A true tale of Lazer Tag and law enforcement

“What’s this hooch here?” the deputy said as he yanked back a blanket in the back seat, revealing a 24-pack of Miller Lite.

We all shifted nervously, the kid-sized Lazer Tag vests bungee corded around our grown-up bellies feeling uncomfortably tight.

The hooch’s presumed owner spoke up. “It’s not mine, officer,” he stammered, attempting to sound plausibly innocent. “My older brother had the car last night, and he must have put that back there.”

“‘Zat so?” the deputy loudly mused with textbook authoritarianism as he looked to his partner. The gravel crunched as he walked back to his patrol car, sidestepping the pile of 10-year old ray guns. “You were just out here playing ‘guns,’ and not drinking?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, carrying on as he rummaged through his patrol car’s trunk, emerging with a small plastic box. “This here is a breathalyzer,” he said, slowly waving it in front of our blushing faces. “If one of you so much blows one thousandth of one percent on this device, you are ALL coming back to the station with us.”

“You sure you want to make that deal?” He smirked and looked to his partner.

Eight hours earlier…

The gear was splayed across the floor of one of my friends’ dorm rooms. There were six of us gathered there under the florescent lights. We bent low to examine the goods available to us.

“We have 6 pistols, all in decent shape,” the guns’ owner said, straightening a pistol in the line. “The seventh is bad — probably a faulty emitter. We have 6 working sensor packages, but only 3 vests — we’re going to have to improvise. The primo piece, though, is this,” he pointed to a tall, awkard hat. “This is a sensor helmet. Whoever blocks their chest sensor repeatedly has to wear this.”

We didn’t have much for way of entertainment in this small town. A mostly abandoned shopping mall and a 3-movie theater were the best things within 30 miles. And, seeing as how must of us weren’t yet 21, we couldn’t even avail ourselves of the town’s measly bar offering. So we had to make our own entertainment.

And tonight’s entertainment-in-question was a supply of 80s-era Lazer Tag guns, discovered by his parents earlier in the week. The weapons cache was in great shape for being more than 10 years old, and after a day of duct taping the things back into working order, we were itching to try them out.

That night, we suited up in black attire, and tried as best as we could to shoehorn our post-freshman-15 frames into shiny vests made for kids more than half our age.

It was dark when the six of us drove separate cars out to the battleground — a park on the outskirts of our rural college town which had plenty of hills and trees — both rarities in that part of the country. We parked in a gravel enclave and divvied up the teams.

As we ran through the forest, diving for cover and gesturing to each other with hand signals, we were all 9 again. We crawled through the bushes, imaginarily recreating our favorite sci-fi scenes, and pretending that the person next to us didn’t look completely ridiculous in that tiny silver vest, expanded through the creative use of bungee cords.

We were having so much fun that we didn’t hear the anxious shouts from one of the players. “Guys!” he said. “You better come out here.”

One by one, we emerged from the forest, stealthily moving, our guns held at high port, lest it be an ambush.

It was.

As one squadmate emerged from the trees in camoflauge, brandishing the weapon in his hand, he heard a crisp shout. The kind of shout that emanates from only one type of person. “What’s in your hand! Drop it! DROP IT NOW.”

Two officers from the Adams County Sheriff’s Department were standing there, the bright glare of their headlights blinding us as we emerged back to reality.

“Whoawhoawhoawhoa… it’s a toy gun!” my squadmate shouted, throwing it to the ground. I remember wincing as the gorgeous relic hit the gravel, the battery cover heaving open like a burst corset, brittle plastic shooting one way as the battery flew the other.

Nearly an hour later, after an interrogation rigamarole that would have made The Dark Knight proud, we were all done wheezing into the breathalyzer and minus one albatrossy case of light beer. Apparently, the whole incident became a big deal when residents called in sounds of “sheep in the woods,” (most likely the vest sensors registering a hit) and were afraid a bunch of satanists were sacrificing animals.

The worst part about the whole event wasn’t that we were accosted by the deputies, or that we were found with beer in the car…. It was that we were found not drinking it.

The officers were dubious of our joint claim of sobriety, but were actually more embarrassed for us when we all blew .000 on the breathalyzer. That a group of college kids would be out in the woods on a Friday night with a 24-pack of beer, but would rather play with toy laser guns, was an act unheard of in this small town.

Epilogue

That night was as hard on the ancient technology as it was our pride. Without enough functioning guns to field a good game, our short-lived joy seemed like a one-time affair.

Until, one day, while ambling through Wal-Mart (I said we needed to be creative about our entertainment), we saw boxes on the shelves proclaiming “New! Laser Challenge!” sets.

That weekend, we began again, a fresh supply of technology at our disposal. We collected the goods like crazy ladies collect cats, and kept them in “go-lockers” (an empty nook by the front door of our apartment). A few of our geekier allies on campus security even cleared the way for us to play around the campus late at night.

A place, evidently, where sheep were common and satanists were rare, because our games never encountered trouble from the law again.