out, “Hey, wait, before you commit suicide there, how do you feel about
abortion?”
In front of the Sidewalk Café on the boardwalk, the Mime, a black man wearing white gloves along with a tuxedo and top hat, just stands stilli—often for hours. He is listening to a stereo headset. One might think he was playing music to counteract the boredom, but it’ s really a tape loop reminding him, “Don’ t move, stay still, it doesn’ t matter if your back itches, people are paying you not to scratch...”
Passersby do indeed put cash in the cardboard box at his feet after they have gaped at him long enough to get their money’ s worth. Standing still is his job. People pay him not to move. When he goes to the Unemployment office, a clerk asks, “Did you look for work this week?” He answers simply, “Yes, | stood on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, and then | stood on the corner of Beverly Boulevard and Sierra Bonita, and then | stood..."
In contrast to the Mime is the Pacer, who intrigues me most. He doesn’ t call himself the Pacer. He may not even know that others do. But
the circle he walks around and around in is his turf. Even an occasional
HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_015185