“Everyone, listen up. This is your safety, this is your ammo cannister,” intones our referee, a husky teenager wearing full camouflage, combat boots and a red bandana around his thick neck. “Each of you has a bag of pellets. You load the gun by filling the cannister.”
Ten of us nod obediently. It’s the 40th birthday of Boyfriend’s friend (over which I secretly relish the fact that, no matter how old I get, there are still plenty around me far older) and to celebrate we’ve gathered in one place where a quadragenarian can perpetually relive his/her adolescence with unchecked bliss: the New York City Paintball center in Queens. We’re sweating rivers under thick layers of old sweats and zip-up fleeces, our torsos barrelled in plastic and velcro protection vests.
Straining my ears to hear the rules recited over the din of 13-year-olds annihilating each other in enclosed arenas, I glance around to check out the competition. The men are all over six feet and 180 pounds at the lightest - my best bet is to crouch in small spaces and wait for them to kill each other off. Their respective wives and girlfriends, all attractive and fashionable down-towners, have been transformed by the protective gear into walking videogame assassins. At the end of the pack is one woman who looks like a promising mark. She has wispy blonde hair, high cheekbones and a pert dimples. I’ve met her only once before, at a Halloween party- at maybe 105 pounds, she wore a Playboy bunny outfit that she barely had the flesh to fill.
She meets my stare and smiles politely. Ha - all too easy. I’ll take this chick down, no problem.
“And don’t forget!” our beefy ref is yelling. “When you’re at close range, you point your gun at the person and tell them to surrender. Do not shoot unless they are at least ten feet away! Someone could get hurt!”
Won’t be an issue. I’ve got my strategy worked out - I’ll lie low, mirror my chosen target, follow her movements and wait for her to stick one of her scrawny limbs out in the open. Yanking the plastic safety off my gun barrel, I follow my team through a maze of black netting and into the arena. The air is heavy with fumes, the floor slick with oily mess from thousands of detonated paintballs. I can barely see through the visor in the hunk of black plastic that passes for a helmet. Following sounds, I line up against one wall with my team, our gun barrels touching the net.
“Ok, GO!” the ref screams.
For a second, there’s total silence, and all I can see are figures rushing away from me. Then, total chaos. All sounds are blocked out by a constant stream of frenzied popping. Gripping my gun with one hand, I leap behind an inflated barrier that serves as cover. Something explodes above my head, and I look up to see a line of paint oozing down the orange fabric. This is fucking nuts. How on earth did I ever think this was a good idea.
“Shoot something!” a male teammate calls from the next barrier. Right, ok, fair enough. I set my finger on the trigger, twist around one side of the orange boulder and start shooting at thin air. Am I hitting anything? Is anyone even there? I think I see Boyfriend, heading for the Safe Zone, and without hesitation I point the barrel in his direction.
“OW! Hey, who’s shooting at me! I’m already out!” he yells. I slink back behind the barrier in silence - at least I know I hit something.
Suddenly I notice I’m alone behind the set of barriers - my teammate is gone, and a small figure has taken his place. She’s creeping towards me, edging around the orange plastic.
POP! My leg explodes in pain. I collapse, clutching my burning thigh, and instinctively hold one arm above my head to shield my plastic-shrouded face. “Agghh! Stop! Whoever’s shooting me! You’re not ten feet away!”
Tearing up from the pain, I open my eyes and look - the tiny blonde is crouched three feet away from me, shooting wildly.
“Was that you?” I ask incredulously.
“You’re out,” she replies in a businesslike tone, the dimples gone. “Get off the course before you get hit again.”
Uncurling from a fetal position, I struggle to my feet and clutch my thigh. It feels like a chunk of my leg has been ripped out. Limping, I rush to the Safety Zone behind the black netting.
“That wench shot me at close range!” I splutter to Boyfriend, pulling up the layers of sweatpants to display the red welt and deep purple bruise already spreading across my inner thigh. “You’re not supposed to do that! And she didn’t even apologize or anything!”
He shrugs. “She’s gotta shoot you before you shoot her. That’s the whole point. No apologies.” He pulls back his sleeve to show a smaller bruise. “See this? Some jerk shot me when I was already out, then didn’t even own up to it. Such is life.”
“Uh, really? Unbelievable. Who would do that?” Thankfully my sweaty face hides the blush.
He shrugs. “What can you do? People are assholes.”