Blast Me In the Face: When Seasonal Jobs Get Weird.

My name is Nate, but my friends call me Nasty. For the last three years I’ve worked as a stand up comedian. I’ve been spit on, tackled, heckled, had cigarettes flicked at me, and a small protest held in my honor. And that’s just my sex life… but seriously, comedy is awesome, but it isn’t exactly profitable. At 23, when someone offers to pay you in beer instead of money, you end up living with your parents again. I used to have nice things, but somewhere along the line I thought it would be cool to “follow my dreams”, what a dumb f***ing idea.

On my quest to become famous and someday have enough money to poop on a gold toilet, I’ve had to do some things I didn’t want to do, pretty much everything short of working at McDonalds, which I’ll probably regret saying someday. “Hi my name is Nasty Nate and my life is in shambles, can I take your order?”

I’ve worked as a farmer, warehouse worker, cage fighter, industrial ventilation cleaner and landscaper. Yes, a cage fighter and it was awesome except it hurt my face, because everyone kept punching it. My last job was as a landscaper and my boss used to pee in Gatorade bottles and keep them in the work truck. Enough said.

It was time to look for a new gig. On Craigslist I found a job posting titled “ZOMBIE ACTORS NEEDED!” Perfect. I emailed my name and “credentials”, and within an hour I was emailed a place and time to interview. I show up. I was greeted by a giant dude whose large gut and mullet made him look like a mix between Duck Dynasty and Shrek, but made me feel … safe…and warm.

He gave me a pen and an insurance waiver and sat me down on a plastic chair. I didn’t ask any questions. After five minutes of staring at my own shoes, an older man in overalls named “Marv” stood over me and said “the hockey pads don’t really cover your armpits but I like to cut up yoga mats and stuff ‘em in. ” Uh, what? Having no clue what he was talking about, I just kind of nodded like an idiot. Had I just joined a cult? This a question I have had to ask myself too many times in my life.

He explained that as a “zombie actor” I would be attempting to scare people as they shot me with paintball’s. The pads and yoga mats would keep the paintball’s from doing any significant damage. And I was to be paid in real American currency! I even signed a tax thing, which made me feel like an adult.

This battle wagon awaits for a dozen highly motivated zombie killers!
Michael Rhodes
These are the paintball guns that kept me wet all night long.

 

Orientation involved following a dirty guy driving a golf cart around the zombie paintball course. “Oh yeah man, it’s a great time, the kids love shooting us and we hope you’ll have a good time too. Here is where we want to put the industrial flame thrower.” Industrial flame thrower? That seems about right; what could possibly go wrong?

Mounted to the trailer for everyone’s protection, these weapons of mass destruction are ready for you and the next wave of zombies.
Michael Rhodes
CLOSE UPPPP. PEW PEW PEW. Paintball guns.

My first day was exciting, there was an entire barn full of body armor that had been pulled from various thrift stores. Baseball-catcher’s gear, hockey-goalie leg pads, motocross gloves, old sleepingbags, our instructions were to “make it work, cover your whole body, otherwise it’s going to hurt likehell.” I fought my way over to some pink chest protection, grabbed a life jacket laying next to it, and got to work. After going through an entire roll of Duct tape, I was more padded up than a middle schooler’s bra.

Paying close attention to where the paintball “could” go consumes most of the preparation time. Duct tape, hockey pads, and crushed up water bottles protect the important areas.
Michael Rhodes
Some guy strapping up his gear. He’s better looking them me, I asked them not to put him in my story.

 

Fully suited up looks something like a hockey goalie ready for war. And due to the unseasonably warm weather, its HOT!
Michael Rhodes  This is me. I’m super stoked.                                                                                                                                                                                                        All strapped up, with a rainbow poncho covering my pads, I waddled out to my “scene”. The “scene” is where I would be zombie-ing, while getting blasted by little kids and their parents. It was made up of tractor tires and a porta-potty. A real porta-potty, that stunk. I was grouped with a high school couple, a college student with dreams of becoming a paleontologist, my brother, and a 20 year old with earrings. We were all pretty confused, and we all looked pretty stupid.
As if the zombie armada wasn’t scary enough, the rubble and dilapidated trucks are frightening as well as if mocking the passersby to waste their ammunition on them.
Michael Rhodes
Super spooky paintball target. An old firetruck that doesn’t drive anymore. I checked.

After two hours of waiting, a bullhorn sounded off. Go time. The first wave of shooters was driving towards us. They came in a tractor with three trailers attached, each one blinged out with 10 paintball guns, black lights, and speakers pounding dubstep. All. Night. Long. Children and women screamed, men roared. We realized how many spaces on our bodies were not covered by pads. Every inch of our bodies were pelted, sometimes the paintball’s didn’t break, which frickin’ hurts.

“How do you kill a zombie?” screams the trailer escort over the loudspeaker. “Shoot ‘em in the head!” Luckily these stand-in zombies are protected with motorcycle helmets…and brightly colored Mexican ponchos.
Michael Rhodes
Check out my poncho. Comfy, yet festive.

 

The first hour went by, we kept smiling and joking around between waves of shooters.

Between shifts of being shot there are fleeting seconds to check social media statuses.
Michael Rhodes
Some guy slacking on the job. Get off your phone. Get the goo off of your face. Go home.

By the second hour I had welts from my neck to my ankles, but I was still warm.

Hour three, the paint had soaked through to our clothes. The poncho got reallll heavy.

4 hours, forget this.

Black lights assist the gunners with hitting the zombies, sadly many still miss their targets.
Michael Rhodes
Super pretty right? These are the paintballs that didn’t break on contact. They hurt. My inner thighs are leopard printed.

5 hours. No.

The sixth hour passed and I was off. I went home and applied at McDonalds.