Renaissance Man

Written by Father Time on August 28, 2005

(Phone rings)

Ugh. I pry my eyes open and look at the clock. Who the fuck is calling me at this time of night? The clock reads 10:23 AM. That must be wrong. I probably swatted the hour button or something during a dream. I was just having a dream. What…something about Jamaican coffee and Beverly D’Angelo…

(rrrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnngggg!!!)

“FUCK! All right!” I push myself up onto my arms and look at my cell phone across the room on the dresser. It glows a light blue when it rings. It’s a cheap Verizon piece of crap. One of those buy-one-get-one-free deals that my ex-wife and I signed up for. I don’t even have the cool flap down thing. In fact, you can’t even pull out the antenna. Just a little rubber nub. Bars? Yeah, maybe one-and-a-half on a good day.

(RRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG!!!!!!)

“Oh, for the love of SHIT!” I rock back onto my upper back and then fling myself up onto my knees. I have one of those on-the-floor bed frames. I thought it would look cool and hip when I moved out and got my own place. Now all I want is the storage space I don’t have under the bed. My mom’s birthday’s coming up. I’m trying to convince her to take my bed as a present and she can buy me a new bed for my birthday, a week later. You have any idea how much shit us only children get away with?

(RRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIII-

I lunge-fall onto the floor, reach up to the dresser and grab the fucking noise machine. Jesus Christ, make it stop.

“Hello!?! Yes?!?!” (fucking people calling so early-
“Dad?” (oh)
“Hey buddy. What’s up?” My seven-year old. Already one of the most sarcastic people I know. And he can already beat me at Madden Football. The little snot.
“When are you coming over?”
“Oh, um, in a little bit. Just have to get ready.”
“Okay. Mom said we should get going.”
“Where?”
“To the Renaissance Festival.”
(Oh fuck)
“Oh…..right.”
(silence)
“That was today, wasn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“Um…okay. Give me 20 minutes and I’ll be over.”
“Okay.”

I hit the red button on the phone. I half expect to see blood because my ears have started bleeding. I open my dresser. Hmmmm. What to wear to a festival full of white-trash, hick, gothic, kooks talking to you in bad olde English accents in 95-degree heat? I choose a pair of slightly too-big jeans and a gray T-Shirt that says, “Why don’t you stop annoying people?” Fitting, I figure. I think I’ll just walk up to people and point to my chest today. Nobody gets the quote anyway. It’s a Wonderful Life? No? Nothing? Only the most famous Christmas movie ever, but that’s okay. Really. My ears should be bleeding by now.

A half hour later and we’re on our way to the middle of bumble, Maryland. If you ever wanted to see a family of mullets and listen to them try to make jokes and then look around at people, as if to say, “Hey! Did you hear my funny joke?!,” then you’ve come to the right place. My ex-wife sits in the passenger seat. She seems genuinely happy to be going. My son’s in the back. Dressed as a pirate. No mullet. Also, he’s literate. He remembers the elephant ride from two years ago. I also remember. We paid 15 dollars to sit on the top of this smelly gynormous, Brillo pad and then the thing slowly lumbers around in a counter-clockwise circle. Once. Thanks for coming. Money well spent. This is what he remembers. Subconsciously, my left hand grabs my wallet and squeezes. As if to feel what a full wallet of money feels like for the last time.

We pull into the “parking lot.” A big grass field where guys dressed as medieval peasants wave orange construction flags at us. I park behind a minivan. A family is getting ready. The dad is wearing some ugly leather shirt/vest with tassels and no sleeves. The mom is trying her God damndest to fit into a corset that was made for half of her. Boobs everywhere. I mean, there’s no chance in hell this woman has nipples, because her tits are flopping all over the place. The force must be strong in that corset. High powered silent vacuum or ultra nipple magnets. Something.

We buy our tickets from the nice looking attendant who says, “Good day” to us as we approach. I almost point to my shirt, but she’s cute. Holy fuck is it hot. My too-big pants are already becoming an annoyance. I belong in a Beastie Boys video. Except I’m wearing polka dot boxers. Find me a wench who can resist that? I give my ticket to the not-nearly-as-cute attendant at the front gate. She tells me to “have a merry day.” My right eye starts twitching.

First stop. Glass-blowing guy. Didn’t realize they made leather mini-shorts for men, but okay. Luckily he’s got varicose veins bulging from his legs like Crayola markers. And a paisley vest. No shirt. Women’s panties will not be thrown at this man. He spends the next 20 minutes making a big ugly glass mug. We clap. It did look very difficult. Making that ugly piece of shit that somebody will pay $80 for. During the entire performance, this 10-year old girl dressed in a Cinderella castle outfit sitting next to me does not…shut…up. “This is boring.” “Make something.” “He’s making a vase.” “Finally, he’s starting.” “I’m bored.” “That isn’t hard.” I want to knee-drop her. The best part of the entire show is when the guy explains that the furnace where they heat up the glass is called the “glory hole.” My ex-wife glares at me when I giggle.

We spend the next hour or so looking at overpriced crap. Weird moccasin laced boots for $250. Little tiny medieval knives for $80. Wooden swords for $50. I buy my mother a pottery bowl for $30. Little bribe for her to take the bed. She eats that shit up. My ex-wife spends 40 minutes talking to an uptight goldsmith in a leather costume. She wants a moonstone set. He says he costs too much and adjusts his leather vest. He points to other, non-original pendants she could use to set the stone instead. For $500. We tell the overweight assistant with a colony of sweat drops on her upper lip “no thanks.” If I want to get bent over a table, I’ll visit ye olde whorehouse. But thanks for wasting the last hour of my life away. Have a merry day.

Lunchtime. And oh, the options. Steak on a stick. Macaroni and cheese on a stick. Cheesecake on a stick. What’s with the on-a-stick shit? I decide on a pork pocket and fries. I pass on the fried pickle and turkey leg. Halfway down into my nummy pork sludge is a hard piece of pork charcoal. I turn to the fries. The ketchup for the fries was in a big open vat with a ladle. Real tomato ketchup, Ed? I drink my beer. My son wants to go back to the Jacob’s ladder. I pull out the map. A lady wearing 10-year old medieval garb and showing off a glorious set of yellow teeth comes over and sits down. She’s gnawing on a steak on a stick. Don’t talk to me. Please. Please God.

“Whatchu lookin’ fer, mate?”
(my gun)
“We’re trying to find the Jacob’s ladder.”
“Oh, sure, ye go down ter Queen’s alley n ye take yer left and…”
(DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! WHAT IN THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!??! IT’S 2 THOUSAND AND 5!! YOU’RE GNAWING ON A PIECE OF MEAT ON A STICK AND DRESSED IN A MEDIEVAL WHORE COSTUME!! MY KINGDOM FOR A SLEDGHAMMER!!!)
“…right past ye crossbow ‘n there ye are.”
“Thanks.” I LEAP up off the bench. My son actually reaches the end of the Jacob’s ladder. Everyone claps. I’m genuinely impressed. And yes, this is the highpoint of my day. We work our way over to the jousting field. I’m dripping with sweat. My too-big jeans are now permanently halfway down my ass. I find a portable bathroom. I piss in an oven.

The jousting field is about as far away from any shade as you can get in a fucking forest. We grab seats on the wooden benches. Some weird Renaissance lady tells us to root for the guy in gold. I want to beat her with a turkey leg.

The squires go first. They have to spear wooden blocks and metal rings while riding horses. Our gold squire is a good 300 pounds. He mounts his horse, who lets out a whinny of agony and stares with envy at the bottle of glue in the medieval market. My shirt clings to me. I down a Pepsi in a manner of seconds. Finally, the jousting begins. Nobody hits anybody except for a couple taps on the shields. Nobody even falls off. What a fucking joke. Even my son thought it was lame.

It’s 4:30. Time to go. We stagger back towards the main gates. Some guys are playing a game where they have to fling a sock full of beans against a tree. Huh. Even the Renaissance had retards. We reach main gates. My son suddenly stops and looks up at me, sad.
“What is it?”
“I didn’t get to go on the elephant ride.”
I look at him. I think about telling him that we just spent $40 on him so he could climb ladders and play medieval pinball and shoot crossbows and play Tic Tac Toad (don’t ask). He even got a wooden sword he’ll forget about in two weeks and Macaroni on a stick! And I was going to let him have it to. I was. But then my ex-wife came up with her own solution…
“That’s okay, honey. We’ll come back next weekend.”

-- Written by Father Time on August 28, 2005