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Who (or what) is a pickleman?
Where did he come from?
And what's the deal with pickles
on a stick?
We're so glad you asked.
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i'faith
the story of heins
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Fifteen hundred years ago, the great Roman Empire had conquered most of
the known world, and set its sights on Prussia. Whole legions were poised to descend upon the helpless
land. But the Emperor had decreed that any village which could truly impress him with a singular cultural
achievement would be spared.
Actors, poets, painters, and sculptors all trooped off to Rome...
and returned, dejected.
Meanwhile, one man, Heins Kosher the First, worked long into the night
to develop a new and improved--nay, a perfected--pickle.
When he was done, he made the long journey
to Rome, bowed low before the Emperor, and offered up his masterpiece: a pickle greater, greener, crisper,
and juicier than any other known to man.
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The Emperor took one bite... and smiled. Took another... and beamed. In the end, he decreed that all
of Prussia should be spared.
The Prussian people rejoiced. For hundreds of years, every time
the Prussian army marched into battle, they carried these grand pickles high aloft on the tips of their
spears.
Fifty-six generations later, Heins Kosher the 57th still makes his pickles using that
same recipe. And his customers still hold their pickles proudly aloft on the tips of (scaled-down) spears.
Unlike his ancestors, Heins the 57th is not content to remain at home. He has, instead, dedicated
his life to spreading word of his family's recipe to all the royal courts of Europe, even to Queen Elizabeth
Regina Gloriana of England herself.
UPDATE: PICKLEMAN SEES THE FUTURE!
Heins Kosher the 57th,
late of Prussia, now of the Shire of Mount Hope, England, has seen the future! One day, he says, soldiers
shall no longer carry swords and spears into battle. What shall they do with their pickles? Worry not,
he says. The Prussian army shall mount spikes atop their helmets that they may still march into battle
displaying their pickles for all to see..
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in sooth
the making of heins
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I can tell you the very moment I "got" the art of hawking.
It was the fall of 2000, and I'd been
working with the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire for three years. I did everything that year: I sold
tickets, I took tickets, I sold t-shirts and mugs and wine, I even worked in the office a few days.
I actually named my character Templeton--"Call me Temp."
On this particular day, I'd been stuck
in the most obscure gift shop on site, tucked around the back side of the wine-tasting booth. The nearest
foot traffic was more than 100 feet away, on the other side of the next shop. I'd have to yell to be
heard that far, and yelling doesn't attract business. So there I sat, alone with shelves and shelves
of t-shirts, and mugs, and cute little teddy bears with PRF t-shirts....
Wait. Teddy bears.
I picked one up. I thought for a moment. And then I lifted him up, turned him around, and waved his
furry little paw at the people going by.
They waved back. After only a few moments, a young couple
walking by saw, waved, smiled, laughed, and came over and bought the bear.
Not a bear, mind
you. That one. The one who'd waved at them.
I spent the rest of the afternoon waving little
bear paws at people, and almost everyone waved back--even a dour teenaged boy who came skulking along
took his hand out of his pocket long enough to flash a waist-level wave at the bear. And by the end
of that one afternoon, I'd sold more teddy bears in that out-of-the-way little shop than the main gift
shop, always crowded with customers, had sold all year.
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Steve with his wife Rhonda. Bonus points if you can identify which Faire this was.
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I've gone right on playing with people ever since.
Later that year, I filled in for the regular
pickle vendor for a day. She left me a note: where to find the pickles, where to get the ice, where
the best crowds would be. It began, "Steve: The most important thing is, you're not selling pickles,
you're selling an experience." I knew I'd found my calling.
The next year, after some intensive
pleading for the job, I sold pickles all season long. I made a beeline for the people who ran the murder
mystery: a game where patrons went to selected vendors and actors, who made them do ridiculous things
in exchange for a clue to help them solve a puzzle so they could win a prize. I got people to tell me
jokes, I got them to test my pickles to see if they were poisoned, and I got them to help me sing the
pickle song. (You know the one. By Arlo--ahem, the Earl Of, Guthrie? "I don't want a tickle; I just
want a bite of a juicy pickle. And I don't want to giggle; I just want a bite of a juicy pickle. And
I don't want a kick; I just want a bite of a juicy pick....le.") And I came up with a name: Hans. Hans
the 57th.
And then came 2003. I auditioned and was offered a place in the Blackfryar cast (the
gypsies and pirates and thieves and fishwives who make PRF feel like a village and not like a collection
of isolated stages and shops)... and I accepted if I could do both. I'd be an extra-interactive pickleman,
and I'd close up early so I could dash to the Globe Theatre to sing and dance in Finale in Song. To
my surprise, they said yes.
So I rehearsed with the Blackfryars all summer long, fleshing out
my pickle-seller character. Hans became Heins, became Heins Kosher the 57th. "Heins" sounded German,
so I worked to create some approximation of a dialect that would sound German and Elizabethan and
still be intelligible. And I performed with the Blackfryars at the two pre-Faire festivals that summer.
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Hans the Pickleman, 2001.
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First came Blast From the Past, a 1950s, 60s, 70s, and 80s festival. Most of my castmates were punk
rockers or Beatnicks or hippies; others were TV characters (the Scooby Doo gang, the Addams Family).
Me? I was a Trekkie. "Hi, I'm Phil! You must be here for the convention! Did you hear? Kahn! He's
here! Ricardo Montalban! He's here, he's here! It's so exciting!" I went up to bald men and said,
"Wow, Patrick Stewart! I'm such a big fan! Can I have your autograph?" And yes, when I heard they
were doing a stage version of "The Gong Show," I rounded up a couple of partners in crime to sing "Star
Trekkin" with me. (We were gonged the first day; the second day, we were shot with our own phasers.)
And at morning meeting the second day, the directors instructed me, personally, to wear my participant
pass where people could see it because they were tired of having to tell people, "Who, the Trekkie?
Nah, he's okay; he's just an actor."
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Now, Celtic Fling, on the other hand.... The Blackfryars were instructed to treat Fling like a dress
rehearsal: to be in character as the characters we'd been developing for the Faire season. Which was
fine, except that Heins's most prominent characteristic is his deep, abiding, all-consuming obsession
with his pickles... and with Faire more than a month away, there were no pickles for me to sell.
So a few days before Fling, I visited a local garden supply center and bought a few supplies. And all
weekend long, whenever things got slow, I'd walk around handing out cucumber seeds, saying, "FREE PICKLE!
(Some assembly required.) FREE PICKLE! (Some assembly required.)" Which brings me to one of my all-time
favorite Faire moments: when I used that line on Kate Ramsey, the director of the Blackfryar cast. (Let's
put it this way. If you think "double over laughing" is a figure of speech... it's not.)
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Heins Kosher the 57th, 2003.
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That fall at Faire, I developed most of my signature "bits" as the pickleman: the giant pickle, the
pickle people, the Pickle Slayer, other pickle songs. You can read more about those here.
In
2004, I was again offered a role with the Blackfryars, but without the option of doing both, and I did
something I never thought I would: I turned it down. I've found my home. Hey, when people go up to
the Queen and say, "Have you seen the pickleman?" you're probably doing something right. And when a
teenager comes up to you on a schoolday and says that his school had a talent show last year, that they
were each required to re-create their favorite part of the whole day they'd spent at the Faire, and that
he "did the pickle man," you know you've been doing something right.
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