Oysters, Cookies and Condoms

(Or “Things not to put in your mouth at Pennsic XXIX”)

Monday afternoon. Shadow Legion encampment. It was hot, sticky, and just the right time to find a very comfortable canvas lounge chair in the shade of the household pavilion and allow yourself to be sucked into the gravity well. The group gathered around the communal long table included Pat, Freiman, THLord Elglin of the East, and several others who have paid to not be ment---- er, I mean, several others who’s names I’ve temporarily forgotten. HRH Ilissa was in a chipper mood, and decided that we all needed to be as well. So, she produced a gigantic bottle of Bacardi Limon and pointed to a huge case of Diet Coke. Real Southern Champagne also showed up, so a variety of rum & Cokes flowed into tankards and plastic cups.
After a few contented sips, someone mentioned having the munchies. "How would y’all like some real New Orleans style oysters on the half shell?" asked HRH, and the group response was enthusiastic. She produced from her large cooler two ice-encrusted quart containers of fresh raw oysters. Everyone in camp set about finding complimentary items in their food stash. The group table was quickly cleared and crackers, ketchup, hot sauce, horseradish, and even lemon juice appeared. With the perfect set of ingredients for killer cocktail sauce, we happily ripped into the oyster jars and started snacking.
After everyone in the group had had at least three or four of the large, juicy shellfish, one and all were commenting on how tasty they were, and how much we appreciated HRH’s bringing them out for us. Ilissa responded with delight: “Yes, and y’all never guess how much I paid for them!” as she tilted the containers to show the tell-tale bright red and yellow stickers.
“REDUCED FOR QUICK SALE: 50 cents”
Fifty Cents. For an entire quart.
Everyone in the group gave an audible gasp and froze, many with their hands reflexively clutching at their throats, mouths, or tummies.
A small voice spoke up: “You fed us.... **clearance** oysters?”
Ilissa was undaunted. “Oh, they’re fine! When I bought them Thursday morning, before I went out of town, they went directly into my cooler in the back of the Suburban. I threw a bag of ice in later that afternoon, and they’ve stayed there ever since.”
You could see the calculations on the faces of several folks..... Thursday... Friday.... Saturday..... Sunday...... Monday............. FIVE days since being sold as “reduced for quick sale.” FIVE days sitting in a large, metal box with wheels in August.
At the particular moment of that announcement, Freiman and I were both standing up, leaning over the jars, forks poised, crackers in hand and ready for another round. We locked eyes for that spilt second, with the intensity of gaze that is only known by soldiers surrounded by the enemy, in that last second before plunging into a fatal battle. Freiman shrugged and said “eh......... one more.” And his plastic fork dove into the murky gray bucket.
Being weaker of faith, I sat down with my empty cracker and pondered the gastronomic future in store for all of us that afternoon. Either this was going to be a pleasant memory that would gently fade away and be stored with other glowing moments of friendship, or it was going to be a camaraderie-building experience that we’d never forget.
Fortunately, the antiseptic properties of the Bacardi Limon, combined with the acidic qualities of genuine Coca Cola, countered any contaminates that may have resided on our slimy snacks. (Remember in first grade when other kids told you that if you put a nail in a can of Coke overnight, it would dissolve? I truly believe that’s what happened to the bacteria growing on those oysters, which by Monday afternoon, had probably started to develop rudimentary tools and political hierarchies.)

Later that week....

Even though we were completely hidden from view of the roads, surrounded by large period pavilions of Meridian Royal, with only a narrow, winding pathway in and out of our campsite (known as the Great Meridian Bypass), we still had many visitors to camp Shadow Legion, usually of the young, female variety. There is a simple, scientific explanation for this. As it is well known in the medical community, the hormones produced by females during adolescence make them particularly susceptible to the sounds of an acoustic guitar, and they are, if left un-tethered, irresistibly drawn to any place that has an active folk musician. Such was the case with the Shadow Legion campsite at this Pennsic.

One afternoon, a particularly dewy-eyed young spring flower who had not yet made personal acquaintance with cellulite, pouted puckishly as she sat near the now infamous great long table in the center of the encampment. As usual, there were at least half a dozen Legionnaires about camp, chatting, repairing armor, helping others hang rain tarps or move equipment, and the poor young thing was feeling ignored. No one knew exactly who she was or how she had found her way into camp, but she took up very little space and wasn’t bothering anyone too much, so we let her stay.

Catching site of a large, decorative tin canister marked Pepperidge Farm DISTINCTIVE COOKIES, her eyes brightened. “Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiman,” she pouted, “I want a cookie.” Certainly this would bring the appropriate amount of attention her direction.

Freiman, who had been busy both helping around the campsite and engaged in discussion with camp members about some business involving mercenaries and the battlefield, stopped and finally noticed the whiny little ..... er, I mean sweet young thing.

“Wha....? Oh, so you wanna cookie, little girl?” his face changed from serious concentration to a mischievous grin. “Sure, have one. But I don’t think you’ll like the flavor.” He gestured towards the tin, which wasn’t his, and another person took the lid off the can and held it out for her inspection.

What Freiman knew that our visitor didn’t was that the can had not held cookies for quite some time, but was instead the storage container used by the camp bachelors for their Sam’s Club-sized batch of condoms. A clever enough idea; the items were kept dry, safe and handy for access (since there were at least two unmarried men who had gone in on the purchase) and stayed discretely masked from general view.

The gamine played her role perfectly and shrieked with just enough volume to get the attention of several other males in the campsite. She giggled and feigned disgust as her eyes darted around to see if anyone noticed how cute she looked while acting shocked.

What ** I ** noticed was that HRH Ilissa and Her Excellency Susanna saw where the condoms were stashed, and grinned at each other. This could only mean trouble, although I wasn’t sure what kind.

Later that night, I found out.

There is, in the long folklore of Pennsics Past, the tale of a man they call “The Bubba.” It would not be appropriate for me to relate that tale, since I was not present at it’s inception, but let it suffice to say that the title belongs to a very tall, very large, good natured, strapping young man who is a good friend of HRH, and that he always wears a leather hat.

Not just any leather hat, but a well-made, lovingly worn, leather, hand-sewn Southern Gentleman’s cowboy hat. A hat of Dixie Distinction. A hat at home in the cab of only the finest American-made pick up trucks.

He was wearing that hat the night he came ambling down the Great Meridian Bypass to camp Shadow Legion to escort HRH on her nightly round of royal party-hopping.

Now, I was busy tossing on a few party rags and running a comb though my hair before dancing all night and getting slosh...... er, I mean before spending the evening in the company of my Princess as we pay social calls at the finer parties of Pennsic. So I didn’t see everything that happened as we readied the royal entourage for our trip.

I just heard someone say “Hey, Bubba, hold still.”

When I came out of the tent, Bubba appeared to have been suddenly elevated in station. Resting regally on the crown of his hat was a glittering silver coronet, with sharp, pointed angles. The points were so sharp and thin..... as thin as a razor blade, or as thin as regal parchment paper....... or as thin as....................... A foil condom wrapper.

Our Royal Highness, Princess of Meridies, and our Excellency Susanna had proven that they are still our Ilissa and Suasuh. Carefully arranged, securely fastened into his hatband, were at least a dozen silver foil wrapped condoms. By artfully turning down every other point, they had made what was, in the moonlit night of Pennsic, a perfect replica of a royal crown.

Don’t laugh. People bowed.