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.
89
“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 fl aming red.
The effect was that she now looked like a beautiful girl whose hair was on fi re.
“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.
90
“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 fi rst!” 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 rou91
tine and 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 clarifi cation.
“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 fl oor!” the girl yelled.
“Darn, a perfectly good filthy floor, and I can’t even lie down on it,” Carrie muttered .
“You
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.
89
“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 fl aming red.
The effect was that she now looked like a beautiful girl whose hair was on fi re.
“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.
90
“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 fi rst!” 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 rou91
tine and 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 clarifi cation.
“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 fl oor!” the girl yelled.
“Darn, a perfectly good filthy floor, and I can’t even lie down on it,” Carrie muttered .
“You
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