The Renaissance Festival

 

Jeremy Beaumont stared himself down in the bathroom mirror, trying to find a way to make his resolve appear more intense. He started with pointing a finger at himself, but it wasn't cutting it, so he leaned in closer to the mirror until the top of his head was touching it at a forty-five degree angle.

"Today is the day you make it happen," he said to himself, now pressing his finger against the mirror as if he was jabbing it into his own chest.

"No more excuses. You've been wanting this for years, and the longer you wait to make it happen the more miserable you'll be."

Whatever he was attempting to do with this whole charade was actually starting to work and Jeremy could feel a swell of determination bubbling in his guts. He was ready to start his life over again as a new person. Everything was about to change.

"Today is the day," he felt his words even harder now. "Today is the day you finally buy a sword from the Renaissance Festival."

For years, Jeremy has coveted the wares of the local blacksmiths at the Van Buren County Renaissance Festival. Every autumnal visit would start with a mad dash from the entrance to whatever stand was selling swords, knives, and other assorted medieval weapons. He admired the craftsmanship and always dreamed of the day he would take one home with him. Today was that day, he determined. After years of denying himself his greatest joy due to lack of funds, Jeremy had finally amassed a small nest egg of around four-hundred dollars through his own blood, sweat, and tears.

Mostly blood, however, as Jeremy learned in the past year that he could sell his own plasma for extra funds. Twice a week, he would sit down with the fine people at his local "donation" center, read an old magazine offered as an amenity, and have the plasma filtered from his blood. He would leave with about fifty bucks each time, which was a pretty good score for someone who otherwise earns all of their income working at a gas station. It's not all glamorous, though, as he found himself feeling dizzy and passing out more frequently, especially as he began ramping up donations in anticipation of Sword Day. The ends justify the means, he convinced himself.

***

Jeremy's renaissance costume was scratchy and uncomfortable, especially around the groin. The sensation was made worse by the hot faux-leather seats in his 1994 Chrysler LeBaron making him sweaty in unwelcome places. For a late September day in Missouri, the air blowing into the car windows to supplement the broken air conditioner was unreasonably warm. The combination of high heat and missing plasma left him feeling lightheaded as he pulled off the main road and into the gravel parking lot for the Van Buren County Fairgrounds. The number of cars in the lot was lower than he expected. The Van Buren County Renaissance Festival was usually a pretty big draw, especially for people like him coming in from the nearby town of Danton. It wasn't a draw for everyone, unfortunately, as Jeremy was unable to convince anyone else at his gas station job to join him. Some had to work shifts that day, but others just seemed uninterested in being around a dizzy 23-year-old wielding a sharp weapon.

He pulled into the closest spot he could find, hopped out of the car, and began making his way to the entrance gate. He couldn't help feeling uneasy as he noticed no one else walking across the parking lot was wearing period-appropriate clothing. That's fine, he thought, but if no one else is going to dress the part, it kills a little bit of the experience. Jeremy donned his finest costume store-quality medieval peasant costume with normal tennis shoes and remnants of spirit gum on his ears where he tried to add pointy elf attachments before failing and giving up. He hoped dressing the part would make his sword buying experience more memorable, but he was worried being the only person in appropriate attire would just make him look like a jackass.

"Greetings, m'lord, I would like one ticket to ye festival here," Jeremy said to the man working the ticketing gate, quickly realizing how embarrassing everything he just said is.

"Listen, jackass, I don't have time for this," the ticket salesman said, not kindly. "Do you want a ticket or not?"

"Yes," Jeremy said, trying to minimize eye contact in shame. He pulled out his velcro wallet. "How much?"

"Five dollars gets you general admission and ten gets you access to the more exclusive chili tastings."

"Chili? The Renaissance Festival does chili now?" Jeremy asked, confused.

"Renan-stance? Buddy, I think you might be in the wrong place."

The man motioned to a yellow banner with white text just slightly beyond the entrance gate.

2013 Danton City and Van Buren County Joint Cooperation Competitive Chili Cook-Off

"What? That doesn't make any sense," Jeremy said, his head spinning. "I thought this weekend was the Ren Fest. Crap!" He'd done a lot of negotiating at work to finally get a Satuday off, thinking it would be spent living his dream. But now it looked he got his Saturdays mixed up and was now standing at the entrance to a chili cooking competition. Deflated, Jeremy decided to try to make the best of his day. He couldn't bear to go home already after driving all this way, and he is as pro-chili as any normal person can be.

"Give me the five dollar ticket."

Jeremy took his ticket, made his way past the ticket-taker at the gate, and walked towards the yellow banner. As he passed by, a portly man with a goatee wearing a fluorescent "STAFF" t-shirt stepped into his path. He grabbed a single sheet of paper from a large stack he was holding.

"Greetings, sir! Would you like a program for today's cook-off? It labels all the different vendors and stations here today as well as the location of the restrooms."

"Thanks!" Jeremy took the poorly-xeroxed flyer from the man and looked it over.

"If you have any questions, feel free to let me know!" the man said.

"I have a question. What's with the long name on the banner?" Jeremy motioned to the large yellow banner that was just above their heads. The white letters were painted on by hand, clearly with a misunderstanding of how much space was needed, as the tail end of the text was curved and scrunched awkwardly together.

"I'm glad you asked! You've actually arrived on a very historic day for the chili community! For years, warring cook-off organizations in the city and county held their own events, often on the same day, in competition with one another. The bitter rivalry benefited no one, as both events experienced dwindling participation and acts of sabotage from their adversaries. Only this year did the two sides decide to end hostilities and merge their events into one!"

"Oh, umm," Jeremy stammered, realizing he couldn't be as passionate about this as Flyer Guy. Chili politics were beyond his comprehension. "I'm glad they were able to work it out."

"Yes, it is a glorious thing, but be warned," Flyer Guy grabbed Jeremy by the collar of his shirt and pulled him intimidatingly close. Jeremy could feel and smell his hot breath as he issued a warning. "The fire is extinguished, but the embers still burn. Tread lightly among the folk, as they have yet to allow the wounds of past transgressions to fully heal. You may be called to serve one banner o'er another by day's end. Choose wisely."

The man unclenched Jeremy's shirt and moved his attention to the next attendee heading his way, his demeanor reverted back to a cheery normal. Jeremy walked off, confused and trying to process what just happened to him. As he moved along, he studied the flyer, trying to decide which booth he wanted to try out first. His absent-minded stupor was abruptly interrupted with loud clanging noises and the feeling like he just ran into a wall of metal. He looked up from the sheet of copy paper and paused for a moment as he tried to figure out what it is he was looking at. It was a man in a full suit of armor. He stood about three inches taller than Jeremy, his face covered with an ornate helmet and his heavy, shiny plate mail accented with a red cape. Sticking out from his back, Jeremy could see a beautiful, expensive-looking sword.

"Ugh, you too?" the man scanned Jeremy's attire and his voice echoed in the helmet, but Jeremy could hear the relief. "I thought I was the only one."

"I thought it was going to be this weekend!" Jeremy exclaimed, excited to see someone else made the same mistake. "You dressed for the Renaissance Festival too, right?"

It was a stupid question, but the armored man took it in stride with a hearty laugh.

"Certainly," the man responded kindly and with a bold, medieval tone. "and what is your name, traveler?"

"Jeremy, you?"

"Lord Derek, if you will."

The man extended his metal hand, which Jeremy shook. He didn't realize they would be doing characters or he would have picked out a better name. Probably something fancy like "Reginald." It didn't matter now. It was too late.

"Jeremy, I have a proposition for you." Lord Derek attempted to place his hands behind his back in a manner demonstrating thought and good judgement, but the restrictions of the armor forced him to keep them down by his side.

"Go on."

"I plan to survey the grounds and sample the many vendors' wares today. It would be most un-fortuitous to have to make such an endeavor alone."

"Go on."

"Would you care to join my in my chili crusade as my humble squire?"

"Go on."

"That... that's it. That's all I'm asking."

"Oh," Jeremy pondered the offer for a moment. He liked the idea of getting to do some medieval roleplaying and it seemed fitting enough that he'd serve as a knight's assistant. His high school guidance counselor always reinforced the notion that some people were born to lead and others were born to follow. Jeremy's path in life, they warned him, would more likely pan out to the latter and there's nothing wrong with that.

"Sure! That sounds good to me! Where to first, m'lord?" Jeremy replied, trying to workshop his squire dialogue.

"We will begin our journey over there," Lord Derek's metal arm creaked up and he pointed his gauntlet'ed finger to a chili stand near the center of the festival. It appeared to be considerably more professional looking than the ones surrounding it. The large, well-designed sign above the stand read "Matt Graves Hot Sauce" and features a picture of a tombstone with a jalapeño engraved on it as an epitaph. The many people surrounding the booth were indulging various chili samples while browsing the selection of artisanal hot sauces for sale. The two made their way to the booth and, as they approached, Jeremy was delighted by the smell of smokey sauces and tomato-ey chili.

There was only a single man running the booth. He looked to be about thirty years old with light brown, slightly-thinning, slightly-spiked hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a pair of nice wraparound Oakley sunglasses and the shirt he had on featured the same peppered tombstone that adorned the sign above. There was no mistaking it in Jeremy's mind: this was Matt Graves. He had just finished a sale transaction on a lovely "Triple Threat" hot sauce gift set when he turned his attention to the two men.

"Hey bros, sick costumes!" Matt Graves said to them as he offered them each a tiny plastic spoon with a dollop of a green concoction on it. "You fellas interested in trying a sample of our new Sweet 'n Smokey Poblano hot sauce?"

Jeremy enthusiastically took the sample and tasted the sauce. It had a distinct smokiness that complemented the mild heat of the poblano. Jeremy liked it enough that he picked up a bottle of it for sale from the table and briefly considered purchasing it before seeing the seven dollar price tag. He couldn't afford to dip into his sword money to just buy a fancy sauce. Besides, he already had a pretty robust collection of condiments at home that he stole from the roller grill area at work. As he put the bottle back down and tried to avoid eye contact with the nice man who gave him the free sample, he noticed that his companion had already walked off. He shuffled back over to the knight he was supposed to be attending.

"You didn't look around much," Jeremy said to his friend. "Not a big sauce guy?"

"No, it's not that," Lord Derek replied. "I have a history with that man and I meant to confront him, but I'm afraid my nerves got the better of me."

"You have history with the hot sauce man?"

"Indeed," Lord Derek's helmeted head looked up almost wistfully. "I was once in the pursuit of a beautiful lady. Ne'er was there a maiden more fine in all the county, but alas, she was taken from me. I curse the day I ever crossed paths with the treacherous Matthew."

"The sauce guy stole your girlfriend?"

"Well, I wouldn't say she was my girlfriend."

"Were you dating?"

"No, not quite. But we talked."

"About what?"

"I don't know, like the weather and stuff?"

"It sounds to me like the sauce guy just started dating a girl that you liked," Jeremy was beginning to piece the situation together.

"Silence, squire!" Lord Derek barked. "We'll speak no more of this. I must ponder my circumstances. You may take your leave."

"You don't want to hang out anymore?" Jeremy asked, bummed out.

The knight thought for a moment and realized he was being to hard to his new friend.

"No, I do," he replied, dropping the aristocratic lilt for just a moment. "I just need to think about some stuff. How about you go look around and get us some chili? That can be your assignment, or something."

That sounded good enough to Jeremy, who wondered off to check out the other chili vendors. The first stand he came across was operated by a single man who appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. He had an intense look to him, his reddish skin tone and bulging veins suggesting either a vicious sunburn or untreated hypertension. His aggressive appearance was punctuated by an ironed, stainless white shirt and a Gulf War Veteran hat. Jeremy looked at the small sign on his stand that read, "Seven Alarm Chili" and had a hand-drawn skull and crossbones on it. He looked up from the sign to see the man was staring directly at him, which made him jump a bit.

"City or county?" the man asked militantly.

"What?" Jeremy replied, not understanding the question.

"Where do your allegiances lie? We represent the county at this stand. I'll ask you again, city or county?"

"Oh yeah, county," Jeremy lied. "Definitely county."

"Good to know, civilian. Keep your eyes peeled out there. Word is the city has been sending saboteurs to contaminate our good, wholesome county chili."

"Wait, really?" Jeremy said.

"That's what I've been hearing, but don't worry. If anyone comes for my chili, I brought my pepper shaker with me."

The man motioned to the side of his waist where Jeremy could clearly see his pepper shaker for what it actually was, a holstered gun.

"Jesus Christ!" The weird little man who warned him at the entrance wasn't just being dramatic, Jeremy realized. Tensions between the city and county chili cooks was higher than he could have possibly imagined. He tried to turn attention away from the rivalry and back to the chili.

"Could I try some of your chili?"

"No can do, I'm afraid." the man replied.

"Why?"

"Son, I'm only gonna tell you this because you serve the county, but this chili is so god damn hot that it would do irreparable damage to your esophagus and burn a hole in your stomach. The peppers I steeped in this chili can't even be measured by Scoville Units and, as far as I know, are only cleared for very specific military applications. Letting you eat this would be a crime."

"Then why did you make it? Why did you make a chili that's so hot no one can eat it?"

"Because my wife told me I needed a new hobby," the man replied bitterly.

"What was your hobby before making chili?" Jeremy asked.

The man said nothing, but motioned again at the holstered gun on his waist. Jeremy backed away carefully until he felt himself at a safe enough distance to start running.

The next stand Jeremy approached was operated by a college-aged woman with brown hair and thick-framed glasses. She wore a well-fitting flannel top and jeans, an appropriate style for fall, but one that made her stick out among the sea of mostly middle-aged men in stained Big Dog shirts. What stood out more to Jeremy, though, was the chili she was promoting. "All Beans" her sign simply read.

"It's just beans?" Jeremy asked.

"It's more than just beans," she responded. "It's a statement on challenging convention."

"With beans?"

"The beans are part of it, yes, but that's not the whole point. The chili community is heavily divided on whether or not chili with beans is to be considered legitimate. That dogmatic approach to culinary tradition stifles innovation and prevents new voices from breaking through in established communities. By promoting a chili with only beans, I'm purposefully challenging the old guard and making them acknowledge another way. The chili community is a microcosm for society at large. Does that all make sense?"

The woman stared at Jeremy as he stood there silently. She could tell her well-articulated point wasn't breaking through.

"But it doesn't have anything else in it? Just the beans?" Jeremy finally responded.

The woman sighed.

"Do you want any of the chili or not?" she asked.

"Does it come with that sour cream?" Jeremy pointed to the pre-portioned servings of sour cream that were sitting in a half-melted ice bath to keep them cool.

"I'm actually charging for the sour cream," she said. "Fifty cents."

"What!? I have to pay for the sour cream? But I paid to get into the festival."

"Yeah dude, I don't make any money from the gate and I'm already in the hole on the beans. I have to recoup my costs somewhere."

Jeremy had a mind to haggle further with the young woman, but his confusion and low plasma got the better of him and he slipped from consciousness. When he came to, he found himself walking along with a cup of beans in his left hand and two tiny containers of sour cream in his right. He didn't understand what happened, but he made his way to a third booth, which was attended by a ratty little man with shifty eyes. The stand was unattended, and the man, dressed in a stained blue shirt and jeans, perked up as Jeremy approached.

"Hello, city" the man said, clarifying his allegiance. "Would you like to try my chili?"

Before Jeremy could answer, the man pushed a bowl and spoon to him and he reflexively took it, despite already holding things. Looking down at it, the chili appeared pretty unoffensive. Jeremy set down his sour creams and grabbed the spoon.

As he began to lift the spoon to his mouth, he looked up and saw the weird little man nodding his head and smiling. He was rubbing his hands together and very lightly licking his lips in anticipation of Jeremy taking a bite. Jeremy continued and the man's excitement reached a fever pitch as Jeremy began to open his mouth. He looked up again and could see the man shaking now, his pupils fully dilated.

Jeremy stopped. Without speaking, he returned the spoon to the bowl, set the bowl down on the booth, grabbed his sour creams, and walked away.

Jeremy walked along in search of a fourth booth to sample when he heard a familiar voice call for him in a loud, whispery voice.

"Squire! Over here!"

It was Lord Derek, hiding just beyond the perimeter of the festival grounds behind a tree. He motioned Jeremy over and the aspiring squire obliged.

"Why are you hiding over here?" Jeremy asked. "Were you peeing? How do you pee in that thing? Do you need help peeing? Because I'm not going to do that."

"I'm not peeing, Jeremy." Lord Derek said. "I'm hiding out here while I plan my next move."

"What are you moving?"

"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, Jeremy." Lord Derek said.

"I already figured out that woman wasn't your girlfriend."

"No! It's not-" Lord Derek began to exclaim before stopping and taking a deep breath to calm himself. "It's not about that. It's about the festival. I'm afraid I'm more than just an incidental fairgoer. I'm actually a partisan; one whose allegiances align with the city. I'm here on a mission to sabotage the county's efforts and I need your help."

"I don't really know if I want to get involved in all of this," Jeremy said, remembering the man with the holstered gun.

"The city needs you, Jeremy! Think of the beautiful future we can achieve. If we're able to push the county cooks out, the city will have a monopoly on all future festivals!"

"What's in it for me?"

"Honor! Glory! You'll be a hero among the city chili cooks! Bard will sing songs of your triumphs!"

Jeremy said nothing and only stared at the shining hilt protruding from the knight's back.

"I'll let you have my sword," Lord Derek said.

"Deal! What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to create a distraction. Do you see that row of porta potties over there?"

Jeremy nodded. He'd clocked them as soon as he entered the fairgrounds. He feared their condition, but knew they'd become an inevitability if he stayed at the chili festival long enough.

"I want you to take this. Consider it a magic wand of sorts." Lord Derek handed over a slim, festive-looking cardboard tube.

"This is a Roman candle," Jeremy said in a tone that was both matter-of-fact and confused.

"It's enchanted, yes," Lord Derek replied. "What I need you to do is shoot it at the stall over there on the end."

"Why that one?"

"It'll capture the most attention. Trust me. While you do that, I will be making the rounds and sabotaging the repulsive tankards of slop the county degenerates call 'chili.' When the commotion has died down, meet me over there behind that unopened concession stand to collect the spoils of your victory."

"Gotcha," Jeremy said and then took off toward his target. He slunk through the small crowd of chili enthusiasts, being careful not to draw too much attention. When he arrived at the porta potties, he attempted to minimize his bodily exposure by crouching behind the hand washing station. He waited for a moment to make sure none of the stalls were in use.

Digging into his pocket, Jeremy retrieved the cheap generic lighter he always carried around with him. He didn't smoke or anything, but he always liked to keep a lighter on him because he read somewhere that wrapping your fist around one can shore up your punch in a street fight. Jeremy has never been in a street fight. Or any fight.

As he lit the firework, he reflected a bit on his day. How serendipitous is it that he'd show up accidentally to a chili cook-off and make a new friend? Life's full of happy accidents. It's important to take them as they come and cherish every hidden blessing, he mused. His joyful reflections were cut short as the Roman candle fired its first shot near his feet, where he was absentmindedly pointing it.

"Whoops," Jeremy said and lifted the festive tube upward, aiming it at the designated porta potty's door. He braced himself as the second shot fired off, flew aggressively toward it's target, and the impotently crackled as it struck the tiny structure. He was confused. That wasn't the spectacle Lord Derek was hyping up, he thought. Maybe he should aim higher and it'll be more noticeable.

Jeremy lifted his arm slightly and the third shot fired off, careening toward the top of the party potty; an area above the door where the air vents for the structure were. Whatever expectations he had for the level of fanfare were immediately exceeded as a large explosion of fire and filthy blue water threw him to the ground.

The next few moments were a haze. He looked up from the ground and his blurred vision captured only smoke and sunlight while his ability to hear was replaced entirely with a loud ringing. Unsure if more explosions were coming, Jeremy began crawling away from the area, his stomach scraping against the dirty, foot-worn fairgrounds. The time dilation brought on by the adrenaline made it difficult for him to determine how long he was crawling, but at some point the ringing in his ears subsided and was replaced with the sounds of frantic festival goers running around trying to find their loved ones and determine what happened.

Jeremy blacked out momentarily, and when he came to, he was sitting on the ground behind the agreed upon vacant concession stand. He sat there for a few minutes trying to regain composure and account for the amount of time passed before Lord Derek dove next to him, seemingly out of nowhere.

"That was excellent work, squire! I couldn't have asked for a better companion in my quests! Huzzah!" Lord Derek exclaimed. His armor was filthy, likely from the explosion and subsequent dust kickup from the human stampede. He wiped the sword along a patch of nearby grass in an attempt to clean it off. It looked like he got chili all over it in the course of his sabotaging, but Jeremy wasn't too concerned with sword cleanliness at this point.

"What the hell was that?" Jeremy attempted to yell, his voice hoarse. "What exploded?"

"That?" Lord Derek asked. "That was a propane explosion. I swiped a tank earlier while you were screwing around with the chili stands and locked it in the porta body after opening the valve. Pretty cool spell, eh?"

"You could have killed me!" Jeremy once again attempted yelling before breaking into a fit of coughs. "Did anyone get hurt?"

"No one important," Lord Derek said, inspecting the blade thoroughly. "Jeremy, my good squire. You have served your bannerlord effectively on this day. I thank you for your endeavors, for their fruits have brought great pride to my house. Kneel before me now and do my the great honor of accepting this gift."

Jeremy did as he was told, forgetting completely for a moment that this man nearly killed him. As he kneeled, the knight stood up and held the beautiful, but dirty, sword across both of his hands. Its crimson staining shined beautifully in the sunlight and Jeremy never felt more heroic in his entire life as he had accepting the sword into his flat palms.

"Take this sword, dear Jeremy, and rise. Rise, not as a squire, but as a knight. I bestow onto you the title of Sir Jeremy."

Jeremy stood and admired the weapon. It shined so brilliantly and checked every box he had for the perfect sword. He was so enamored with its beauty that he didn't immediately notice that Lord Derek, now his colleague, had already ran off. When he finally looked up, he saw no one standing in front of him and could only faintly hear the chaotic clanking of metal in the distance, as if the knight was running as fast as is possible in his suit of armor.

Jeremy didn't care. He stepped out from behind the concession stand still admiring the sword, his trance broken only by the sound of screams nearby. A woman was frantically requesting medical attention for another person.

"We need a paramedic! Matt is bleeding! It looks like he's been stabbed!"

Jeremy looked up from his blade and saw a women kneeling down next to Matt Graves, the chili vendor Lord Derek identified as his foe. He was bleeding profusely, though not fatally, and seemed to be relatively conscious.

"What happened, Matt? Who did this to you?"

"Swooord," he said in a weak, raspy voice as he limply lifted his arm and pointed it in the direction Jeremy was standing.

"That guy over there dressed like a jackass has a sword!" someone yelled.

"He stabbed Matt Graves!" another person chimed in.

Jeremy felt his body go numb as every head in the venue turned to look at him. He'd been set up. The distraction he helped create wasn't used for chili sabotage; Lord Derek snuck off instead to drive a blade into his sworn enemy and he gifted Jeremy the weapon to take the fall. Everyone thinks it was him.

Jeremy could feel the overwhelming weight of judgement crashing against him as the people began moving closer and closer. Looking back, maybe it was the excitement of the moment, or maybe it was the lack of plasma. Either way, it was a terrible time for him to pass out.