The Book of Joe

forget that they occupy but one minuscule nook in the overall honeycomb. There is an atmosphere of apocalyptic desolation to the place, this once vast and bustling enterprise now a haunted corporate wasteland. As far as paintball goes, you couldn’t ask for a better venue.
    We split into two teams of four, Jared and I being paired with two kids, one named Grossman, chubby and riddled with acne, and the other sim ply called Tree, maybe an abbre viation or maybe because he is easily the tallest one in the group. The two teams head to opposite sides of the colossal atrium to hang their flags, then someone blows a whistle and the game begins. The next two hours are spent tearing madly through the labyrinth of cubicles, hiding, ducking, shooting, and screaming. Each game lasts roughly twenty minutes and ends when either all four teammates are “dead” or someone manages to pull off the far more difficult feat of stealing the opposing team’s flag without getting shot. At first I am tentative, feeling silly and juvenile, but after my first “kill,” I surrender to the primitive thrill of the game, losing myself in the adrenal haze of simulated battle. The paintballs, actually condensed gelatin caplets, sting painfully on impact, but the pain, too, is part of the rush. And there’s no denying the added, illicit thrill that comes from the sense of real danger, as we are indisputably trespassers and vandals. The trappings of the ruined corporate civilization that comprise our battlefield add a surrealistic subtext to the game, giving it an otherworldly feel that, combined with the youthful battle cries reverberating off the high glass ceiling, is reminiscent of Lord of the Flies.
    Only when a time-out is called after the fourth game, and we all gather in the center conference area to rest, do I identify the alien sensation I’m feeling as fun.
    Jared and I collapse into two desk chairs on wheels and pull off our goggles, resting our Autococker air rifles on our laps. We’re sweating and breathing heavily, our clothing splattered with impressionistic splotches of blue paint. Our team’s ammunition cartridges are labeled Red Virus, and in the faint glow of the exit sign above us, I now see that our opponents are splattered in red. The eight of us rest in the uncomplicated camaraderie of a platoon, catching our breath before we take the next hill.
    “Hey, Mr. Goffman,” Mikey says.
    “Call me Joe.”
    “Joe. You did much better than I thought you would.
    You’re in pretty good shape.”
    “Thanks.”
    “For an old guy,” he finishes with a grin.
    “Mikey,” I say.
    “Yeah.”
    “Suck my Autococker.”
    Laughs and guffaws all around at that one, and I experience a surge of adolescent pride at my quick wit.
    “What about security?” I ask. “I can’t believe they leave this place unguarded.”
    “Just two guards in the booth up front,” Jared says. “They sometimes drive a golf cart around the property, but they never come inside.”
    “They’re too busy watching TV,” Mikey adds.
    “We usually pick nights when there’s a good ball game on,” someone, I think Grossman, says.
    “How do you know they never patrol the building?”
    “It’s just never happened,” Jared says.
    Naturally, it’s precisely at that moment that the door to the stairwell flies open with a bang and two men in security guard uniforms come charging forward, shouting and waving flashlights in our direction.
    “Oh,” Jared says. “Shit.”
    “Freeze,” one guard yells.
    “Nobody move!” cries the other one.
    Only I comply. The seven kids I’m with suddenly jump to their feet and, as one, raise their paintball guns at the two stunned men, who freeze in their tracks, mouths agape. “You freeze, motherfuckers!” Mikey yells gleefully. The guards stare in abject terror down the titanium barrels of seven Autocockers, and we all stay like that for a few seconds, suspended in a perfect Tarantino moment. Then a look of recognition comes over the face of one of the guards. “Wait a minute. Those are air rifles,” he complains, as if we aren’t playing fair.
    Mikey lets out a bloodcurdling scream, and I watch in disbelief as the boys open fire, unleashing a spray of red and blue pellets on the two guards, the air rifles hissing and clicking like a new-wave percussion instrument. The pellets explode colorfully on the guards in a symphony of light popping noises, and they fall to the floor, crying out in anguished surprise