medieval torture

according to historical texts of medieval times, life for most wasn't peachy. the same holds true for the modern dinner and show spectacular based on the era.

in many ways, the hierarchy of positions at the hogtown castle functioned much like its source material. the royalty were rewarded handsomely with riches and respect; they were merely expected to dress regally and recline comfortably while the rest of society would serve, entertain, and genuflect. relaxing summer work for a decent paycheque.

receiving the most benefit were the knights. long-haired athletic men would joust and sword fight under spotlights in the centre of the arena. dramatic choreography scored by an action film soundtrack and accompanied by fog machines made the drunken gallery in paper crowns holler at every clash and slash.  a salaried position for endless glory and potential tail.

the unenviable bottom rung inhabitants were the lowly slaves and wenches. the job title alone should discourage any starving artist from applying, but i did just that.

although the castle was outfitted with tapestries and heralding trumpeters at the grand façade, the underlings rear entrance was less inviting. situated adjacent to the stables, a fecal stench was omnipresent. once inside, the scent became a mélange of poo, pastries, and perspiration. first, i'd retrieve my outfit from the costume counter, which looked like a ghetto dry cleaner. next, i'd don the wardrobe in the hockey rink-style changeroom, which smelled like a hockey rink-style changeroom. worst of all was the get-up: black tights and a brown tunic long enough to cover the crotch. stepping into the public arena was a daily emasculating ritual.

i'd be assigned a section consisting of approximately thirty place settings, and i'd begin distributing heavy metal plates while, below in the sandpit, the cocky knights pranced on their andalusian stallions. soon, the floodgates opened as families poured into the seating area. before delivering my spiel, i'd wipe the bitterness from my face, to avoid the affected garofalo 'cable guy' character from creeping in.

'hi, welcome to medieval times! i'll be your slave for the day, and...'

at this point, without fail, i'd get interrupted by the most boorish of the bunch, tickled pink that he's encouraged to address me with this demeaning term. thus begins an insufferable two and a half hours of catering to assholes. at worst, insensitive guests would purposely spill their drinks, just to test their slave's patience.

distributing drinks was like an olympic sport. four to five full pitchers of pop would be precariously balanced on a tray in one hand, while the other would attempt to pour into the plastic cups. when each pitcher was removed, the fulcrum would immediately shift, and compensating was extremely difficult. yet the more challenging event was determining when the cup was full, as the show had begun and the house lights were out. sticky soda would often overflow and cause half the row to jump up from their seats to avoid soiling their pants. in a worst-case scenario, the whole platter would tip, showering rivers of liquid to the unsuspecting row of revelers below, who would jump up to avoid back splash. not only humiliating, but now the strict delivery schedule, synchronized with the show, would be compromised as another trip through the dark staircases for a fresh tray would be necessary.

as if serving duties weren't enough stress, we were required to participate in a royal procession before the king and queen. we'd rush to the backstage area where we'd grab flags and assemble behind our section's knight, who would lead us through the dirt while trumpets proclaimed our parade. cheering accompanied the knights' arrival while the peripheral slaves trudged through horse poop.

sweaty, with sand-filled shoes, we'd hastily return to the kitchen to enter the queue. blister-inducing pans of half-chickens and ribs were delicately handled on hips with rags, and again we'd wander through darkness praying the tray wouldn't upend. the meat would be divvied by tongs, which usually created a drip stream that would send patrons reeling. avoiding sauce was futile; the place mats and napkins wouldn't remain immaculate, anyway, with the kitchy concept of no cutlery. conversely, the mess left by the voracious hellions was a gag-worthy heap of waste.

i'd have overlooked the distress at evening's end if i were to have simply acquired due recompense. however, my cheesy costume suggested that i was a well-paid performer, one who wouldn't collect tips, when in fact, my wage was lower than minimum because that's what servers earned with the presumption that gratuities were guaranteed. not so, and so although i was a berated slave bending over backward for two hours, my take-home was comparable to a babysitter's.

adding insult to injury, after bussing the scraps into a bucket, we would have to sort the contents in the kitchen, separating leftovers from the serviettes for pig farms and recycling, respectively. exhausted and demoralized, this final task of picking out used napkins dripping of rib juice from half-eaten pieces of meat, considering my empty pouch pocket sticking to sweaty soda-stained tights, i couldn't have sunken lower.

until i walked through the main hall, that is, past the knights surrounded by autograph seekers and fawning potential tail.