I bring up Fantasy Weekend to a shopkeeper, a man in his early 50s named Gary who’s dressed and coiffed as if he were the tailor to Philip I of Spain. Gary works at the Pendragon outlet, named for a brand of handmade costumes that’s been popular with ren faire fans since the 1990s. Pendragon is sort of American Apparel for Society for Creative Anachronism folks, as well as other fans of leather dusters.

“Oh, sure,” Gary says, “there are a few people who like to say, ‘Don’t spill your steampunk on my ren faire,’ but I think it’s all just fun.”

Gary then tells me a story about a bouncer at a comic-con encountering a company of stormtroopers. The bouncer let all of them in after checking only one of their IDs. “Because they’re clones, you see?” he says with a laugh.

Gary tells me he really appreciates “anyone who’s a patron,” and it’s the third or fourth time I’ve heard a staff member use that word. After a lot of research (I checked Google on my phone), I learn that, generally speaking, any non-staff member who shows up in costume is a patron. Dressing up, however, is merely an entry point. When you develop an accent, personality, and maybe even a backstory to go with your kilt or your pantaloons or whatever and when you do your best to manifest those details for the bulk of the day, you become a “playtron.”

I gather from several other conversations that playtrons, in both ren faire custom and in general, are festivalgoers who enhance the experience overall, but since they’re not staff performers, they aren’t really supposed to interact in character with non-costumed people like me. I suppose the staff performers must have guidelines then, because whether you’re in costume or not, you become a character to somebody the moment you walk through the gates. When you’re surrounded by this many people actively pretending to be fictional, each with his or her own tics and backstories, everyone’s behavior is magnified. This is a kinder way of saying that Loud Shirtless Redneck sort of becomes part of the show here, whereas in the waiting room at AutoZone or in line at Wendy’s, he’d merely be the person making things awkward for everyone else. When you become a patron, it’s a little like camouflage –– it shows staffers that you are already participating. They seem to know how much or how little you want to interact. But without a costume –– and by yourself –– it’s assumed that you’re in need of attention. Character interaction is a big part of the whole shebang. Why would you come to something like Scarborough Faire if you don’t want any characters to talk to you? That’s like going to Disneyland and hiding from Mickey Mouse.

I get the idea that the performers sort of decide how much interaction a non-costumed person receives based on how much the performer is invested in his or her bit and how much his or her character involves fucking with people. It’s possible (though doubtful) that there are performers who are portraying a shy miller or washerwoman or others who may be dressed as a mysterious wizard who is a marvel at “sums” yet avoids making eye contact. But a lot of the performers here are like the guy selling demonic horns that you can temporarily glue to your forehead. He lives to hassle people. If the idea of a stranger wiggling theatrical makeup effects at you and asking if he can make you “horny” sounds annoying or worse, Scarborough Faire might be a nightmare.

If it doesn’t seem that bad, then get ready for a fun challenge. One of the themes in the 2009 comedy Role Models, as laid out by Christopher Mintz-Plasse’s nerdy Live Action Role Player Augie, is that a lot of people who throw themselves into the SCA world (which is entirely focused on sword-and-sorcery costumes and melee combat with padded weapons) aren’t comfortable with the person they have to be at school, at home, or at work. If being that person makes it hard to engage other people, being the one who dons a flowing tunic, feathered hat, and canvas breeches might have an easier time, certainly with people willing to do the same.

 ******

After I buy a program, I see a staffer I encountered during Fantasy Weekend. She’s petite and attractive, with brown eyes and her hair woven and dyed into scarlet dreadlocks. Her cleavage, pushed up to the sky by a bodice, is stuffed with a couple dollar bills, presumably to remind people that tips are totally acceptable. Her name is Rachel, and the other weekend, I paid her $8 to make a sculpture of my hand by dipping it in wax a bunch of times until the layers were thick enough to stand on their own. I thought it would be cool to pose my fist and fingers into a “hang loose” sign, but because of the way I held the pose, my sculpture ended up looking more like an oversized version of Dr. Evil’s signature pinkie extension, dyed, per my request, a shade of light blue, which reminded me of a corpse left to rot in standing water.

I ask Rachel how she ended up making wax hands at a Renaissance festival.

“I’d always wanted to be part of it since I was a little kid,” she says. “The first time I went, I was 14, and I became a patron pretty quick.”

Rachel was a patron for 10 years before joining the staff at a festival in Louisiana this past Halloween. Prior to that, she was an art student at Columbus State University in Georgia. “Art school is great, because they teach you how to do a lot of different stuff, but it doesn’t prepare you for the reality that even with an art degree, you probably won’t have careers as working artists,” she says. “This is one of the last places in America where you can earn a living making art.”

Rachel tells me that many of the employees running the various craft and artisan booths are trained artists and craftsmen. “There are a lot of talented people here, and there’s always something new to learn from someone.”

After Scarborough Faire closes the day after Memorial Day, Rachel plans to do henna (Egyptian/Arabian/South Asian-inspired temporary tattoos) at the Kerrville Folk Festival and probably go back to Columbus in the off season. “I’m actually probably gonna take a break from the big festivals, focusing on doing art at smaller things. Burns, that type of stuff.”

I chuckle. Of course a dreadlocked art student who makes wax hands for a living would take time off from ren faires to participate in localized Burning Man events! But for all the clichés, there’s a certain running-away-to-join-the-circus romanticism of this life, and indeed, rolling the dice on a major life-change is a recurring theme among the people who work here. Shopkeeper Gary has been selling garb at Scarborough Faire for eight years, following burnout from a career in data management. Like Rachel, he started out as a patron. Becky, a pub wench I meet later who looks to be close to Gary’s age, had a stressful corporate job before her own annual festival patronage turned into a job in the faire’s HR department and later a bunch of other roles, culminating in bartending.

Of course, working at Scarborough Faire isn’t merely putting on a costume, showing up for a shift, and going home. While some staffers live in and around Waxahachie and others commute from places as far away as Houston, most live on the property’s campground throughout the faire’s duration. Apparently it’s about as fun as it sounds. If you like camping and partying with weirdoes, it’s probably a blast. My friend Matt, a longtime patron, says campground partying can reach “next-level debauchery.” If not, though …

“The campground is fun, but sometimes you get pretty tired of living in a tent,” Rachel says. “My boyfriend runs the juggling booth, so I’ve been staying in that lately.”

One recent morning was wet and apparently full of insects. “I unzipped my tent, and there were a crazy amount of bugs swarming outside,” Rachel recalls. “I get tired of all the spiders.”

Between her stint at the Louisiana festival and Scarborough Faire, Rachel worked the ren faire in Bastrop.

“It was in the middle of nowhere, in late fall, so it was cold and wet, and there was nothing to do,” she says. “We basically sat in the tent for two months and played video games. It was fun for a while, but you start to feel like you’re in The Twilight Zone.”

******

From Rachel’s hand-dipping booth, I wander farther west, into a market district, where a parade has begun. I post up at some vendor’s stall (an armory called Nagle Forge) next to a jester, clad in white with a voice that’s probably supposed to sound like “royal wisenheimer” but that’s really more Heathcliff the cat.

“What parade is this?” I say.

“It’s not a parade,” he replies. “It’s the parade.”

It’s after 1 p.m. and muggy, and the garbed staffers meandering down the faire’s lanes seem languid, almost over it. This is after I’ve spoken with Gary about the stormtroopers, so I’m keenly aware of ersatz costumes or other stuff that looks out of place. In the midst of the procession are four kilted guys whose shoulders are slung with leopard- and tiger-printed sashes. Did Henry VIII’s contemporaries go on safari? More performers, fancily garbed and sporadically waving, pass behind, trailed by a pair of middle-aged scullery maids. Or whatever they’re supposed to be. To be honest, just about everyone looks like an extra from Game of Thrones. If those women are GoT extras, then the bloke ambling behind them is a wildling, perhaps one who wandered south of the Wall and into the bottom of a drinking horn. This guy’s act appears to be “drunk barbarian.” He’s shirtless yet partially armored in some kind of shoulder pad that connects to belts strapped over his bare chest. He reminds me of one of those Raiders fans you see screaming from the Oakland Coliseum’s Black Hole section. I can’t tell if his stagger is an affectation or if he’s actually kind of hammered. Probably a little of both.

For the next few hours, I amble along, drinking beer and people watching or, if you prefer, gawking. There’s a woman dressed as a sexy pirate. I see her talking to a burly guy who looks like an executioner and who is operating what appears to be a dungeon tower. Actually, now that I’m closer to it, it’s a climbing wall. Beyond them is a swinging pirate ship ride. Its operator sets it in motion with a slight push. “This is what it does!” he yells. “Come enjoy this thing that it does!”

I pass a fat man in a blue kilt and some kind of biker do-rag walking a Westie on a leash. He nods a greeting to a mountainous black guy in evil barbarian armor. According to the faire’s website, this guy recites poetry. He seems to be guarding a bridge to what is essentially the outlet mall of Scarborough Faire. Crossing the bridge actually becomes one of my favorite experiences of the day. There’s a breeze, and shade, and a woman plucking a harp, and the whir and click of a digital camera wielded by a guy who looks like the king.

I decide to get another beer. Whether you’re in costume or not, the pub wenches call you m’lord, and it never really gets old.

 *******

I skip Mermaid Lagoon. My friend Sarah said it’s just women in mermaid costumes sitting around. I get my beer from a covered kiosk housing four or five taps. The Elkhorn Tavern sits next to a pavilion where a trio called Saxon Moon is playing. Saxon Moon’s music sounds like the acoustic portion of a vintage Iron Maiden ballad, and, in fact, Saxon Moon might even be a metal band in the off-season –– the musicians have long hair and beards, and the guy at stage right is playing a pretty metal-looking Ibanez electric bass. On the other side of the Elkhorn is a booth selling nuts, with an appropriately nutty nut salesman shouting along with Saxon Moon’s melodies. He sounds a little unhinged.

“I guess you probably know these songs by heart,” I say to the bartender, a woman in her 40s. “That guy does, anyway.”

She grins ruefully. “Yeah, the rain’s made the traffic kind of slow, and the natives are a little restless today.”

Some belly dancers shaking in time to Saxon Moon’s brooding jams have moved into the street, and the nut salesman shoots from his booth to join them, his dreadlocks bouncing in time to their hips.

I browse the shoppes but walk back over the bridge (the Troll Bridge, according to my trusty program). The photographer and harpist are gone. Three costumed ladies are sitting on a bench nearby. The one in the middle thanks me for bringing the breeze. Apparently, I look like I have magical powers. When I ask if she lives in Waxahachie or another nearby town, she gives me the look of a patient school teacher trying to drive home the concept of integers. “Actually, I was born and raised here in Scarborough,” she says.

“And I came from the Germanies,” says the woman on the left, “but I got here as fast as I could.”

The woman on the right doesn’t say anything, just sort of smirks. A pentacle hangs from her neck. If I had to guess, she is probably more into the costumes than staying in character.

 ******

It’s easy to be arch about Scarborough Faire. Even Rachel concedes that the Palace of Pasta Pleasure and the place that sells jalapeño-sausage sandwiches are certainly oddments compared to other, more historically accurate landmarks like the market cross. But, surely, being in on the joke is part of the fun. Apart from a general attempt at staying in character, most staffers don’t take things too seriously. Most of them simply pay lip service to their mostly clipped, theatrically British accents. Curiously, I encounter no cockney. The wiseacres calling at me to browse their crossbow range/castle maze/fresh fruit selection mostly sound like Andy Richter re-enacting a scene from Life of Brian. I still get the vibe that a lot of the performers are stand-up comics or other working actors. Apart from the two months of tent-living, Scarborough Faire seems a lot more enjoyable gig than playing Stanley or Stella for some small-town Streetcar production. It has to be, right? Rachel tells me that the woman who added the blue to my waxed hand the week before has been traveling the country working the ren faire circuit for 16 years. The titular performers behind the Don Juan and Miguel show have been doing their vaudevillian whips-and-swordplay slapstick act for 31 years, and the master falconer, whom I affectionately remember as a well-intentioned blowhard, has been coaxing birds of prey to zoom over audiences presumably since Mary I was queen.

What also makes me want to step up my doublet game is that the uncostumed people’s reactions to the sets and scenery are worth watching as much as the people who operate the stores that sell polearms and tarot card readings. While my friends and I watched Don Juan and Miguel do their gay slapstick routine, my attention was drawn to this dad who was clearly not comfortable having his young daughter observe this particular brand of silliness. Clad in a floppy canvas boonie hat, jorts, and an increasingly deepening frown, he would have stood out even if I’d seen him at Tom Thumb. But then, when Miguel came out dressed in drag and squeezing “breasts” made out of pink water balloons, the dad stood up, lifted his daughter off the bench, and left in a huff. “I didn’t know this is what I signed up for!” he said.

Watching a person like that squirm over a PG-13 boob joke was a highlight for me, as were the two little boys in brown tunics and matching shields sitting near the man’s little girl. They thought the whole thing was hysterical. I bet they cracked up about Miguel’s “balloobie” gag the whole ride home.

By the time I exit through the gate and head back toward the gesticulating arms of the sheriff’s knights, I make a note about renting garb for my next visit. The escapism offered by Scarborough Faire is kind of addicting, in part because of the baloney that’s served alongside the turkey legs and flagons of mead. Maybe when I get sick of 21st-century entrapments, I’ll get captured by the magic of a bygone area, faltering accents and all.

This Article Has Been Clarified

Some items require clarification. The festival’s name is Scarborough Renaissance Festival. A “patron” is any attendee or visitor, not just those in costume. The performers come in two groups: Stage & Lane (typically traveling professionals) and the Scarborough Cast (locals who perform mostly on weekends). Of all the people I interviewed, the only Cast member I seemed to have met was the lady on the bridge who claimed to have been “born in bred here in Scarborough.”

There are also Friends of the Faire. Season ticket holders, they are allowed, along with the performers and shoppe representatives, to participate in the parade.

Other murky details in need of sharpening: King Henry VIII, according to the event’s script, is between wives, and he can be seen doing various duties during a typical festival day, but Scarborough Renaissance Festival is technically not a historical reenactment, and while other similar Renaissance-themed festivals can be bawdy and/or tawdry, the one in Waxahachie strives to be family friendly and wholesome. As for costumes, other than the family-friendly appropriateness of clothing, the festival doesn’t dictate what a patron can and can’t wear, meaning that the Storm Troopers and anime characters are welcome any weekend, not just during Fantasy Weekend. This also means you should leave your Vampirella, Lady Death, or Richard Hatch costumes at home.

Finally, other than service animals, pets are not allowed in the festival. The Westie I saw likely belonged to the shoppe that sells doggy clothes.