I was lucky as a ninth grader. My school decided to offer a drama class that year for the first time ever, and I got to be in it. We did various acting exercises, improvisational skits, and even plays. We would break up into groups and take turns performing for the class. It was the most fun I ever had that year.

One day, our teacher had us prepare some mimed skits that we could perform for the entire school at the auditorium. She broke us up into groups and assigned each group a director, and I was chosen to be the director for my group based on the quality of my individually mimed performances from days before.

As director, I came up with a group mime routine that I was sure would work well in front of an audience—a tug of war scene done to Strauss’ Zarathustra. I used the version found on one of my mom’s many Elvis Presley albums, so I had to do a little audio editing to cut out all the Las Vegas-like fanfare after the first few measures, but it was perfect for the miming movements I had in mind.

For the next few days, I acted with and directed my group for the mimed skit. We practiced our timing just right, made sure our hands were all on the same level to give the illusion of a taut rope being there, being pulled on by all of us. First this side would gain, then that side, then this side again, until the people on one side gave each other knowing looks and let the rope go altogether, making the other side tumble backwards and off the stage. Pretty darn simple routine, but truly hard to coordinate with all the different hands, arms, facial expressions, body language, and timing with the music.

And I’ve got to tell you, objectively speaking, we were the best group in class. No, seriously.

So I was rather excited to perform our routine in front of the whole student body,…

…which will explain to you my haste in getting to the auditorium.

It was 4th period, right after first lunch and right before second lunch. I was coming from somewhere north of the auditorium, probably the classroom, and I was rushing to get things ready before the students came out to start filing into the auditorium. I’m the kind of person who does things with a lot of focus; I can tune out distractions in an eerie way when I want to, and I was running hell-bent, with legs and arms pumping athletically, eyes focused on those auditorium doors.

I was so focused, I didn’t even see the pole in my path, which I swear jumped out to slam me on the left shoulder.

The collision was fierce. I was thrown to the side and stunned into a blissful shock. I couldn’t feel a thing, so I never even knew I was hit. It took me until I got backstage before I could feel any pain, and even then it was pretty mild.

When it came for my group’s turn to perform, however, the pain began to flare, and I swear to God I did the performance of a lifetime. There I was, tugging hard on that imaginary rope, flexing my muscles and tightening my hold on the thin air, and the faces I made, the grimaces of pain as I pulled, were so genuinely convincing, I actually had a few people come up to me after the performance and tell me how good it was.

Of course, when the skit was over, I lifted up my sleeve to inspect my shoulder, and from then on, my entire left arm—which had only moments before been flexing, pulling, and waving around without a care—was suddenly rendered quite useless.

There, in the middle of my shoulder was a deepening quarter-sized crater—yes, crater—the color of soft, overripe plums. It was as though the flesh had been thoroughly compressed so that the unbroken but discolored puckering skin was kissing the bone, and I nearly fainted at the sight and the godawful pain. I could barely swallow as I tried to contain my tears, and meanwhile, people were approaching me with congratulations.

“That was so great!” a friend gushed at me, and I heard the voice as though through cotton. Then everything moved in slow motion as I watched in horror the path of my friend’s arm and hand, lifting in congratulations, curving in an arc, and landing right smack dab on my maimed shoulder.

Ah, me. Poor me. Ever hear a mime scream in excruciating pain?

Trust me on this one. It just isn’t pretty.

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