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The wooden top half of the stocks swings closed to hold him around the neck,and I snug it down,careful not to pinch hisskin. I say, "Sorry, dude, that's got to be way cold." Then I do the padlock. Then I fish a rag out of my waistcoat pocket.
A clear little drop of snot dangles off the tip of De
De
The rag's pretty nasty and full already, but all I'd have to do is offer him a nice clean facial tissue and I'd be next in line for a disciplinary action. There's about countless ways you can screw up around here.
On the back of his head, somebody's felt-pe
"I'm banished for sure," he says and sniffs.
Cold and starting to shake, De
He's right, and tourists are shooting his butt crack from every angle. The colonial governor is eyeballing this, and the tourists keep right on taping as I grab De
De
And I say, "Careful with that recovery stuff, dude. You're liable to explode."
I take his left hand and lock it in place, then his right hand. De
"Monday," he says, "I forgot and wore my wristwatch."
The wig slides off again, landing smack wet in the mud. His cravat, soaked in snot and crap, flaps in his face. The Japanese all giggle as if this is a gag we'd rehearsed.
The colonial governor keeps staring at De
"Tuesday," De
Every time I pick up the stupid wig, it weighs more. This time I slap it against the side of my boot before spreading it over the "Eat me" words.
"This morning," De
With my snot rag I wipe the worst of the mess away from his eyes and mouth.
Some black-and-white chickens, chickens with no eyes or only one leg, these deformed chickens wander over to peck at the shiny buckles on my boots. The blacksmith keeps beating his metal, two fast and then three slow beats, again and again, that you know is the bass line to an old Radiohead song he likes. Of course, he's ripped out of his mind on ecstasy.
A little milkmaid I know named Ursula catches my eye, and I shake my fist in front of my crotch, giving her the universal sign language for hand job. Blushing under her starchy white hat, Ursula slips a dainty pale hand out of her apron pocket and gives me the finger. Then she goes to jerk off some lucky cow all afternoon. That, and I know she lets the king's constable feel her up because one time he let me sniff his fingers.
Even from here, even over the horse shit, you can smell the reefer coming off her in a fog.
Milking cows, churning butter, for sure you know milkmaids must give great hand jobs.
"Goodwife Landson's a bitch," I tell De
Yeah, she's a Yankee blue blood from nine to five, but behind her back everybody knows she went to high school in Springburg where the whole football team knew her as Douche Lamprini.
This time the nasty wig stays in place. The colonial governor gives up glowering at us and goes inside the Customs House. The tourists wander on to other photo opportunities. It starts to rain.
"It's okay, dude," De
This is just, for sure, another shitty day in the eighteenth century.
You wear an earring, you go to jail. Color your hair. Pierce your nose. Put on deodorant. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect jack shit.
The Lord High Governor bends De
Nobody in the 1730s had a goatee, His Governess will lecture De
And De
And it's back to the stocks for De
Our joke is De
Just being curious, at the interview, I asked if they'd hired a village whore yet.
The town council just looks at me. The hiring committee, even where nobody can see them, all six old guys wear those fake colonial wigs. They write everything with feathers, from birds, dipped in ink. The one in the middle, the colonial governor, sighs. He leans back so he can look at me through his wire-framed glasses. "Colonial Dunsboro," he says, "doesn't have a village whore."
Then I say, "Then how about the village idiot?"
The governor shakes his head, no.
"Pickpocket?"
No.
"Hangman?"
Certainly not.
This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shu
"You've been warned," the governor says, "that all aspects of your behavior and appearance must coincide with our official period in history."
My job is I'm supposed to be some Irish indentured servant. For six dollars an hour, it's incredibly realistic.
The first week I was here, a girl got ca
His Highness, he forbids tattoos. Nose rings have to stay in your locker while you're at work. You can't chew gum. You can't whistle any songs by the Beatles.
"Any violation of character," he says, "and you will be punished."
Punished?
"You'll be let go," he says. "Or you can spend two hours in the stocks."
Stocks?
"In the village square," he says.
He means bondage. Sadism. Role playing and public humiliation. The governor himself, he makes you wear clocked stockings and tight wool breeches with no underwear and calls this authentic. This is who wants women bent over in the stocks for just wearing nail polish. Either that or you're fired with no unemployment checks, nothing. And a bad job reference to boot. And for sure, nobody wants it on their resume that they were a shitty candlemaker.