The One that Got Away at Laser Quest

The other day, the Reverend Father Alabaster Fudge called me around lunchtime.  He said he’d finished his rounds early, that his 1 o’clock at the prison had up and died on him—a lifer who had, unbeknownst to the prison officials, silently committed himself to a hunger strike that he’d apparently (and remarkably) seen to the end, credit where credit is due—so he was free for the afternoon.  He asked if I wanted to hit up Chili’s, noting that they’d lowered the price on the Triple Dipper appetizer by a buck fifty.  I’m usually a sucker for a steal like that, but I still hadn’t recovered from my most recent Chili’s experience with the Dude.  (I wrote about it not too long ago, but if you missed it, the CliffsNotes version is that Al set me up on a blind date, and, while I was waiting at the bar, the Dude appeared like a Viking raider and proceeded to rape and ransack and pillage and plunder the village of my personal space, so much so that I dipped out early and never met the lovely Jennifer.  When I got home that night and relayed this to Al, he said ah, no bother at all, that it all worked out swimmingly because Jennifer had actually met and hit it off with a wonderful, albeit slightly emotional, gentleman at the bar who, get this, was also named Sterling.  Courtesy of yours truly.)  Anyway, I told Al I wasn’t feeling Chili’s, so he suggested Italian, which was fortuitous because I’d actually been craving some mushroom pesto, and, seeing as it was Valentine’s Day, I thought maybe we’d get lucky and  could take advantage of some love bird specials.  Plus, it being lunchtime, I figured the place wouldn’t be slammed with all the annoyingly in love idiots.  Al said he’d found a place that looked good and that he’d swing by and pick me up.  Great.

Well, turns out the place that Al had in mind was CiCi’s Pizza.  Or, excuse me: Cicis.  Considering I hadn’t attended an elementary school birthday party in a couple decades, I was unaware that they’d rebranded a few years back, refreshing the interior design of the restaurant, excising the apostrophe and streamlining the logo, modernizing the colors—the usual facelift companies undergo when trying to convince their customers that they’re for real and not just serving shit in a shithole.  Me, I prefer it when restaurants are at least honest about it.  Like, I’m patronizing your shithole because I want shit, not so I can benumb my bony butt in your “ergonomic” chairs while being illuminated on the number of calories in the non-GMO turkey flaxseed flatbread.  Anyways, apologies to Cicis—it wasn’t my intention for you to catch these strays—because, look, it’s not like I didn’t go in and didn’t enjoy myself.  In fact, Al and I had a lovely lunch, and he even filled me in on some of the constitutional issues concerning hunger striking prisoners, like whether or not force feeding them infringes upon a fundamental right to privacy.  Al said some states will do you up like a goose foie gras?  Yikes.  There was also the usual talk of Star Wars, Al’s favorite movie franchise.  The only knock I’ll give Cicis is that the air hockey table in the arcade ate two bucks’ worth of my quarters before it decided to spit out the fucking puck.

We left after a few games and, once outside, Al nudged my shoulder and pointed across the parking lot.  He must not have gotten his fill of air hockey because what he was pointing at was yet another esteemed entertainment establishment: Laser Quest.  Just for a quick round or two, he said, it’ll be fun.  I hadn’t planned on my Valentine’s Day morphing into a trip down memory lane—first, Cicis; now, Laser Quest—but I decided to roll with it, and I admit I was feeling good as we walked over, riding that pleasureful high that accompanies spontaneous decisions.  That is, until we entered the building.  Inside, it was pure chaos.  A swarm of kids in dirty blue uniforms shifted and bounced around in a pack like a school of tuna, laughing and screeching as they ran away from a beautiful woman who was trying to corral them into the waiting room.  Another adult, an older man, was speaking to an employee behind the counter at the computer.  One of the kids broke away and came over to Al and me, all open-mouthed and bug-eyed.  He just stood there staring at us in silence, starting to freak me out, when he fixed his stupid gaze upon Al and asked him “are you a father?”

Before Al could answer, the woman came over and placed her hands on the kid’s shoulders.  “Come on, Lazarus,” she said, shoeing him away.  Lazarus? The fuck?  Then, turning to us, she smiled and apologized for all the commotion, said that she and her class were here on a field trip.  Al then said he’d go sign us up and left me with the woman, which didn’t bother me because, as the hopeless romantic that I am, I’d already fallen in love with her.  She was the third-grade teacher at one of the Catholic elementary schools in town, and she and the older man up at the counter were chaperoning the field trip.  We introduced ourselves, and she blushed and said thank you when I said that her name, Grace, was pretty.  Oh, something special was afoot on this Valentine’s Day!  But that thrill quickly transformed itself into dense ball of dread that plummeted to the pit of my stomach as I pictured Grace posing her next question, the obvious question, like what exactly was I doing there, at Laser Quest, on Valentine’s Day with a strange man dressed as a priest, because it surely didn’t look like I was there to chaperone a field trip.  I could feel my face flushing red, and I could tell Grace was fixing to ask me if everything was alright, when, thankfully, Al reappeared and said we were all set.  As he ushered me away, I looked back at Grace, who looked very confused as she said, “Good luck?”

Inside the waiting room, after we’d donned our bulky plastic vests and toy lasers, the employee droned on about the rules, making us repeat them back to him—“I WILL NOT RUN JUMP OR CLIMB”—but my mind was elsewhere.  I was too busy cursing myself for being such a loser, in there playing laser tag with a bunch of nine- and ten-year-olds while the potential love of my life stood waiting outside, without a doubt wondering why I was such a fucking dweeb.  Then, all of the sudden, the employee, clearly on a power trip, singled me out and said that I hadn’t repeated the rules and that we couldn’t enter the arena and play the game until every participant had done so, company policy, to which I responded, nah, bro, you must’ve missed it because I said them already, which caused him to hop on even more of a high horse, Laser Quest Hitler, yelling that absolutely no one was permitted entry until I repeated them, at which point all hell broke loose, all of Grace’s third graders—and even Al, too—started screaming bloody fucking murder.  This went on for longer than it should have, but I eventually caved and repeated the rules, but what those fuckers and Laser Quest Hitler didn’t know was that I had my fingers crossed, that I intended to run and jump and climb so fucking hard.  Grace already knew I was playing the stupid game, so I figured I might as well win.

Anyways, the doors hissed open, and we all entered the arena, which, if Dante were still alive, he certainly would’ve made one of his circles of Hell—an epileptic’s nightmare, the multicolored strobe lights slicing through the darkness; the techno music thump thump thumping over the loudspeakers; the weird, stale funk of the artificial fog assaulting your nostrils; the screeching children casting aspersions on your character, accusing you of running and jumping and climbing and cheating by covering up your vest sensors?  Like, shut the fuck up, Lazarus before I laser your ass back to the dead.  But despite all of this, Al and I were a dream team.  I even took an action shot of Al.  See below:

When it was all over, I was a sweaty mess, but a victorious one.  Laser Quest Hitler, the who’d given me guff before the game started, he was all conciliatory now, trying to make peace with me, yapping on about how he’d never seen such a high score.  I swear, he nearly bowed to me as he handed me a slip of paper, a scorecard or something.  None of the kids would make eye contact with me either, like a bunch of dogs after being scolded for taking a collective piss on the carpet. 

To my surprise, Grace greeted me as I re-entered the lobby, and, even more of a surprise, she asked me how it went, saying, and I quote: “How’d you fare big fella?”  Now, if that isn’t flirting, then shave my head and ship me to Tibet because I know nothing about women.  But, feeling a bit cocksure, I showed her the scorecard and asked her if that answered her question.  Grace, though, simply frowned and looked up at me all judgmentally, and asked, “What the hell is this?”  I let out a cautious laugh, erasing the smug look on my face, and I said it was my scorecard, to which she said, “No,” then, pointing at the top of the card, “This.”  I looked to where she’d indicated with her finger and felt an absolute tremor of terror reverberate through my gut as I saw my listed name: DARK HATER.  Before I could tell her that I had no idea, that I didn’t sign up or give myself that name, she threw the scorecard back at in my face and started ranting about how over half of her class came from impoverished families in under-privileged areas, that nearly all of them were enrolled there on scholarship, yada yada.  I quickly realized that this one was irretrievably fucked—that much I do know about women—so, I said it was nice to meet you, picked up my scorecard, and turned around to find Al, who’d already walked out the door.  Grace maintained her barrage, hurling all manners of -ists and -phobes my way, until I’d exited the building. 

Outside, I confronted Al, told him that he blew it for me.  When he asked me what I was talking about, I showed him the name on my scorecard.  Oh, he said.  Then, with a slight chuckle, he showed me his: HAND SO LOW.