Paintball

I HAVEN’T BLOGGED ALL WEEK BECAUSE I WAS BUSY AND ALSO I REALLY CAN’T THINK OF ANYTHING TO TALK ABOUT, SO I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO SHARE THIS.


A FEW YEARS AGO I WROTE A FICTIONALIZED ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY PAINTBALL GAME FOR A CLASS. BASICALLY THE ONLY THINGS THAT WERE CHANGED WERE THE NAMES (OBVIOUSLY) AND THAT, AFTER MY SECOND HIT I, NOT ONLY SAT THE REST OF THE DAY OUT BUT ALSO, MY COUSIN TOOK ME TO THE LOCAL MALL TO GO SHOPPING TO CALM ME DOWN. I WROTE IN THE GONZO JOURNALISM STYLE SO THAT I APPEAR AS A NARRATOR TALKING ABOUT ANOTHER PERSON’S (PORTER-AN IDEALIZED VERSION OF MYSELF) FAMILY WHEN IN ACTUALITY, THE FAMILY WAS MINE.

-----Warning Strong Language----

After a brief summary of what a paint ball game is like and a collection of waivers, the head of the place asks for the third time if they would like anyone else on their team. Jason and his relatives add up to about 15 while the other group totals about 21. “Teeny” and Jason both answer no. When we get to the lining up point, I’m asked to take a before picture of the family at “war”.

There they stood, an entire family holding hands, ages ranging from 20 to 65. In the middle of the group “Teeny” and Jason stand next to each other laughing at how stupid they look in the Army Fatigues, Krista and Porter smile nervously and are clutching each other’s hands as if they were about to enter an actual war zone, and Davey holds Jenna in a tight embrace- it’s almost as if he’s scared she’s not real.

“Okay everyone one, two, three,” I call out. The camera clicks and it’s time for us to go out onto the field.

Seconds after the referee blows the whistle, things start to go downhill. Davey falls right to the ground, injuring his foot and ripping open his hand skin. He runs behind a tree and we begin to hide together.

“I made an ass of myself trying to show off for Jenna,” he chastises himself.

“I know, I saw that,” I laugh as paint bullets fly pass our hiding spot. I’m beginning to feel invincible.

“If I can just stay behind this tree for the next three hours...,” my train of thought is interrupted by a tremendous pain in my right arm. It’s a minute before I realize I’m on the ground.
“Stay down,” Davey warns.

“What are you talking about,” I scream at the top of my lungs, partly because of the pain. Jenna and Porter come running over.

“Jason and “Teeny” are both out,” Jenna informs us.

“Is she ok?” Porter asks.

“My arm, I think it’s broken. It hurts so bad,” I squeal.

“Your arm’s not broken, you so lucky,” Davey says, excitedly. Lucky is the last thing I’m thinking as I get up from the ground. Apparently the reason my arm hurts so much is because the paint bullet didn’t break. “It hurts like a mother fucker, I know, but since it didn’t break you get to stay in the game.”

“Oh goodie,” I say as sarcastic as I can. I hate this.

I begin to look around for the rest of the team. Davey ventures about 15 feet away and gets shot. Almost all of the team is gone; if we are going to win I’m going to have to stop hiding. I get my gun ready to shoot, I’m out for vengeance. Unfortunately, the second I start to shoot, I get shot again. This time the bullet breaks but it’s a sensitive area and I begin to cry. By the time I get to the “prisoners” zone I’m rather hysterical and everyone agrees it’ll be best if I sit the rest of the day out.

Three hours later, it’s all over. Everyone is covered in paint and it’s obvious the other team won. “So,” Jason began, as he wrapped his arm around Porter. “How does whitewater rafting sound guys?”