The Wake

It’s the last week of August, and for three days, all I’ve thought about is what I’m going to drink when I get home. Last night, I perfected the Black and Tan. But tonight, I need something harder. It was my third straight thirteen-hour day of working at the Minnesota State Fair.

My booth wasn’t bad: there were no deep fryers, no corn batter, and no products to sell. I was working for a local media channel, and I was in charge. Most of my days were spent in an air-conditioned office, though I also had to work the autograph tables for talent. All things considered, it was the crème de la crème of state fair jobs. All things considered, it still sucked.

Today was particularly bad. Poison was playing the Grandstand, which meant that the typical fairgoer’s uniform of cut-off jean shorts, wraparound sunglasses, and NASCAR paraphernalia was altered to include hair-metal t-shirts (in lieu of or in addition to NASCAR gear). The same guy wearing a Mötley Crüe shirt that day was probably paying homage to Dale Earnhardt the day before.

Two days prior, I met my favorite fairgoers by way of a variety show that used my office as a dressing room. I let a monkey sit in there with me. It was owned by a woman in her mid-thirties wearing semi-revealing clothing, and a gentleman roughly the same age in a black suit with a Flock of Seagulls haircut. She was nice, he less so. When I asked him if monkey shows were all they did for money, he replied with a sort of Gob Bluth-meets-Dirk Diggler hand motion, “Oh no. I’m a magician. I do all kinds of tricks.” (It should be noted that he did no trick with this illusionist hand motion).

Another day allowed me the opportunity to learn the future from a gentleman waiting in line for an autograph: “John, yes, the John, John the Apostle.” He told me that he had confirmation from someone in Texas that the Rapture (not the band) was coming Sept. 12 and would be in the United States within 18 months. I thanked him for coming in and handed him more pencils than were normally allotted for visitors.

The final day of the fair was the first that I allowed myself to actually enjoy it. I bought a greasy steak sandwich and a taco salad and went to a freak show in the Midway. The highlight was when the performer who swallows the sword almost died because a little girl from the audience stepped in front while she was pulling the sword out. I laughed and laughed, then went back to the booth and vowed to myself, “no more festivals.” I didn’t like them before working the fair, and I certainly did not like them after.

So naturally, the next weekend, having won tickets, I found myself at the Renaissance Festival. My girlfriend insisted upon going so we could watch glass get blown. I, in turn, was blown away (pun intended) by the whole experience—including the costumes people wore. While most were employees getting paid to dress like knaves and knights, several of them were normal people who just like wearing cloaks and pointed hats (and watching Lord of the Rings). I couldn’t decide if this was better or worse than NASCAR gear and cutoffs, which, admittedly, were also prevalent at the Renaissance Festival.

But unlike the State Fair, dragons were (thankfully) everywhere, which is also one reason the whole production should be called “Ye Olde Festival” or “Medieval/Renaissance Times,” since simply “Renaissance Festival” is not historically accurate. Everybody knows dragons went extinct around 1350, roughly a century before the Renaissance began. Despite this glaring inaccuracy, I wanted desperately to buy dragon-related art—and there was plenty on hand, from candles to a painting titled “Defiance,” which showed a mostly-nude woman staring defiantly into the eyes of a menacing dragon. Unfortunately, it was too expensive to buy, and I decided it would not project the right kind of statement in my living room.

In the end, all I wanted to do was go home. Don’t get me wrong, I did learn from my experience that I don’t hate festivals. In fact, I kind of like them, at least in small doses, and with the right attitude. I suggest mocking it on the surface while secretly embracing it on the inside. But really, you just need to know when to leave. Thirteen hours is too many. Three’s about right.