I opened my locker and picked out my work shoes by the inside ankles, using just my thumb and forefinger. They were black and sturdy, what you would call old-lady shoes. They were caked in old horseshit and sand. In every shift there is one moment when the wenches become a part of the show. Before the jousting tournament, we get to carry long heavy staffs bearing the flags of the different knights into the performance ring. We march in horse-wench-horse formation, behind the ass of one horse and in front of the mouth of another horse. Keeping pace is important, you ruin the rhythm of the show if you fall in the sand and get trampled underfoot by the horses. In that rush of noise and heat and light, I forget horseshit. Whether it is the soft give of it under my feet or the invasion of its smell in my nose, it is the last thing on my mind because, historically accurate or not, it is the few minutes during which I am allowed to exist.
The shoes were my own, but I dropped them in a trash bin. That left the costume: a long burgundy skirt, brown vest, and frilly-necked blouse with elastic. The idea of the elastic is for the wench to slide the blouse as low off her shoulders as she felt comfortable exposing her neck, chest, shoulders and bosom. I knew I should leave the costume there. I rolled it up and put it in my woven backpack. I left the hanger. One day, I too might decide that I want to be called for auditions, then good auditions, then get’er auditions. Or one day, I too might get invited to a Halloween party or throw my own.
I took the free drink coupons out of my woven backpack and lined them up on the bench. I picked each one up and taped it the outsides of the girls’ lockers. I cut the sticky tape with my teeth despite how much I hate the feel and smell of plastic so near to my nose and mouth.
As I finished, my phone bleeped, making me jump with fright as if our manager had barged in. I flipped it open. Sara’s text said they had decided on Our Country Style. That’s worse than Tims, I thought, after Second Brew. I shut the phone. There was a better idea.
I left the locker room by an opposite one-way door that led to the arena. The crowd was coming in from the Great Hall, where they are kept after showing their tickets, before they are ushered into the arena. In the Great Hall, they would have gotten in the mood for the upcoming show by buying drinks and Medieval ShowTimes themed souvenirs and chosen which color knight they would cheer for that night. I melded into the moving crowd and began walking to the arena with them. The people smelled nice, like the Bodycare Shop, so that I could believe that the horseshit smell had left me.
The arena is as big as any stadium you ever saw, and almost never full on a weekday. I took a seat in the front row nearest to the performance ring, so that I would get the first of the food. My place was pre-set, as it should be: clean plate, goblet and soup pot all with the mark of Medieval ShowTimes, all unbreakable. Soon, wenches would come with hot garlic bread and buckets of soup and start ladling it into the pots, starting from the bottom and working their way up. I couldn’t wait to lay my hand over the bread like a bible, curl my fingers around it, and press it against my mouth as if I would kiss it before parting my lips and sinking my teeth in. I vowed to make my place a filthy mess in less than an hour, swilling soda from my goblet, cheering for the Red & Yellow knight, throwing abuse at all the other color knights, commanding the serfs, picking up the pig and chicken with my bare hands and tearing into their flesh, coating my cheeks, nose, chin with the Medieval juice.
Wench? I’d show them.
Starcups partners were working down the line with markers and cups in hand, taking advance orders from customers on the other side of the food display case, hollering back and forth like neighbours saying good morning over a fence. In Erica’s branch at Osgoode, it was always rush hour; the only time the staff caught a break was on the weekends, and even then only very early in the opening shift, before the weekend shopping masses got going.
“Venti decaf half sweet light foam extra hot soy vanilla latte!” Erica yelled. She was at work behind the Barista! station, creating perfect drinks and delivering them with a loud, clear voice and a smile. Inside, though, she was feeling sick to her stomach from all the fatty chicken and gallons of soda that she had consumed the night before as an audience member at Medieval ShowTimes. But that did not mean she was not as alert as ever. Even with the constant noise – brewer timers, coffee grinder, registers slamming shut, the safe door, people talking on their phones, children asking their parents for treats in a demanding voice – Erica looked up each time the store doors facing Simcoe Street opened. She couldn’t help it, just like she always checks the exits of any space as soon as she enters it. Her store has two exits, one facing Queen, another facing Simcoe, which is an unassuming little street that leads to the coveted land of the visa office of the Consulate of the United States of America.
So Erica had seen the woman come in, and briefly thought that she looked familiar, but not in that long-suffering “female companion” way. Yesterday, that’s when she had seen her. She had come in and ordered a complicated drink, but nicely. And here she was back today, a new regular. A partner greeted her with, “Hi, what can I get started for you today?” but she walked straight to Erica and directed her question at her.
“Do you know that I haven’t slept all night?”
The espresso shots that Erica had just poured for a Double long Venti mocha with extra whip would spoil unless she put the milk in soon, so she got started on steaming the milk before answering the woman, even though the training book said to give each customer an undivided attention. In reality, that was impossible, so nobody made a fuss about workers keeping both their hands and mouths busy.
