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Most women would sneer if a stranger called them a wench. Me, I curtsy and say, "Thank you for the complement, kind sir." Why? One, it takes a lot more than a rude epithet to make me break down in tears. And two - well, I am a wench. Don't get it wrong, I'm not some hussy cruising the bars to get into strange men's pants. (Have I done that before, though? No comment.) I'm a professional. 'Wench' is my (informal) job title. And by that I mean I'm in the renaissance faire world. I'm a rare breed - a traveling ren faire performer. You've got to be a little wacko to do what we do. We spend tons of time on the road, traveling from faire to faire, dressing up in faux sixteenth century garb. There are different kinds of performers, people who perform written acts (like myself), magicians, fire blowers. So many different kinds of people that put on a show for the happiness of the people that attend our faires. Am I doing it for the reasons the armchair psychologists would guess, to get attention I couldn't as a child, because I want to spend all day playing make-believe, because my dad was a deadbeat? Well, all of those may play a factor. But I definitely simply love being on the stage. As I said, I'm a performer. I like doing one-woman shows, shows that have audience participation. I get a real sense of pride rehearsing a routine to where I know by heart the beats of a scenario, and what parts are going to make the audience laugh the most. One popular act I do is one where I tell a story and let the audience yell out plot points. People get a kick out of yelling silly things that I include in my act. I remember talking about how I and my crew of chickenpox-infected manatees went on a dangerous inland journey for the Holy Balm of Itchbottom. Or telling the tale of sailing the seven-and-two-fifths seas to kill the deadly, fifty-foot long Sausage Serpent. Maybe it's not standup pro level material, but I always get loud applause at the end of my shows - and a decent haul in my tip basket, to boot. I'll hear a lot of the same things being yelled out in response to my setups - "Rancher!" in response to me boarding a ship named the Jolly _____, for example. Sometimes the crowd is more clever and gives me material I wouldn't have thought of in a hundred years. If I can remember these tidbits I may incorporate them into future acts. I have a certain amount of creative freedom in composing my act. Some shows, I'm allowed to push into 'R-rating territory.' Good times, good people...good tips! Occasionally I will mix things up and create a show that you could take your Grandma to. (When Grandma likes a show, she can be surprisingly generous with the tips.) And it is fun on occasion to see kids become swept up in the adventure you tell. Of course, I'm no stranger to debauchery - I miss it when it's gone - but it is nice to occasionally perform an act where I don't have to worry about the audience member who's drunk off their ass and yelling. Or even worse, attempting to grope me when I'm being playfully sultry. I've been on the ren faire circuit for nearly a decade now, have given hundreds of performances. I've seen everything public and private that goes on at a ren faire a thousand times now, and it still doesn't get boring. Lots of people nowadays nerd out about video games, sports, movies, whatever. Before I got into this business I used to be one of the people who made fun of the guys who got obsessed with attending comic book conventions and buying every piece of merchandise they could (or a lot of the time, could not) afford. Well, don't I look like a silly goose now. We all pick our own "poisons" in life. My poison just happens to be pretending I was a wench who lived hundreds of years ago. Things always go easier when the audience follows the rules. Most of my audience members know how to have fun without making a mess of my act. It's rare to see hecklers. Not the jolly fellows that are part of the cast who make potshots at random fairegoers, mind you. I mean routine-killing, insult-hurling patrons who, despite being the least funny people in the faire, always think that it's them that the audience wants to see instead of the performer. Fortunately, these clowns are few and far between, and I can always call out for a nearby staff member to escort them away. Honestly, I usually don't have to. A gentle calling out, or even just a stern look, is enough to get them to realize they're being foolish and to leave me alone. Even if they get nasty, I actually prefer to not have these 'audience members' escorted out if I can help it. When some guy (it's usually a man) tries to make a mockery out of my act, I turn the tables on him and make him look like the fool. It's just as easy to fend off the drunkards as the ones who simply voice their displeasure at the most inappropriate times.

Some performers are pissed for days when it happens. Me, I put it out of my mind unless it's particularly worth remembering. Of the several incidents I was heckled that I'd consider memorable, the most memorable one was when it was me versus, of all species, an otter. It happened during a summer faire held in the outskirts of a mid-sized Midwestern city. It was early afternoon and not terribly busy, but I had a small crowd willing to give my show a chance. Up to the point where this guy interrupted me, everyone who watched me was being perfectly polite. "So the whale-sized goose took off with us riding atop it. We climbed higher and higher, clinging to the goose's feathers for our lives. We wondered where it was going to take us! Suddenly it swooped down and we realized it was taking us to the land of. . . ." "Shit!" The sudden curse was followed by the sort of uproarious laughter only uttered by a guy who thinks his own shit doesn't stink. He was, as I said, an otter, a river otter to be specific. Even from the stage I could see that his jersey had some sort of giant stain on it - some food he bought at the concession area he'd spilled on himself? He was literally slapping his knees like the yokels I used to see on the country comedy shows my grandma would put on the TV when I visited her as a kid. Then he settled down, shook his head and looked up at me with the most condescending expression I'd ever seen. My non-otter audience of six was shocked. A Malinois exclaimed, "What?!" as his ears pinned back. A goat woman eyed the otter with a look that showed equal parts horror and disgust. He continued to stare at me, daring me to respond. Respond, I was going to. I've always hated the cynical type, the people who take any opportunity possible to 'darken' some lighthearted fun. If they can't be happy, no one else can, either. It's all about them and their misery. Well, I wasn't having it. I almost wished my act was uncensored. I could've given the man a stream of obscenities that would've made him break down and cry. But for the sake of the adolescent quarter horse colt in the seats who was looking at him with an "Uh-oh!" face - and for the sake of my job - I decided to stick to more civilized talk. I growled underneath my breath, then deadpanned, "Sir, would you please not interfere with the show?" My hands were clasping my period dress in frustration. Of course I knew that he wasn't going to comply. The otter snickered as he looked to the rest of the crowd, I assume to look for approving faces. He found none, but he said, "Hey, I'm just adding some entertainment to this turdpile." 'Turdpile?' Interesting word. It reminded me of my days in elementary school, when my classmates and I first learned to curse and would shout obscenities in fun at each other when the adults weren't looking. There were a few of my colleagues hanging out not far from my stage who heard the commotion. They gave the otter looks that, if the disruptor weren't so damned dense, would've cut him like daggers. One, a panda, looked up at me and pointed over his shoulder with a stuck out thumb - making it clear that he was willing to play bouncer if need be. I politely waved him off and smiled. He gave me a confused look, then looked to the otter. He must've suspected that I had a plan to handle this. He suspected correctly. "You're interrupting my act," I said curtly. "The other people in the seats came to see a performance, not to see you be rude to the performer. Think of them, please, and don't try to stop what I'm doing up here." Why did I even bother? 'Interrupting my act' was obviously the otter's game plan. He gave me a cruel grin. "Who cares what you're doing? It sucks." He looked at my unhappy expression and sneered. "If you're mad about it, why don't you throw some monkey shit at me, sis? Hah!" Oh. This bullshit again.

Out of all the species in the world, none get spat on more than us, the monkeys and apes. There's tons of species out there I don't find attractive. Platypuses, for one. And moles. But they don't get people to flat out shudder at the sight of them like what's happened to me several times, even as a child. We get singled out by members of other species because we look a lot like those long-extinct peoples, the humans. The humans built marvelous technology, but couldn't overcome their reptilian war-brains and destroyed each other. I guess some members of other species think we're going to do the same. Also, a lot of them think we're ugly. Unfair; being a capuchin, I'd say I'm one of the cuter examples of monkeykind.

And all of this venom from an otter, no less! Never thought I'd see the day. I always thought otters were happy, friendly folk. Who pissed in this guy's cereal? Oh well. Either way, I wasn't gonna let him step on my tail. "No, sir," I said with dripping sarcasm. "I don't play with my own feces. You can't project your personal hobbies onto everyone else." My crowd collectively gasped. Their agape jaws practically screamed out, "Oh, snap!" The otter's face first showed confusion, and then anger when the insult had registered. I huffed a laugh; 'River Boy' didn't like that. He grimaced and bared his teeth. "You can't talk to me that way!" (Oh, the hypocrisy.) "You're just an ugly cunt!" Oh, my. "Oh, no!" I gave a fake sniffle. "Not the 'C-word!'" I mockingly wrapped my arms around myself and whimpered. "What ever did I do to deserve this?" The audience eyed me with what must have been amazement that I didn't go off on the guy. I didn't see the need. I could tell this man was all talk - he looked so flustered that I gambled he'd imminently leave the area in a huff. The light of mockery was in my eyes. Some more false despair, and then I put my hands on my hips and looked at him with mock pity. The otter had gotten so bombastic, curling his tail to accentuate his anger, that, honestly, I felt more amusement than offense. "Are you my ex, already died and reincarnated? Sir-" I nonchalantly plucked a piece of lint from my costume and flicked it away - I could've asked my friend behind you to kick you out of this faire." I pointed to the panda. The otter followed my fingers and eyed the bulky-looking ursine with slight alarm. "But honestly, why bother? Do you realize your mouthing off is going to do nothing to stop my act?" "What makes you so sure?" asked the otter in a voice filled with equal parts anger and confusion. The crowd was getting angry now. "We're trying to enjoy the show!" said the she-goat.

"You're just being an ass, dude," added a black panther. "Why are you messing with the performer? You think she thinks this is funny?" (Little did the panther know that at this point, I thought it funny indeed.) Even the quarter horse colt gulped and said, "I like her story. I wanted her to finish. . . ." Giving the rest of the audience the stinkeye, my otter 'friend' leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. He looked at me silently for a moment, then literally growled as if he were a German Shepherd. "Fucking idiots." He was too quiet for me to actually hear the words, but he enunciated them clearly enough for me to read his lips.

My inner monologue ran. 'Not much of a fight. Guess you're going to just sit there and stew away until my show time's up. Hah. Maybe I should be grateful that you saved me some work today.'

He shook his head and got up. He gave me a look that said, 'Piss off,' quite clearly, but he was the one who turned tail and walked away. My colleagues gave the man mock applause for his 'performance,' all but the panda, who gave the otter a scowl and a thumbs down when he passed him.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," said the she-goat, shaking her head. "Alright, dear! You can finish your show now."

I got mildly flustered; the last person to call me 'Dear' was my mom during my high school years. But I smiled. "You got it, sis! Now, uh, where was I?" The last minutes had legitimately made me forget my place in my performance.

". . . Whale-sized goose?" called out the colt.

"Oh, yeah," I said, happy at the boy's ability to pay attention as well as at the satisfaction that I could continue my act. I cleared my throat and continued my show with pride. "We realized it was taking us to the land of. . . ."