Day two on the trail to Providence and here I am, awake before sunrise. This abnormality is by design, though, because I have a LOT of ground to cover today -- with both feet and pen. Friends, do I have a story for you.
First, book-keeping. I’m experimenting with a voice-to-text program to write this entry. Busy as I’m going to be today, I won’t have time to sit and fumble with my phone all morning. BUT I also don’t want to under-serve the events of last night with a scant overview. So I’m going to try this out. Mouth-typing while talking. Just what I need : less air to challenge the hills.
And now, on with our tale.
After I finished last night’s entry, I slipped into my sleeping bag. Despite the mental fog I mentioned, my body wouldn’t settle. To it, there were yet more miles to traverse, and it continued twitching and stirring like electrical impulses from a phantom limb. So I curled up with Lovecraft and tried to read myself to sleep.
I prefer to lay on my back when I read. After a few minutes in that position, though, I needed to shift to my side… which didn’t help either. That posture was no less painful.
I don’t THINK I’m especially fussy. I’ve dosed in some pretty cramped conditions. Yet, as I rested there, tossing back and forth with increasing frustration, I simply could NOT get settled. It wasn’t just discomfort, though. I was in actual pain.
Uh oh, I realized, this is going to be a big problem.
This is also something I’ve read about, that the ground is much harder to sleep on than people expect. I ignored this warning during my preparations, but now consider me a true believer. The thin fabric of my sleeping bag vs what felt like cold, hard granite beneath it? No contest.
After ten agonizing minutes, I faced a hard truth : this wasn’t going to happen. I needed to remedy the situation or I wouldn’t be sleeping. Maybe I could have leaned against a tree and tried to fall asleep sitting up, but the new aches doubtlessly incurred from that arrangement wouldn’t be worth the shut-eye.
No, action was required. I needed a cushion between myself and the ground and I needed it immediately.
Not even a full day on the trail and I was about to break my own protocols. Aw well, better to be a cheater than an insomniac.
Checking my location, I realized that I was closer to the city than I expected. More importantly, I wasn’t far from Butler’s mall. Younger folk may balk at this, but a mall is still my first inclination when I need to make a quick, in-person purchase. Online marketplaces don’t yet offer instantaneous delivery to “between that tree that looks like a bloated koala and that boulder with the string-cheese moss.” Give them time.
Even better, I still had time before the mall closed; not a lot, but enough.
I made one last, plaintive appeal to slumber. It wouldn’t even answer my calls. Ouch.
Still wearing the day’s sweat-stained garments, I bushwhacked out of the woods, toward town. I figured I’d only have one shot at getting this right, so I even brought my sleeping bag. I slung it over my shoulders like a cozy shawl. Across roads and empty parking lots, I stole as quickly as my bedraggled legs would permit. I’m sure I was quite a sight for any confused onlookers.
All of this because I’m too soft to suck it up and fall asleep on the naked earth? You bet.
I looked up from my phone-compass at 8:30 and saw the mall waiting at the end of a parking lot oasis. I rushed inside and navigated to its lone department store, trying not to make eye-contact with any other mall-go’ers. I couldn’t filter out the snickers and gasps, though.
I chose the softest, appropriately-sized brick of fluff in the joint and proceeded to the check out. I gave the clerk a brief description of my predicament (watching the horror drain from her face as I did), and made an arrangement. I could try out my new buffer and return it by closing time if it didn’t work – as long as I did so OUTSIDE the store. I assume she was doing the calculations and figured there was no way I could perform my evaluation AND get back to the store in the fifteen minutes or so remaining. Never underestimate motivation brought on by looming sleep deprivation.
So, at 8:50 P.M. last night, a last-minute shopper may have noticed a ragged man stretched out in a sleeping bag in the center of the mall’s main concourse. In fact several did, and give me a wide berth. What can I say? Desperation births ingenuity.
I closed my eyes, role playing trail sleep, bending and contorting my body into the most uncomfortable positions I could form. I purchased several of those quarter machine bounce balls and strategically wedged them beneath the bag. “Be a rock,” I instructed one, “a really disagreeable rock.” I mentally summoned all manner of harassment – roots, divots, lumps – to assail the underside of my apparatus. If there was a gnarled branch HERE, it would feel like – a jagger-laden stem could be poking up right here and --
Psychosomatically, I put that cushion (and the body upon it) through every rigor I could think of, and I didn’t feel a thing. Winner.
In fact, the exercise was so successful that I nearly fell asleep. All the mind games I was attempting relaxed my body right up to the precipice of unconsciousness.
The shouting brought me back. Multiple voices began wailing like the roof was collapsing. I jerked into a sitting position, glancing upward. No, the dingy “Fall into great savings!” placard was still in place up there. No comeuppance for young Mr. Little just yet.
Confused and concerned, I cautiously slipped out of the bag and got to my feet. I started feeling a little better when I realized that what I was hearing wasn’t the panicked shriek of purse-snatched victims. If anything, the cries had a more upbeat note to them. Invigorated perhaps, like cheering.
Yes, I was certain after a few more moments, I was hearing enthusiasm, not distress. They were near at hand, as well; definitely inside the mall. Even during their 80’s and 90’s heyday, I couldn’t think of any mall activities that would have ever generated the level of excitement I was hearing. Curiosity demanded a thorough inspection.
So, sleeping bag draped over my shoulders and cushion in my arms, I followed the outcries like a groggy bloodhound. During my pursuit, a disembodied voice rasped, “Attention shoppers, all stores will be closing…” sounding just about as bored in the announcing as I was in the hearing. The warning did nothing to dampen my quarry’s belted gusto, however. The tumult continued unabated.
I followed it to a different wing of the mall, one whose rows of empty storefronts suggested little foot traffic passed this way. There, at the end of the concourse, beneath the fading marquee of a former department store, my trail ended.
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Conveniently, a Creepy Grandfather Bench sat in front of the entrance. You know, a mall bench where certain elderly gentlemen sit for hours, blatantly oogling much younger women walking by? Creepy Grandfather Bench. I tried to act as casual as possible as I half-tripped onto it. Thereupon, I slipped out my phone and absently pawed it while performing my inspection.
The store’s interior was brightly lit. Instead of shelves and product displays, there were rows of blue foam, as if bumper barriers had been added to protect clumsy shoppers. Most of the building’s floor space, however, was empty.
As I gawked, a figure darted across the front of the tableau, skirting one of the barricades. When they paused, neck craning cautiously around the foam’s edge, I saw that they carried a long-barreled fire arm. Even from my vantage, the weapon was obviously fake, though.
That confirmed a growing suspicion : this looked like a paintball arena. Curiously, though, when the combatant raised their gun and fired a volley across the room, their ammunition didn’t burst into colorful splotches. Instead, small white blurs, like shrunken ping pong balls, thudded harmlessly along one of the other barriers.
Well, this was certainly new. Table tennis for militia enthusiasts?
After firing, Soldier A slunk away, retreating behind a barricade. Soldier B chose that moment to break cover (from behind the barrier that A just finished massaging with ammunition) and charge, returning fire.
Within half a minute, the arena was filled with warring guerrillas. The place looked like it was suffering an unseasonal, horizontal snow shower as troops fired, ducked, and fired again, whooping gleefully the while.
No one seemed to take note of their new spectator, so I eventually abandoned the phone ruse, leaned back, and enjoyed the show.
Everyone was having a great time. They wore regular, athletic clothes with masked headgear. I watched several players absorb entire barrages of that special ammunition, only flinching and laughing as they were struck. When slain, one such victim dramatically toppled. Yet their aggressor was unsatisfied. They closed, stood astride their fallen foe and continued firing mercilessly. The assault only ended when the aggrieved rose up and tackled their attacker. The pair laughed and threatened one another as they wrestled on the ground, weapons forgotten.
Seeing this all transpire in the husk of a former mall anchor made it particularly amusing to me. Now THAT’S a great way to get the young ‘uns to stop complaining about back-to-school shopping. “Honey, just try on this last blazer and THEN you can shoot the hell out of your friends.” Amazing.
As the crackling, omnipresent voice progressed from “Closing,” to “Closed” to “Ok, seriously, get the hell out,” the jubilant massacre continued. There were a few pauses in the action as teams were reshuffled between matches, but the battlefield was never empty for longer than five minutes at a time. Probably I should have taken my leave during one of these changeovers but, honestly, I was having too much fun watching the chaos.
It was during the third or fourth game that the fly on the wall was finally swatted. Most of the action was occurring deeper in the arena, but a single outlier huddled behind a barricade the foreground. They were blind-shooting around the barrier when, suddenly, as if having been tapped on the shoulder, the masked face snapped around and stared directly at me.
I tensed, immediately embarrassed. Yes, I’d been watching this group for at least forty-five minutes by that point, relaxed and care-free, but the instant I was noticed, guilt invaded. What was I doing, sitting in a closed mall, watching a bunch of strangers? This could have been someone’s birthday party; certainly it was at least a private affair. And here I was, unabashed rubbernecker creepily watching from a distance
I looked away, staring into my palm and idiotically jabbing at an invisible phone I’d already put away. My skin throbbed in shame.
After a moment, I glanced up again. Thankfully the player had lost interest. Ok, crisis averted, but it’s definitely time to beat the retreat.
I hurriedly slung my sleeping bag, scooped my cushion, and rose, ready to do just that. But just as I was about to scurry away, I heard it, and felt all of the nervous heat go ice cold in my veins.
“What are you doing?”
I could have ignored the voice, could have pretended not to hear it and continued on my way. Hell, I could have taken off at a run like an escaping campsite burglar. I didn’t. I did something far more ill-advised. I responded.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, looking back in dread.
There she was, hunched behind the same barricade – the same player who had taken note of me moments earlier. Now she had her gun draped across her shoulder and her mask lifted to her hairline. She watched me with narrowed eyes.
“I wasn’t trying to be creepy,” I promised those eyes, which, of course, is exactly what a creep would say. “...Even though I was sitting on the Creepy Grandfather Bench.”
She laughed, nodding,” Yeah, you’re right, definitely kind of creepy.”
I sighed, lifting my hand in apology. Unfortunately that was just enough motivation for my sleeping bag to wriggle off my shoulder and tangle itself with the bench’s armrest. As I untethered the stubborn thing, I told her, “Sorry about that.”
When the bag came free, I didn’t even bother reshouldering it. I turned and drug the bastard behind me. The “cowardly run away” option was looking a lot more appealing.
“You CAN watch -- if you want,” she called back, her voice light, almost whimsical. “But it’s more fun to actually play.”
That caught me off guard enough to startle me. I stopped and turned back to her. He was smiling playfully. I relaxed, a huge rush of relief sweeping through me. I told her honestly, “Yeah, it sure looks it! I…”
She dropped, rolling onto her side as a stream of pallid hail stones pelted her. Fresh guilt surged; an opponent had crept up, taking advantage of the distraction, and attacked. She was on the ground, hands in front of her face, while the enemy unloaded into her stomach. Oops.
“Brent, enough!” she shouted. “my corpse surrenders!”
Her assailant stopped firing and lifted his mask. Beneath it he was smirking. Leaning forward, he offered his hand. She grimaced at it, said “I don’t need your help, traitor,” and got to her feet.
He laughed, glancing at a bandanna on his arm. I hadn’t noticed before, but the woman, too, was wearing one. They were the same color. “What do you know?” he asked the bandanna. “I thought I was on blue.”
“Sure you did.”
The man looked at me, his smile tightening into a sneer. He considered me a moment, before saying, “Making new friends, Brooke? Thank God; finally.”
“Trying to,” the Betrayed scoffed, dusting herself off, “before you interrupted. He seems a little slow on the uptake, though.”
The Betrayer shrugged. “Then it’s a perfect match. He can be on YOUR team.” Pulling his mask back down, he turned, hefted his weapon, and jogged away.
Brooke, as she’d been named, picked up her weapon and mumbled a long, obscene salutation to Brent before regarding me once more. “Well?” she prompted.
I took a tentative step toward her. “Are you sure?”
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Extra guns and helmets are in the back. Hop in when you’re ready.” She tapped her armband, “BLUE team.”
“All right; great,” I said, meaning it, but still nervous.
When I continued to dawdle, she tilted her head, and pointed at me. “Maybe leave the blanky behind. No judgment, but I’m not sure it should play, too.”
“Thanks,” I said, “it’s really more of a pacifist anyway.”
She shrugged and slipped her mask back down. “Conscientious objectors are welcome.” Extending the gun toward me demonstratively, she added, “You just need, you know, hands and all. Sorry, Blanky.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “He’s used to being left out. See you in a minute.”
She gave a thumbs up and was about to rejoin the skirmish until I paused her with, “For the record, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Her voice, muffled by the visor, assured me, “Yes, I can see that.” She lifted the mask again, a snide grin lurking beneath. It shifted more amicably as she said, “Shoot; don’t get shot. The rest pretty much takes care of itself.” She started to lower the mask again, noting, “Oh, and if you manage to hit Brent, by all means, taunt the hell out of him. Please.”
“I’ll dance on his lifeless corpse,” I promised.
She pulled the mask the rest of the way down over a smile that, I think, had begun to further brighten at my suggestion. As she faded into the melee, I could hear her giggling through the helmet. I liked that sound.
After settling my stuff onto the bench, I had no remaining excuses. I don’t know what got into me; I was swept up in the moment, maybe, but this was going to happen, and it was going to happen right now.
I was going to play.