The sand-colored block building stood defiant against the crepuscular northern sky. Once a popular twin cinema, it had been converted to a laser tag facility in recent years. Anchoring an aging strip center, it was a decade late for a date with the wrecking ball. Remnants of summer clung to that Friday as we entered the vast parking lot. A cluster of cars occupied the northeast corner.
My wife and I had been dating for a very short time when she received an invitation to a wedding and asked me to join her. As a bonus, this came with an invitation to the post rehearsal dinner party. It was being held at the laser tag center. Assuming no ill intent, I accepted both invitations. I’d never played laser tag before, and there was a modicum of curiosity. It was a competitive activity, after all.
Laser tag is a pseudo-combat activity that was once a military training activity. As a recreational pursuit, it ranks in intensity somewhere between paintball and Red Rover. With growing popularity, laser tag has evolved into an industry. It even has its own governing body, the International Laser Tag Association, and a code of ethics. And while individuals can still play, laser tag predominantly played in indoor laser tag centers.
Which is where I was on a perfectly good Friday night. My instincts told me that this was not going to be fun, but I was trying to be a good sport. My wife and I arrived early, and waited outside for the wedding party. On the sidewalk, a handful of enthusiasts were limbering up and miming their moves.
The interior provided nothing in the way of optimism. The conversion from theater to laser tag facility was adequate, though hardly impressive. The lobby was dark, dirty, and had been reconfigured to suggest a vague outer space theme. It also boasted a collection of vending machines, video games, and an air hockey table. Other amenities of the old theater days had been retained, including the sticky floor and a concession stand stocked with stale and overpriced snacks. The registration desk sat unoccupied.
Being my first venture into such an establishment, I wasn’t sure how this one rated, but my guess is, it would fall in the bottom quintile, globally. Teens and preteens ran amok, substituting volume for substance and conformity for thought. This was to be expected. It was the giddy behavior of the adults that was most disturbing.
Two odd young men who had been miming in the parking lot entered the building, and bolted for the air hockey table. Their game was intense and highly competitive. There was trash talk, celebrations, and taunting--all of demonstrative and incessant. Taken by their unapologetic enthusiasm and riveted by their latent weirdness, we watched in fascination.
A bit later, the doors to the arena burst open and the most recent combatants emerged. Still buzzing on adrenaline, they recapped the action in enthusiastic fashion. Many were sweating and a few appeared to be favoring injuries. At the risk of making a snap judgment, they looked like losers to me.
The wedding party rolled in shortly thereafter, and we began to register. There were thirty people in our group. Twenty-eight were complete strangers. Indicative of my level of enthusiasm, I was the last in our group to register. The registration process included signing a waiver and listing a next of kin. It also required the choosing of aliases as our given names were not exciting enough. I’d been watching Kids in the Hall earlier that day and registered as “Cabbagehead.”
Once registered, our group filed into a small room for a briefing. Rounding out our group were three nerdy adults and a couple of fat kids that were not related to the wedding party. One man had shown up wearing battle fatigues. To our delight, the harlequins from the air hockey table were friends of the groom, and would be joining us on the battlefield. The two of them giggled and played grab ass during the briefing.
We would be participating in a type of game called a “Solo Mission,” which is each person for his/herself. A look around the room led me to conclude that most of the guys likely participated almost exclusively in “solo missions.”
Our mission advisor and laser tag mandarin, Yranac, welcomed us and commended us for our daring and bravery. He explained that each player would receive a gun and laser pack. The object of the game, or mission, rather, was to shoot the various sensors contained on our opponents' laser packs. The laser packs, which were like heavy life jackets, would vibrate when hit. Further, any hit would disable the hit player’s guns for six seconds. A small screen on the gun would provide the handle of the offending shooter. This allowed players to seek vengeance against opponents. That is, if you recognized their aliases and could find the perp in a black-lit maze among thirty players.
The otherwise chipper Yranac turned solemn when discussing the laser tag code of ethics. Players were to adhere to the rules of engagement at all times. We were not allowed to cover any of the targets on our laser packs, run in the maze, or make contact with other players. We would be on the honor system which guaranteed rampant cheating.
Yranac blathered on, telling us that while laser tag is a non-contact activity, contusions, grade one sprains, or even bloodshed could be expected. Anyone with a heart condition was advised to exit at once, and get a refund.
We were wading in pools of sweat as our advisor prattled about fair play, competition, and honesty. What should have been a three minute overview was pushing twenty. It would have gone on even longer had one player not used the safety of anonymity to chum the room. With this, the doors to the arsenal opened, and we began to equip ourselves for the arduous battle ahead.
Most of the players rushed the arsenal for dibs on what appeared to be thirty identical sets of equipment. This was not the case; my gun wasn’t functional. I explained the problem to Yranac, hoping I might be granted conscientious objector status and excused from combat. Yranac was having none of it. He was a pro, and recalibrated my gun in a matter of seconds. There was no turning back.
With everybody armed and presumably dangerous, we entered the black-lit arena. As I entered, my attitude changed and my competitive instincts engaged. I figured that so long as I was there, I could see if I had any affinity for the game. By looking at some of the laser tag enthusiasts, I figured the game couldn’t be that difficult.
My gumption came to an abrupt end when a pudgy man appeared from around a corner. In his mid-thirties and balding, he shot me as he rolled across the floor. As the guns didn’t make much noise, he felt compelled to enhance the experience, adding a Pew! Pew! Pew! with each squeeze of the trigger.
“Yes!” he said, rising to his feet and pumping his fist.
“Dude, you’re retarded,” I said, checking my gun to find I had been shot by a man operating under the alias, Boba Fett, Biotch.
The arena was dark, grimy, and didn’t smell well. It was far cooler than the briefing room, but still hot. There was also a loud peculiar sucking sound coming from the ceiling. I concluded it was our collective dignity bleeding out of the arena. As I’d suspected, cheating was rife and unabashed. The most common transgression was the concealing of sensors. So much for the code of ethics. But then again, I suppose all’s fair in love and laser tag.
With the possible exception of pocket billiards, I had never been so incompetent at any game. I surrendered almost immediately. My vest was rattling as though I had a vibrator under my shirt. I was what laser tag types would call a Nuke Newbie, which is to say I was verdant, which is to say I suck at laser tag. I walked through the maze with my trigger pulled and pointing my gun at people’s eyes. This earned me no points, but seemed to annoy my opponents.
A man wearing camouflage battle fatigues appeared from around a corner and shot me before checking his tagger.
“Ha! Got you, Cabbage Patch! Bang bang!”
“Settle down, Tackleberry,” I scowled.
At some point I became disoriented. This might have had something to do with the incessant vibrating. Any easy mark, I felt like I had a dildo in my shirt. I'd become lightheaded and had lost my sense of direction. I was losing to squealing men in their mid-30’s and loud children who were cheating. My digital readout displayed handles of sci-fi geeks and bad AOL screen names. They were all kicking my ass.
In addition to ability, I lacked their intensity and enthusiasm. Successful shots drew orgasmic responses. The goofs from the air hockey table were particularly obnoxious, dragging their stentorian grudge into the black-lit arena.
The game came to an anticlimactic, abrupt end. The doors opened and the maze depressurized. I wandered back into the lobby, still dizzy and sweat soaking my shirt. Several players bounded out of the arena, buzzing on adrenaline. It was as though they had just partaken in the most exhilarating event of their lives. They crowded outside the door, waiting for the game results to be posted on monitors overhead. The jousting continued verbally, while some reenacted key moments from the battle.
I finished 23rd out of 30. A statistical printout was available for the asking, but I didn’t. There was no need for analytics; with any luck I’d never play this game again. Other players examined their numbers with great interest. Several members of our group then scampered back to the registration desk to play again.
I was not among them. Content to finish in the bottom twenty five percent, my wife and I ducked out for a night cap. Never had failing done so much for my self-esteem. If these were the winners, I was more than happy to lose.
The following afternoon, the wedding, though, was lovely.
