It was the 13th annual Renaissance Festival in Sterling Forest, NY. I had just closed the crystal shop I was helping to run. I had some Steak on a Stake and headed back to my tent as twilight was gathering round. It was Saturday night. Break for a quick explanation...'
Faire-runners would usually arrive at the staff campgrounds on Friday nights and immediately crash because of working that day, then driving to NY, etc. Saturday morning we'd get up, let the touristy types run around a bit and then shut down Saturday night. This was party night...we'd go back to the campground, set things on fire, drink a lot and generally act all merry and stuff usually characterized by loud, off-key singing and other items of revelry. Then we'd find our way to our tents, sleep, wake up Sunday morning and drone through the last day of the fair for that week while we try hard to keep our heads on straight and the touristy types quiet so the straightness doesn't end. Oh, and about the party thing...I didn't know it at the time. It was a revelation I discovered at the bottom of the hill in a prone position...but I'm jumping ahead here.
Off to my tent I go only to be stopped short by Robert, a guy who did NOTHING BUT go from fair to fair to fair. He was a gypsy, really. I kind of admired that freedom even if I knew that lack of a permanent net connection would drive me insane. :) "Huzzah, Marcus, 'ave a drinkey!"
"Robert, you can drop the accented things now."
"Oh, yeah. Here. Drink something."
He handed me a bottle. Now it was beginning to get dark so I couldn't tell what it was, but it smelled GREAT. So I drank. And thusly was I introduced to the great man we call Captain Morgan. I learned something about spiced rum that night. I learned that it goes down real easy. And it's one of those sneak-attack liquors. Allow me to explain...
So around the fire we sit. It was actually this night that Robert pulled out some anti-AD&D pamphlet that got me, in my drunken stupor, pissy enough to start Legends. Yes, Legends' womb was actually a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum. Imagine that.
So I haven't stood in a while and just didn't realize how inebriated I was becoming. It got late though, and I had to get to my tent. So off I went, stumbling over everything, walking DIRECTLY THROUGH the campfire that Robert currently had going at about knee-high (remember, he was a pro at this fair stuff) and as I smell the odor of burnt jeans I realize...I AM WASTED. I somehow managed to find my tent however, and missed it. How it is possible to walk towards a big tent (there were three of us in this one, so we had this big two-roomer) and somehow MISS IT COMPLETELY I don't know. Unfortunately, the tent was popped up on the crest of a rather big hill. The trail to the hill was pretty easy, but the other three sides were not. They were also heavily wooded hillsides...I know because I left a piece of my flesh on every piece.
I bumbled past the tent, realized I missed it but didn't have the forethought to stop and suddenly I was rolling rolling rolling and gathering up momentum and speed as I tore through undergrowth, tripfalls, leaves, dirt, trees, deadfalls and fallen branches down one of the aforementioned steep sides. And there I was...prone, bruised, bleeding and in a bit of pain at the bottom of the hill. Against the trunk of an oak that now had an imprint of my forehead in its side. In quite a bit of confusion to sit upright for a while otherwise, and being inebriated effected to quadruple the time I had to lie there while my body attempted to figure out what the hell just happened and where's my left boot?
Somehow I managed to escape terrible bodily injury and only received a number of lashes, bruises and scrapes...nothing terrible. And I found my boot.
And guess what; I have a moral to this story. ALWAYS MOVE AROUND WHILST YOU DRINK. Never stay seated for too long and keep drinking...a lot of times you won't realize just how sloppy you're getting until you get up. And by then...it's too late and the hill will swallow you.
Originally posted in alt.gothic.