“Who is Bryan Paulsen?” he said.
“What is nice to meet you,” I responded, and I couldn’t help but smile as my heart continued to pound.
“Sandy Koufax is a total jerk,” he said. “I couldn’t believe how he severed ties with the Dodgers just because of some rumors that he was gay.”
Sirens again. “I don’t know anything about that,” I said, trying to figure out how to say good-bye to this weirdo and get to my car.
We stood in the silent parking lot, looking not quite at each other but sort of past, as if we weren’t alone. It was only us, and that was a little close for comfort.
“It was on Outsports, the gay sports Web site,” he said.
“What?” I couldn’t look at him.
“You’ve never been there?”
“No!”
“Hey, don’t get defensive, guy,” he said, rubbing his elbow and approaching me. I shrank back. “I just wanted to talk to you, finally. It’s always so hard when the other reporters are around, but you keep sending me the message, loud and clear.”
All I wanted to do was sit down and digest what was whizzing around my head, way too quickly. “Sending you the message?”
“Yeah, you cruised me.”
“I what you?”
“You . . . looked at me,” he repeated. “The first time I saw you. Huntington Beach. And today again.”
He’s gay, and he thinks I am, too. Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? Is he setting me up? It’s all too much.
“Dude, I didn’t even see you today.”
“No?” He grinned and raised an eyebrow.
“No. You’re way off base. Sorry.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to look him in the eye and flinching as soon as contact was made. I was suddenly chilly. “And now I have to go. Good-bye.” I hurried to my car, nearly breaking into a sprint but avoiding that out of fear that he’d take it as a sure sign I was gay, and hiding.
“Hey, wait,” he called, and I battled my urge to turn back and talk to him. I was hyperventilating. I fumbled for my car keys, hit the button on my keyless entry, and climbed into my car, slamming the outside world out as quickly as I could. I got out of there and didn’t turn back, praying he wouldn’t follow me.
12
“This is such an L.A. date. Drive separately, communicate by cell phone along the way, then play virtual games together. No need to physically interact at all. I love this,” said Carrie.
We were entering the Laser Tag Amusement Center in Newport Beach, about a twenty-minute drive from Durango. It was a typically warm Saturday morning, a day after yet another win, 35-17 over Point Linda. The first thing I noticed as she got out of her car was that Carrie had dyed her hair flaming red.
The effect was that she now looked like a beautiful girl whose hair was on fire.
“I just can’t believe you’re into this,” I said. I’d never thought of Carrie as the sporting type, but she had suggested it.
“I am SO into this,” she said, using her best Valley Girl accent. “Are you kidding? A chance to shoot you repeatedly? Count me in!” Carrie scurried ahead of me, impatient to get going.
“Next thing you’ll be joining the NRA,” I said, following close behind her. “Carrie and guns together, just what the world needs.”
We were ushered into a dark area with neon signs and black lights, a type of waiting area where this geeky girl, really tall with braces and a face full of acne, her voice high-pitched like that of a squealing pig, explained to us what was about to happen.
“Now listen up!” she whined, every syllable stressed, raising the pitch at the end of every sentence, as if it were impossible to talk without the use of exclamation marks. “I’m going to tell you how this works, so listen very carefully!” She glanced at us expectantly. “Find a laser pack and strap it on! Then go and find the gun you want to use!”
She said this as if telling young people to grab guns was a time for great enthusiasm.
I glanced over at Carrie, who was looking at her with an intense seriousness that I have come to understand is a form of mockery, and suppressed a giggle.
Carrie raised her hand and didn’t wait to be called on before asking her question. “So should we get the guns first, or the laser pack?” she said, her eyes scrunched up like this was confusing.
The attendant girl was blessed with an obvious gift for enthusiasm, even in the face of people who ask really dumb questions. “Pack first!” she said, beaming.
“The pack, then?” Carrie asked, confused.
“Yes!”
“Should I just hold it in my outstretched hands, or strap it on?”
“Strap it! Strap it on!” She walked over to the packs, put one on, then drew the strap around her and buckled it. “See! It’s just like a seat belt in a car!”
“Oh!” said Carrie. And just like that, she dropped the dumb routineand followed instructions. Our attendant thought nothing of Carrie’s quick change of character.
She must have seen weirdness all day long.
“Run through the maze and shoot anyone you see,” she yelled.
I thought of Dennis, suddenly wishing he were here.
“Fifteen hits and you’re out!”
Carrie looked down at her hands and began to count her fingers. She began to raise her hand, but decided not to. I could tell she was going to ask for more clarification.
“Other rules: You can’t try to hide the lights on the front and back center of your laser pack, the part that registers when people have shot you! You can’t lie down on the floor!” the girl yelled.
“Darn, a perfectly good filthy floor, and I can’t even lie down on it,” Carrie muttered.
“You have to leave the playing area immediately once you’re out, following the neon exit signs,” she screamed.
“Also a darn, sounds like a place where I could really settle down,” I responded.
“When you’re shot, your pack will vibrate and go dead for a few seconds. During this time, you can’t shoot and no one can shoot you. So it’s a good idea to run! Fast!”
I looked over at Carrie, who seemed very intent on all the information, a girl on a mission. “Okay, guys,” the girl said, at the peak of her manic enthusiasm. “Are you ready! Go go go!” She flung open the black door leading to the maze and shouted after us that we had two minutes to find a place to hide.
That’s basically what it is, I realized. Hide-and-go-seek for the over-six crowd.
It was a three-story maze. I discovered this as I ran toward the other end of the maze, where I encountered first stairs leading up, and then stairs leading down. Seeing metal grating in the ceiling, I headed down, figuring it would be easier to not have to worry about being shot from a floor below. Blaring guitars seared into my brain as loud rock music pounded through the corridors, Kelly Clarkson screaming that she would never believe some guy, never again. My thought was to hunker down low, crouch, make myself small, and stay where I was. The more you moved, the more likely you were to get shot. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that one out.
After a few minutes I began to hear screaming and feet scampering above me. I looked up and watched people sprint across the floor above me, scampering legs and flashing laser packs. One kid stopped and stood still right above me. I watched as he carefully looked both ways and felt the same adrenaline I feel on the football field.
I quietly, precisely, raised my gun and shot his pack. Bull’s-eye.
I watched from below as he looked around, no clue what hit him. He didn’t look down, but hurried off, in search of a target. All seemed quiet on my level. Of the ten or so of us, I wondered if I was the only one in the basement.
Then I felt a buzzing around my midsection, and my first thought was that I’d put my cell phone on vibrate. Then I realized I’d been hit, and I looked around, but saw no one. My laser pack stopped shaking after a few seconds, the lights on it died, and when I picked up my gun and fired it, n
othing happened. A few seconds later the pack lit up again as if someone had recharged the battery, but only for a second before I was once again shaking.
“What the hell?” I said, and then I heard laughter, from above and behind me. I turned around and looked up and there was some kid, maybe twelve, with his gun pointed down at me through the grating.
No way was he going to hit me again.
I jumped up and moved positions, raised my gun, and was about to shoot him when once again I shook. Anger flooded through my veins, and I could feel my head pounding. I hated losing.
The kid took off running when he saw me move toward him.
It reminded me of my tenth birthday party. My parents rented out a gym and we played dodgeball, the sport I lived for at the time, all day. I was feeling invincible until my friends ganged up on me. They waited until I threw the last red ball on my side, and then I noticed that five of them, all on the other side of the middle line, were holding onto red balls and smirking at me. They all attacked at once, hurling the balls at me. The plastic orbs collided with each other and ricocheted into different parts of my body—one got me in the nose, one in the chest—and I fell under the impact of them. My so-called friends then crossed the center line, against the rules, gathered the balls, and proceeded to pummel me. My fists clenched with rage as I lay on the ground. My eyes welled up, my head pulsed and I screamed at them to stop. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in, and didn’t come out for hours.
So as I felt myself hit for the third time in less than thirty seconds, I felt the same emotions simmer and begin to rise to the surface. This time I turned and saw it was Carrie, behind me, grinning, the bitch. She looked a little demented with the laser pack on, very intense.
“Dead meat,” she said, and then she turned, grabbed her gun in both hands, and hustled out of the area. At that moment she became the only possible target.
I ran after her, actually angry. She could hear me running right behind her, and I could see her slowing and I knew what she was going to do. I beat her to the punch. She flung around at me, wildly, and tried to aim her gun, but I was too quick for her. I grabbed it from her hands and tossed it aside, and proceeded to shoot her, point-blank, in the gut.
It felt good.
“Jerk,” she said. She stormed past me and picked up the gun. The bravado was in my chest now, the strange pride that I could feel in my lungs, coupled with an anger that at once enveloped and embarrassed me.
“You shot me, I shot you back.”
“No. I shot you, you chased me and threw my gun, and shot me. Bullshit,” she said, bending down and picking up her gun. A guy, maybe fourteen, with a Mohawk appeared in the doorway, and quickly set our packs ablazing.
“Fuck you!” we both screamed at him, and he saw that there was something beyond a game going on and booked it out of there. Carrie’s face was red, and I could feel the same heat rising in me.
We stared each other down. This was a new thing for us; we never raised our voices with each other. There was never any reason. Carrie picked up her gun, placed it against my rib cage, and pulled the trigger.
I felt the pack and its buzz, again, and it sent unusual shock waves through me, into my pelvis. I waited a few seconds and fired back, and we stood there, taking turns shaking.
Finally Carrie laughed. “What’s wrong with us?” she said. I wasn’t quite ready to laugh. My gut was in knots and a primal roar far beyond the game was welling up within my belly. “Maybe we should just get it over with and kiss,” she said. “Make love, not war.” She was leering at me. She didn’t get it, didn’t see that something had broken in me in the midst of a stupid game.
I just stood there, looking at her.
For a moment I was lost in thought, and then I saw Carrie’s lips, a dark shade of red, and plump like overripe fruit, coming toward me. She pressed her lips against mine.
I searched myself—for arousal, for anything good, for proof that I’d made all this gay stuff up—and for a moment I felt a pressure on my upper groin but not the kind I’d expected. I pulled away and looked down, and saw it was her pack pressing awkwardly into mine.
We stood there, connected by our packs and staring at each other. I imagined Carrie standing there topless, and shivered at the thought, her breasts like alien bumps on her chest where no bumps should be. A guy about our age ran by the corridor we were in and shot Carrie in the back. She laughed, softly, her eyes huge orbs of innocence and wonder, and I loved her at that moment, not sensually but emotionally, loved her and wanted to protect her from bad things. From me.
Our midsections shook together.
“See what you do to me?” she said, raising one eyebrow, and she tilted her head slightly once again, made her eyes into slits, and moved her overripe lips to mine.
I jumped back.
It was involuntary. I’d meant to stay with it, but whatever power deep within me that I couldn’t control pushed a button and I pulled away from her before she could get me.
Carrie seemed to galvanize at that moment, her eyes registering comic disbelief and a level of injury I’d never seen before. She opened her mouth to speak, but could say nothing. She looked away, up at the ceiling, as if the answer were there, and then back to me. She shook her head in disbelief and sighed in a manner I hoped never again to hear, ever, in my life. A sigh of resignation and pent-up rage, if you can believe one might sigh with rage. She marched right past me. I stood still, facing away from her, unsure how to help. Then my pack began buzzing again. No one was above me or in front of me.
I’d been shot in the back, and when I turned around, no one was there.
I stood there for a few moments, paralyzed and not knowing what to do.
Then it hit me: Tell her.
The thing to do was to find the exit, and find Carrie, who had probably stormed off. I’d talk to her, tell her the secret that might hurt her, but at least would explain why I didn’t want to kiss.
A sign pointed me toward the exit, and I headed that way, my heart beating very fast. It would all be okay once I told her. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
After a few minutes of winding through dark hallways, I found the exit, pushed open the heavy black door, and was back in the lobby, the waiting area. I was alone, no Carrie.
The geeky girl was sitting on a bench, reading a magazine.
“Did you just see a girl with flaming red hair—”
“She just left,” she said.
I ran out to the parking lot just in time to see Carrie’s red Jetta peel away.
13
“You see what Vince Young does? He keeps his options open,” my father said to me as we watched a game one Sunday in early October. We were sitting on the couch in the living room. He reclined, I sat forward, wolfing down chips from an open bag and dipping them into an open container of salsa. “If no one’s open, he’s not afraid to run. That’s what you need to do.”
“Sure, Dad. Good idea.” I wiped salsa off my chin.
My father acted as if I’d never watched a pro football game before, let alone played quarterback.
He never had; he’d played baseball in school, yet somehow he was the football expert.
“I never see you scramble,” he continued as we watched a replay of Young, the Tennessee Titans quarterback, running for a first down.
There was, of course, a reason for this. I was a total drop-back passer. I was slow as molasses and I had a rocket of an arm. He should have been comparing me to Peyton Manning, not Vince Young.