Wesley James Ruined My Life
Jennifer Honeybourn
one.
King Henry VIII won’t shut up.
Not the real King Henry VIII, obviously. That would be crazy, given the dude’s been dead for five hundred years. This King Henry is really Alan Rickles, retired weatherman/local dinner theater actor.
He’s been talking to me for the past five minutes, although it should be clear from the platters of food I’m holding that I’m on my way to a table. My arms ache from trying to keep the heavy silver trays balanced—each one is weighted down with a rapidly cooling turkey leg, tiny potatoes, and butter-glazed carrots, long green stems still attached. All of which our customers are invited to enjoy with their fingers instead of silverware, because knives and forks weren’t used in the sixteenth century. At least not in King Henry’s court.
“Anne. Everyone always blames me for what happened to Anne,” Alan says, sighing. “That’s all anyone remembers me for.”
Of course that’s what we remember him for. Henry had two of his wives beheaded. Not something people easily forget, even centuries later.
“What about all the good I did for England?” Alan strokes his thick brown beard. I’m convinced it’s the reason he got the gig in the first place. That and the thirty extra pounds he gained for the role.
Yes. Alan gained thirty pounds to play King Henry VIII in a medieval theme restaurant in a strip mall outside of Seattle. Although I have to admit, in his fur-trimmed cape, heavily embroidered red tunic, and black velvet hat, he does look an awful lot like the portrait of Henry in my history textbook.
“I founded the Royal Navy, but do I get credit for that?” He shakes his head sadly. “No one remembers the good stuff.”
My wrists start to shake. I adjust the platters so the food doesn’t slide off, hoping Alan will finally get the hint and let me go. I can’t walk away from him—we’re supposed to stay in character while out on the restaurant floor, and servants don’t walk away from kings. Not if they want to keep their heads, anyway.
And I don’t want to make an enemy of Alan. He’s really into using his royal position to send the junior staff to the stocks, this vaguely fencelike contraption used as a torture device in the Dark Ages. Now employed in our restaurant for entertainment purposes.
Basically, you stick your head and hands through these holes cut in the wooden boards and then the boards clap down, trapping you. There’s no lock, for liability reasons, but God help you if you try to get out before Alan has granted you a pardon.
Looking around in increasing desperation—seriously, my wrists are going to snap off—I spot Joe, my boss, standing near the stage. He’s talking to a guy dressed as a pirate. People sometimes come here dressed in their sixteenth-century finest, so at first I think it’s just a customer channeling his inner Captain Jack Sparrow. But then I notice the pirate is carrying the staff orientation manual. The manual is filled with strict instructions on dress code, suggested old-timey hairstyles, and medieval words and phrases we’re meant to pepper our conversations with, like I bid you, fare thee well, and, my personal favorite, fie—what passed for a swear word back in King Henry’s time.
I’m too far away to tell what New Guy looks like—his face is partially obscured by an eye patch and the skull and crossbones hat—but I’m hoping he’s cute. We are in desperate need of some cute around here.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I was grievously injured in a jousting accident?” Alan leans on his gold-tipped walking stick. It’s the posture he adopts whenever he’s settling in to tell a long, drawn-out tale.
I nod, but I can’t help looking over his shoulder at New Guy. Joe jabs a stubby finger at the stage, no doubt telling him not to go anywhere near it. I remember getting the same speech when I first started three months ago. Unless we are needed for a skit, something that thankfully doesn’t happen very often, no one but Alan and Julia, the woman who plays Catherine of Aragon, are allowed on the stage.
The set consists of a tall red velvet throne placed in front of silver swag curtains. Alan spends most of his time sitting on that throne, quietly surveying the audience. Except, of course, when he’s on the restaurant floor, trying to convince whoever is in earshot that Henry VIII got a bum rap and was simply misunderstood.
I’m hoping Joe will notice Alan has me trapped, but he heads in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. New Guy follows behind him, his gaze roaming over the suits of armor standing at attention, the blue and red shields hanging from the fake stone walls.
“It happened during a tournament. I was thrown from my horse, you see,” Alan says, squinting hard, like he’s actually remembering something that happened to him and not to, you know, someone else entirely. “’Tis the reason I am now forced to use this.” He waves his cane in the air, just missing Julia as she tries to sneak behind him. Before she can get away, I drop into a full curtsey. A few of the little potatoes bounce off the platters and onto the stone floor. “Her Grace cometh,” I say.
Julia scowls at me. Now that Alan knows she’s there, she has no choice but to come over. Alan has even been known to send his queen to the stocks on occasion.
I give her an apologetic shrug before speed walking to table nine. Things have gone downhill since my last appearance ten minutes ago. The table is a mess, covered in broken crayons and the shredded pieces of a cardboard crown. The mother is mediating an argument between her two young sons over the remaining crown, while the father taps away on his phone.
“Here we go,” I say, waiting for someone to clear a space on the table so I can set down their dinner. After it becomes apparent no one is going to help me, I give up and plop the platters on top of the mess.
The trays are barely out of my hands before the boys are grasping at the food like little savages. There are two turkey legs, one for each of them—their parents didn’t order dinner; I guess greasy medieval food doesn’t appeal to everyone—but the boys fight over the leg that is slightly bigger. Boy Number One manages to grab hold of it first, which results in Boy Number Two knocking him over the head with one of the foam swords sold in our gift shop. In the ensuing frenzy, a goblet—also sold in our gift shop—is sent flying. It’s full of milk. Every drop of which lands on me.
Awesome.
The mother sighs—what can you do?—while the cold liquid seeps through the bodice of my velvet costume, right through to my skin.
“’Tis no problem,” I say. Wasted breath, as no one seems to be worried that I’m now stuck in a wet costume for the rest of my shift.