tempted to look back. Oriana is fairly new here; this is her first summer, but I suspect that she won’t be back too many times. There is a meticulousness in her art that suggests great talent and patience.

The walk is paved with some kind of soft wood chips; when they lay down a fresh layer it’s almost springy. The ground slopes down to the area of the park with the play equipment; naturally, it’s where the children gravitate to. After the future anthropologists had enough of us, they came down here to observe the habits of parents and their offspring. The sound of kids screaming and the faint squeak of the merry-go-round floated across the park.

The stone wall grew higher on my left and finally ended, pressed against the natural bank. I walked down to the end of the path, where there was a plaque saying that the park was dedicated to Ethyl Merriam, late of Coupeville. It was covered with white splatters, as the birds had paid tribute of their own. Thank you, Ethyl, for giving us such a wonderful plaque to shit on, and a few hundred heads to play target practice with if we want to.

I finished the shaved ice, tipping the cone back to get the last of the syrup, crumpled the paper and tossed it into a trashcan. The playground lay to my right, and Rosetti and Slawson circled it, looking like Roman charioteers behind their carts.

I was surprised to see that the playground was only about half full. There were plenty of kids, but not as many as I would have expected. On summer days, playgrounds are full of kids; that’s practically a law of nature. Rosetti and Slawson, who might have done better if they weren’t so busy scowling at each other and scaring the kids, seemed to have noticed this too.

I looked around and finally saw there was a group gathered across the park from the playground. As far as I knew, there was nothing that way so enticing as a merry-go-round, and began making my way over.

As I walked, two kids ran past me with their parents nowhere in sight. They ran ahead and joined the group; it almost looked like they were sucked in and I walked a little quicker to see what it was. They were standing on a little rise and as I approached, I could see over the tops of shaved and bowl-cutted heads. The parents formed two groups, one on either side, but they were not the main audience. The main audience was the children, and they were front and center, watching the mime perform.

He was good, the best I’ve ever seen. Once in a while, a mime will come to the park; mostly they are younger, practicing for a life of walking into invisible winds and climbing invisible ladders. They haven’t quite got the hang of it, whatever that might be, and are likely to provide entertainment by falling over at some particularly crucial moment.

This one had clearly left the practice stage far behind. He had committed his embarrassing tumbles in another park, in front of a less spellbound audience. I thought of the other mimes I’d seen, in the park or at a fair; this one had those whipped by a country mile. Watching him, I understood why some people hate mimes, or are scared of them. The robotic movements, the strange cohesion of the black and white striped shirt and the makeup. The makeup especially; all white except for black lipstick and black diamonds around the eyes, perfect for conveying not just happiness or surprise, but extreme happiness and extreme surprise. I could see how it could be scary or infuriating. None of these kids seemed afraid, though; they were having a great time and it was infectious. Their parents were laughing and clapping and I didn’t doubt that their good cheer would even reach Rosetti and Slawson if they made it over.

The mime smiled and made a show of wiping his forehead; his hand stayed an inch or so from his skin so as not to smudge the makeup. It seems like everything has to be perfect; one little slip, and the illusion is broken. He wiped his forehead and drooped his head between his shoulders with an exaggerated frown. He looked around and suddenly, an open-mouthed grin of singular delight replaced his disappointment and the kids laughed. He pointed excitedly, indicating an empty spot of grass. Then he walked over and sat down on an invisible bench. The kids cheered and I felt myself being transported a little, to wherever it is a really good performer can take you, making it so good you’re simultaneously in awe and wishing it was you up on that stage. Or sitting on that invisible bench making the kids laugh. Then the mime crossed one leg across the other and put his hands down to his sides, ostensibly resting them on top of the bench and drumming his fingers. I marveled at his muscle control; I could imagine the huge strain it must have put on his left calf and wondered how long it had taken him to find that perfect center of balance, and how he managed to sit there with a smile on his face, in his perfect makeup. I wondered if there was a nice girl mime waiting at home for him, to massage his whole body when he was done here today, then maybe go into some sort of complex mime mating ritual. I was suddenly struck with the thought that their bodies were black and white all over and barely managed not to laugh. If I had, it would have stuck out from the good-natured laughter of the completely amazed; jaded, grown-up laughter has no place around kids, anyway. Their parents were likewise amazed, and I noticed a number of hands pressed to open mouths. He would clean up after this show, based on this stunt alone, I thought. It would take me a solid week of drawing caricatures to make the kind of money he was going to make today and that was all right. I intended to throw in. Then I looked around and saw there was no hat. There was no open suitcase lying flat on the ground. As far as I could see, there was no place to throw money in. I wondered if he was maybe giving the show for free, just out of the goodness of his black and white mime’s heart, then I promptly forgot as he began to read the paper.

He held his arms out in front and to the sides, his head scanning back and forth, occasionally turning a page. He tilted his head back in a silent laugh, presumably having reached the comics section. Then he clapped his hand to his head and jumped up, looking at the sky. The illusion he had created was so perfect, I could imagine his skinny ass coming off the bench with no trouble at all.

He looked up at the sky and quickly down, then back up. An invisible bird had just flown a bombing run over his head. The kids howled at that. No doubt most of them would be trying out an act like this at home until bedtime, much to the amusement of their parents. Probably some would sneak out of bed and continue to practice in their rooms.

The mime shook his fist at the sky and looked around wildly. Then his eyes locked on something in the distance and ran directly at the kids. For a moment, I thought he would plow right through them, then he crashed into one of those pesky invisible walls and tumbled onto his back. He somersaulted over and came up with nary a grass stain on his shirt. By now, the parents were as entranced as their children. I had forgotten all about being two feet or so taller than the kids in front of me and was laughing and clapping along with them.

Over the past few years, the audience for performances in the park had decreased considerably, ever since the drunk clown attempted to juggle three hatchets and only succeeded in dropping them on the first toss. Two fell harmlessly into the ground by his feet but the third came down directly between a young spectator’s eyes, like some insane version of mumbly-peg. There was an audible thunk, then stunned silence from the crowd as the kid lowered his head, with one eye wide and stunned on either side of the blade. When blood began curling down the side of his nose the kid fainted, falling on top of the juggler who had already found the scene more than he could bear. Now, the mime seemed to have erased the memory of that nasty incident.

The mime got up and pushed his bowler hat back on his head and looked around wildly. His eyes were white circles in their black diamonds, and his mouth was an "O" of surprise. He shuffled forward and put his hand out, laying it flat against something that wasn’t there at all. He pressed against the air with his gloved hand and brought the other one up too. He began moving them up the wall, curling his fingers every time he pulled them away, then opening them as he put them back as if he was flashing the number five over and over. Then suddenly, he turned his palms down and began feeling along a small ledge with the tips of his fingers. A smile lit his face and he ran his hands down the sides of what had to be a window frame. When he reached the bottom, he curled his fingers upward and strained as if the window would not go up. On more than a few of the watching faces I saw similar looks of strain, and not all of them were kids.

The mime strained against his stuck window, standing on his tip toes and throwing his whole body into it. I could even see his arms quivering with tension. Then suddenly, his arms shot above his head and floated there; he fell back onto the soles of his shoes, panting soundlessly with his tongue out.

He rested his hands on the sill and poked his head out the window, looked up, and clamped his hand to his head again. The bird was back, apparently. The mime pulled his head in without lowering it and pretended to clonk it against the window. He gingerly withdrew and took off his hat, looked at it, then tilted the unspoiled black top at the children. They laughed and pointed as if it had really been hit with explosive avian droppings, terror from above. The mime’s hair was short and greasy and plastered to his head, and there was an indentation where the band rested. His hair looked as if it conformed perfectly to the inside of the bowler. Ruefully, he put the hat back on and returned to the window. He leaned out again with his elbows on the sill and one leg crossing the other over the shin. There seemed to be no tension in his body.

He looked out at the children as if he was really seeing them for the first time and offered them a syrupy smile. He raised one hand and waved and they waved back. The mime slipped back into his relaxed posture for a moment, then pointed at a girl near the front. She didn’t seem to want to come, but he beckoned and the magic was strong enough to compel her. The mime clasped his hands together and shook them in happy celebration. The girl stepped forward and I saw it was my little model from earlier. I couldn’t quite remember her name, only that it had been exotic. I thought that this was undoubtedly the high point of her day at the park and felt strange jealousy toward the mime. He had stolen my thunder, which probably hadn’t been all that great anyway.

The mime beckoned her to come closer, rolling his hand in a circle and nodding and she came. Kyla or Kia or something.

"Go on, Kyra," her mother said and I looked over, with her name suddenly filling my head.

Kyra looked at her mother and stepped closer to the mime. He held his hand out to her, now standing on both feet, bent a little at the waist. The mime nodded and Kyra stepped closer and he picked her up and, incredibly, she brought her legs up over the imaginary sill. The mime drew her through his window and sat her down. He smiled, then took her hand and did an excited little dance, swaying from side to side.

The mime escorted Kyra over to the invisible bench and stopped, inquiring if the lady wanted to sit. She shook her head. I suddenly wondered if Kyra’s mother felt uncomfortable about a strange, made-up man holding her daughter’s hand. I wondered if Kyra felt uncomfortable.

The mime led her away and suddenly stopped. He put his hand out and laid it flat against another wall. He frowned and then placed Kyra’s hand against it, but she let it fall back to her side. Probably she was getting nervous being in front of all these people and when he let her go, she would run back to her mother. Then my smile died on my face. I don’t know what it was, the way the mime was looming over her maybe, but I had a sudden idea that he was going to eat her up. Maybe it was his painted face, which only allowed you to read the emotions he put on it. Maybe it was that he was still holding her hand. Or perhaps it was just that I knew she was shy.

He seemed to sense this too, and didn’t bother with feeling up and down the wall, flashing five. Instead, he reached out and gripped something and tried to turn it. A doorknob, probably; he had come up against a door instead of a window.

The mime stepped back, still holding Kyra’s hand and knocked. He waited for a moment, listening, with his head cocked; he tried the knob again, but no luck. His hand shook a little as he jiggled it. Then the mime let go and shot the index finger of his free hand into the air and his dopiest smile yet lit his face. He bent over and lifted the corner of a mat and retrieved an equally insubstantial key.

Being an artist, any kind of artist, means having an eye for the little details. Those are the things that fill the edges of whatever world you’re trying to reveal, and they are what elevates something that is merely serviceable to something that is truly beautiful. In this case, one of those details was nudging the corner of the mat back over and inserting the key below the doorknob, then offering it to Kyra to hold. More applause at this, but Kyra didn’t look like she was having so much fun. I couldn’t help but notice that her hand disappeared almost entirely in his.

He knocked once more, just in case, then pushed the door open. I could almost see a door in a pointless freestanding wall opening, bending the grass under it. I knew that if I walked past where Kyra and the mime were standing, I’d be tempted to hold out a hand in front of me like a blind man feeling his way around a strange room.

The mime pointed at the door and tugged gently on Kyra’s hand. He inclined his head sideways in the direction of his outstretched hand. I had a sudden thought that if Kyra wasn’t so shy, she might’ve protested. But she didn’t, and her mother said, "Come on, girl," in a tone that begged her daughter to be a sport. Kyra stepped forward tentatively and the mime placed his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved her through the imaginary doorway, onto the grass.

A gasp went up from adults and children alike, but we were slow to move; the magic still held us. Kyra landed on her stomach and she pushed herself up on her hands and knees and looked at us and I’d swear that her eyes locked on mine and why not? I was directly in front of her, and she knew my face. Kyra’s mother screamed and dropped her purse and began running to rescue her daughter; after all, who knew what the crazy man, the crazy stranger was going to do next. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my drawing flutter away from her hand.

The mime’s benign, idiot’s smile had disappeared entirely; it was replaced by a small grin. It looked like a little knife cut in his face as he stepped over the threshold that he had designated. He turned to face the crowd, which had begun to react and surge in. Kyra’s mother was almost there, pumping her arms and her legs, her breasts bouncing wildly up front.

The mime’s smile became a leer and just as Kyra’s mother would have plowed into him and knocked all hundred and ten grease-painted pounds of him onto the ground, the mime stepped back and swung his arm. A straight-edge seemed to move across the mime, erasing him.

He slammed the door and the last thing I saw was Kyra’s eyes, huge and terrified, staring at us from behind the mime’s legs, clad in tight black pants. Her mouth was hanging open and she was crying.

A second later, Kyra and the mime were gone and Kyra’s mother fell through empty space; a screamy sort of whisper rose from the crowd. She landed in almost the same position as her daughter, looking just as terrified. There were grass stains on her knees. I saw that her hands were bleeding and then I was kneeling next to her, helping her up; I hadn’t even realized that I was running.
Then I saw that it was not really her hands that were bleeding; it was her fingers. The tips of her fingers were gone, a tiny bit from her pinkie, a little more from her ring finger, a lot more from the middle one. They were neatly cut away, or maybe pinched away is a better word. She must have gotten them in the doorway and had the tips sheared off.

I pulled my shirt off to wrap around her fingers; she wasn’t screaming or crying, but looked faraway and detached, in the furthest reaches of shock. People were crawling over the ground in front of us, the patch where the mime and the little girl had been a few seconds ago. Some of them tore up tufts of grass and dug in the dirt. Someone, I believe it was Mr. Rosetti, bellowed that someone needed to get the police right now, goddamnit.

It was utter confusion for a moment, then everyone stopped and cringed and some screamed when laughter echoed in the empty air. It was soft and mocking, sounding close and far away at the same time, and then it was gone. I realized Kyra’s mother had fainted away on the grass and I was holding her arm suspended in the air. Drops of blood ran down her wrist, to her elbow.

I lifted her up and held her, praying for the police, for anyone to come and bring order. Then I looked down and quickly scooted back, trying to get away from the thin yellow line that lay on the grass. It marked the place where a door had been opened and closed. On the other side of that door lay the tips of a woman’s fingers. I wondered what else was beyond it, then I remembered the look on Kyra’s face and decided I didn’t want to know. I realized that while she had been crying, I hadn’t been able to hear her at all. Not at all.