The next thing I knew, I had donned a too-large helmet, hefted a ping-pong rifle and inserted myself into the firefight. Maybe I should have been at my campsite sawing laws, but instead I was running around a department store-turned-battle arena. I had no idea what I was doing or who was even on my team most of the time. Every thirty seconds a dozen tiny wasps nipped at my back and arms, unleashed by assassins I couldn’t even LOCATE, let alone shoot. And the times I WAS able to get off a few rounds? I was lucky to even hit the BARRIERS, the giant stationary barriers, with any degree of consistency. My gun wasn’t so much firing as preemptively apologizing on my behalf with each pull of the trigger.

I loved every second of it.

It took a few matches, but I eventually developed a vague understanding of general strategy. Maybe I even GRAZED an opponent or two. Brent never wandered into my cross hairs, though – I think. Most of the time I was too focused on aiming at the correct colored bandanna to seek out a specific target. Sorry, Brooke.

Brent never failed to let me know when I stumbled into HIS line of sight, though. I’d hear a stifled giggle (he has a very distinctive laugh) just as the unusual pellets pummeled me. As I suspected, they really didn’t hurt at all. Trust me, I had plenty of opportunities to test the thesis.

Though teams shifted with every new game, Brooke and I remained on the same side. She was my shepherd, both with learning how to play, and in being assimilated into their community. Between matches, she introduced me to all my teammates (even those I’d already met), anecdotally summarizing the exchange that resulted in her inviting me to join them. The tale became more fanciful with each telling until, by the end of the night, I think I became a displaced sultan seeking shelter from political persecution. At each new fabrication, I just nodded, confirming her story in character. “If the coppers ask, I was with YOU all night.” Or “Dames, huh? You give ‘em yer heart, and they give ya a slug from a .45.” She especially liked – and whole-heartedly agreed with -- that last one.

The other players knew each other already, of course. College kids or fresh out of university, most of them. I was definitely crashing their party and I knew it. Yet, no one made me feel unwelcome. I’d say they warmed to me pretty fast but, in truth, most of them were incredibly inviting right from the jump. Intrinsically, I KNEW I was a stranger, but I didn’t feel like one and wasn’t treated like one. I felt accepted from the moment I stepped into the arena. The group was amiable, laid back, and even while mercilessly pelting one another, good-natured. Any boasting or taunting was done with tongue firmly in cheek.

When my first game was over, Brooke lifted her mask, stared at me, and said, “So… who in the hell are you?” But even that was spoken with an impish grin.

After we formally exchanged names, she moved right along to her next question, one I have grown quite used to. “So… how the hell OLD are you?” As usual, it was spoken in a tone of combined suspicion and wonder.

Before I could respond, Brent, who, as it turned out, was her brother, offered his opinion. “You look like an accountant who’d show up for one of dad’s poker nights. ‘It isn’t about the carrrrrds, it’s about coMUNNNNNity!’” The force of Brooke’s laugh told me it was a caricature of their pops.

Brent pointed at my head during the mimicry. My hair is my tattletale, my turncoat. I’ve been going prematurely white since my teen years. Not gray; I bypassed the intermediary stage and went straight to bone-white. The hair is still all there, but the pigment is not. My scalp can easily pass for elderly. I have accepted an AARP discount or two in my day and I’m not proud of it.

“But then,” he continued, sweeping his hand toward the arena. “Don’t get me wrong, you are TERRIBLE. I mean, statistically, you should have at least ACCIDENTALLY hit someone during the game.” Brooke grimaced at him, nudging his ribs. He laughed and twisted away. “But you could MOVE – not shoot. You’re quick and agile. Dare I say, graceful?” He glanced at Brooke who smiled coyly. Brent shook his head, “If dad tried to run around like that, he’d--”

“He’d break his hip again,” she offered.

Brent nodded. “Yeah, right. So.” He pointed at my hairline once more, “From whom did you steal that luxurious wig, Old Man?”

There it was : the progenitor, the initiation; the first nickname. Brent is something of a sobriquet aficionado, I’ve come to learn. He takes it upon himself to rename almost anyone he meets. Sometimes clever, sometimes groan-worthy, it is one of his great joys. The unflattering moniker, “Old man,” didn’t last long, but it served as my introduction to his hobby and necessitated an explanation from Brooke. After expressing her disapproval of the name to her brother rather vociferously, he agreed to return to the drawing board. Soon, I became “Silver Surfer.” Better, but still inaccurate – I’ve never hung ten in my life.

Several games in, as he dispatched me for the hundredth time, inspiration finally struck. “I throw myself at the mercy of the court,” he shrieked as the too-familiar walloping commenced against my back, “YOUR HONOR.”

No, the proclamation didn’t really make any sense in context, but the name stuck. It was good enough, at least, for Brooke to give it her blessing. So, I became “Your Honor,” or, less formally, “Judge.” Fine, I could live with that.

The name even fit beyond the “powdered wig” attached to my scalp. As Brent later reminded me, when I was watching them play from the comfort of my Creepy Grandfather Bench, I had my sleeping back half-swaddling myself. It could have almost been a set of judge’s robes. The vestments of a magistrate on a budget, perhaps.

As for THEIR story, though most of them were in college (Brent was a few years clear), they still get together once a week at the mall to play… uh… the game. I’ve already forgotten the name of it. Battle Ball, maybe? The tradition has been going on for a while and the group sustains it resolutely.

When it came time to put ME back under the microscope – “WHY in the hell are you here?” this time from Brooke or “Please tell me you don’t actually carry the sleeping bag everywhere you go,” from Brent – I shared my story. The reaction was a series of confused, “Ok…”’s or polite, “Well… that sound’s like fun… I guess”’s. None of them had heard of Lovecraft so that aspect went unappreciated. My months-prepared plan got simplified to “Hiking to Rhode Island to stare at the bones of a long-dead author.” Close enough.

Eventually, things starting winding down. When enough players had taken their leave for the night, Brent (who was informally in charge) called it a wrap.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

That’s when reality struck. Fresh sweat atop stale, body numb from exertion, I remembered that whole hiking thing I still needed to get back to. So, I returned to my bench and scooped up my things. Granted, this wing of the mall wasn’t throbbing with life when I arrived, but it had become absolutely dead. Skeletal. Eerie.

I returned to the arena to begin my goodbyes and thank you’s. Brent interrupted immediately, glaring at me as he said, “Are you kidding? You’re not walking back like that.” His eyes flicked sideways and he amended, “Well, I get that walking is kind of the point.” He pointed to my burden. “But letting you leave here carrying all that back to the trail feels too much like involuntary manslaughter. Come on.” He turned, waving a hand to me.

I could have wept with relief. Actually, I probably COULD have wept with relief. Unless someone performed a taste test, my tears would have passed for sweat beads.

Five of us piled into Brent’s car. A lot of the crew are from Kittanning, East of the mall, so they carpool. Dean was in the front beside Brent. Him, I hadn’t spoken much to. Apparently he was having an argument with his significant other and kept disappearing between games to douse the resulting wildfire.

On the other hand, Cal, who I’d spent plenty of time talking with, sat beside me in the back. He’s an easy-going jokester. It’s simple to be easy-going, of course, while playing a game that you’re an absolute monster at. We were mid-coversation, facing one another, in a corner of the arena. We were on opposite teams, but on an unspoken ceasefire so we could talk about our favorite pancake toppings (I have no idea how it came up).

From the corner of my eye, I saw one of my teammates sneaking up on us all Elmer Fudd-style. They were a few steps from creeping into a good position to shoot Cal. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to betray my teammate, but I also didn’t like being used as someone else’s unwitting distraction. I liked Cal and felt that NOT warning him amounted to a betrayal as well.

“Ok, but have you ever had OREOS – I mean crumbled up and sprinkled on top.” His arm jerked out to the side and squeezed off half a dozen shots at my encroaching teammate.

At least one of them had to hit, because a disappointed, “Oh, COME ON, CAL!” answered the attack.

“Some places put whipped cream on TOP of that, but I think it’s better with actual icing – like a real cookie, you know?”

I stared in rapt amazement as his gun lowered again. “Uh...yeah. Icing is good.” I agreed. The debate continued, Cal never missing a beat. That’s Cal.

On my other side sat Brooke. For much of the ride, the others regaled me with anecdotes about their hometown, its oddities and curiosities. I didn’t absorb much of what they said, I’ll admit. Whatever chemical cocktail my brain spiked my bloodstream with to keep me functioning over the last few hours was all but used up. The resulting semi-conscious fugue wasn’t amenable to data retention, no matter how hard I tried.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to take you further?” Brooke asked suddenly.

I shook loose of my lethargy enough to chuckle.

She frowned, reconsidering her offer. “That would be cheating, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah, it would feel like it. Thank you for the offer, though.”

“Yeah, thanks for the offer,” Brent mirrored, “especially since I’m the one driving.” As Brooke pouted in his direction, he added, “But, no, Brooke’s right on this one. You want, I’ll take you as far as Kittaning.” He gave me a wry smile through the mirror. “No one will have to knowww,” he said with a musical lilt.

“No, that’s ok,” I said. “Really, I need to do this.”

Things were quiet for a little while after that, and I began to worry that maybe turning down the offer had offended the others. But when we hit the last red light before departing town, Brent turned around. First he glanced at Brooke. Something was communicated in the expression they shared. Then, he focused on me.

“You ARE going past Kittaning though, right?” he asked.

“Yes…” I said.

“Great,” he said. Brent glanced back at the road, ensuring the light hadn’t changed. When he faced me once more, his smile was swollen with foreboding. “If I said the phrase ‘pop-up carnival,’ would you have any idea what I was talking about?”

I laughed. “The ones that appear like weeds in mall parking lots during the summer?”

“Yes!” he said, beaming excitedly. “They show up, last about a week and then,” he cupped his hand, blew into it, and flattened his palm. “Gone. Into the breeze.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Had a few of those every summer, back where I’m from. People used to get really excited about them.”

“Good...good,” he said, checking the light again. “Then you’re in?”

I stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“Slow on the uptake,” Brooke reminded him.

Brent smirked. “We’ve been--”

Dean cut him off, “Green.”

Brent sat back down and returned to driving.

I looked at Brooke. She was staring out the window, suddenly having found something intensely interesting out in the darkness. To Cal, then. His mouth was bunched up like roiling water behind a dam.; a child with a secret he REALLY wanted to spill.

He successfully held his tongue, as did everyone else, and we rode in silence for a few minutes until reaching my drop-off spot.

“This good?” Brent asked as he parked the car.

“Yeah,” I said, squinting toward the nearby trees. “This is just about where I came through.”

Brent was spun in his seat again, watching me. The combination of the three of them, Brooke’s forced aloofness, Cal’s eagerness, and Brent’s silent scrutiny was somewhat unsettling. It felt like they were about to conduct an intervention or ask me to join a cult. ‘No, no, it isn’t a CULT. High Priest Toadstinger is very clear on that! How do you feel about a vow of poverty?”

“You were talking?” I finally prompted.

“It’s a thing we do,” Brent said coyly. Without turning from the window, Brooke smacked the back of his seat.

Brent laughed as he bucked forward and came out with it. “Ok, ok. Sorry; who doesn’t like a little dramatic flourish from time to time? But, yeah, there’s one of those carnivals going on right now near Kittaning, as it turns out.”

“Ok.” (‘You get to wear these really awesome robes, and there’s this bit about drinking the blood of a virgin but hey, newcomers are the guests of honor at the orgy, so there’s that to look forward to! Definitely not a cult, though!’)

Brent gestured at the other occupants of the vehicle, “We’re heading out that way tomorrow…” He half turned, checking the dash. “… today. Us and a few other folk that were there tonight..”

“Ok.” (‘No pressure, though. But, of course, now that I’ve told you this, you either join or, well… ABSOLUTELY not a cult in the least, however!’)

“You’re a really cool guy,” Brent said, “for a member of the judiciary. It’s been fun hanging out with you, and I think it would be fun to hang out some more : I.E. : please come with us tomorrow...today.”

The sudden directness startled me. I think Brent misinterpreted my reaction as indecision. He went on, “Yeah, I realize we don’t live all that far from each other, and you’ll only be gone 30…?”

“30,” Dean confirmed.

“30 days. But who knows; maybe you’ll like it so much out there you just won’t come back. We could never see you again! I’ve already given you an amazing nickname, so what a waste that would be, huh? So, you’re in?”

I blinked.

“I-”

“Please come.”

I turned to Brooke. “...if you want,” she added to her request, smiling smugly.

I was suddenly very thirsty. But also…

“Well, yeah,” I blurted. “That DOES sound like… fun.”

Cal gave a little cheer and rubbed my shoulder encouragingly. “Oh, you don’t even know!” he raved. “They have the BEST funnel cakes!”

From the driver’s seat, Brent chuckled madly. I’m don’t think he was laughing at Cal, however. A stab of abashed self-consciousness overcame me but I strangled it back down.

“It’ll be good,” Brooke quietly assured me.

Yes, I had a sudden, face-warming suspicion that it might.

Brent asked for my number, which I provided in numbed compliance. Then I got got out, retrieved my gear from the trunk, and mutely waved as they drove off.

No text messages, just me and nature, the trail, the trail, the trail…

But, really, who can’t spare a few hours for some funnel cake?