Hey there past, it's me, Zach

I wonder how many times in my life I will have to tell the story again. It’s the best story I have to tell, and as someone who’s written books and short stories to fill a hard drive, I’ll never top it. It’s a reminder of my mortality.

My primary doctor suggested that I visit a neurologist. Anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis needs no further explanation.

I promise that I went through my blog history and could not find an entry on the subject, so here goes. This is the tale I told the neurologist who looked more at least as much like a grandmother than a doctor. In August of 2001 I started to feel badly. I felt so bad that on August 14, after being in the office for about an hour, I called my agency to say that I was going on short-term disability. That’s the last thing I remember until the first week of September. I was in a coma for three weeks as my body fought a Staph infection and a blood clot that shut down my lungs. As shocking as that is to read, imagine waking up in a hospital having not remembered entering the hospital. I had back surgery to remove an abscess full of the bad stuff. Over another two months, I eventually recovered. I didn’t completely recover. I have numbness on my left leg from my waist to my toes. I can feel some but not all of it. For example, the arch of my foot is fine but the heel is nothing.

It’s almost eight years later. Will the feeling ever come back? That’s what I want to find out. The neurologist suggested two MRIs. One on my lower back and one on my brain. It’s another golden opportunity to self-deprecate. Noticing that I’m off mentally would be like being able to tell when a cat has been drugged rather than being sleepy.

I could have some scar tissue causing the numbness. It could be something completely different. I want to know, as long as my insurance pays for most of it.
For me, it’s time to make a full inventory of what “normal” is. Normal seems to be a moving target.

Cashing out

Where does morality come from? Some assume that it's God-given. If it weren't for God and the various books written in his name, we'd be savages beating each other with sticks. Or could it be part of our upbringing, our internal values, and the people we hold close to our heart?

I know. What a pukingly sappy start. I am about to close a checking account with a bank that has recently been purchased by another bank. I don't need the account anymore. All of the automatic deposits and bills have been removed, so all there is to do is take the six bucks or so I have left and invest it wisely.

Something strange happened on the way to my final withdrawal. On April 13, there was a deposit. Someone came into a branch and put $950 in cash in my account. I've had accidental deposits before, and within a day or two the transaction would be stricken from my record. Two weeks passed and nothing happened.

I was in a quandary. If the money was in my account, wasn't it mine? I had a brainstorm, which means I decided to do something stupid. I went to the ATM and took out $300, the maximum, in cash. I intended to do this three times, not exactly thinking ahead to what I was going to do with large wads of cash. After this, I could close my account without the deposit being an issue.

During this time I obsessively checked my balance. I knew that the money would be gone any day and now that I had taken out more money than I technically had, I could get into trouble, or in banking terms, get fee-d to death.

Something weird happened. Another deposit. It was cash, and for $1,250. I had more than enough to cover my withdrawal. One deposit could be a fluke but two was just plain strange. Clearly someone had access to my account now and that was a scary proposition. The cash withdrawal plan was about as smart as the guys in A Simple Plan. I went into the bank the following day, deposited the cash back into my account, enough to ensure that if the accidental deposits were removed that I would not be in the red. The teller told me that the bank was going to start charging a $25 fee for the overdraft protection that they signed me up for without my consent. It's hard to want to do the right thing when corporations are being bastards.

A fun side note about closing accounts is that it's difficult to do. I had to call the 1-800 number to get the overdraft account closed, with the fee expunged. Closing the checking account would require me going into a branch and doing it in person. I told the rep on the phone about the questionable deposits. She told me that she would send me copies of the deposit slips via mail. I waited.

I got them. The handwriting wasn't mine. The first deposit slip simply had my name and my account number. The second one didn't even have the account number. OK, that was weird. At least I knew for certain that the money didn't belong to me. I wanted it gone. Gosh knows I could use an extra couple of grand.

The following week ended the mystery. A bank rep called and said that there's another Zach Law in Atlanta. We should start a Facebook fan group. Someone came in and wanted to deposit into the other Zach Law's account but the undertrained teller used my account instead. The nagging feeling that I had to solve this issue was correct.

It wasn't a voice in my head and it wasn't a higher power. It was me figuring things out. I didn't do the right thing the first time, but in the end my conscience was clear. That's the moral to this story.

Just add balls

Paintball, oh how do I compare thee? One billionth as intense as war seems like an insult to war. It’s a gathering of men, although there were some girls this time, shooting circular projections at each other. Firepower may vary.

A group of friends decided to play paintball about a month ago. Most of us had never played. I had, but it was so long ago that Bill Clinton was President. I don’t recall a lot of strategy and I think that we left pretty quickly. It seemed less fun than it was. Because those circular pellets really hurt.

We drove to Lithonia, which was a simple shack where we signed up and got our gear, and to the right there were a series of fields to play on. Some had you hide behind inflatables, and others had you hide behind wooden structures. There was a big field where they played something called “City Game”. We weren’t ready for that right away.

Some of my friends were able to keep their glasses on with the goggles, but I was not. I wear my glasses about 100% of the time, so not wearing them is a bit like being drunk. I eventually cleared up enough to see blobs that I shot at.
Here’s the setup. You get a set of goggles and mask, a gun, and insults for team you cheer for by the guy working there. He didn’t like my Titans shirt.

The gun is rifle-esque, with a neon orange barrel stopper that probably wouldn’t stop a paint pellet if it were in there. It had a hopper on top for the paint balls and a CO2 canister on back to make them go fast when you pull the trigger.

I thought it was perfect that the first yellow-shirted ref that approached our group had a Hulk Hogan mustache. He told us the rules, which were simple. On the short field games, everyone lines up on opposite sides and when the refs yells to start, you start. When you get hit, you lift your gun and go back to the net to wait for the game to end. The game ends when one team is out of players.

I was not prepared for the first game. I took three steps and got hit in the arm. For the first few times I was running too high and not able to aim worth a damn. I wondered if I was going to hit anyone all day. Plus those damn pellets hurt. I took one in the inner thigh, which might have been the toughest one all day.
Eventually I got the kill. I had a head shot that exploded with paint, and looked pretty cool. I got the final kill on one game when I flanked the remaining guy. Hey, those history books are right, flanking works.

The toughest game of the day was the City Game. This was the largest field on the lot and included broken down cars, two-story wooden structures, and various small places to hide behind. The first game was just one side versus the other, and the kids with the automatic paint guns were leading the charge. I didn’t know what to expect and stayed back. Our team won but I stayed far from the front and barely dodged a pellet. Later in the day we returned, and the rules were different. There were two sides, and our group was the majority of one (first bad sign). In this game if you were hit, you had to go back to your “base” and continue. The game ended when you ran out of pellets. Getting hit hurts, but multiple hits really makes you wonder. There was a delayed start and I followed one of the professional looking guys flanking to the left. As we got to the first building, a barrage of bullets took me out. I was hit at least four times and as I went to the ground, my hopper opened and most of my pellets rolled out. Screw it, I thought. I’m out. I was the first to leave the game.

Yeah, so my white Titans shirt wasn’t the best choice. As you can see, it looked like a modern-art masterpiece by the end of the day. We finished the day and used most of our remaining pellets one a 3-3 game. By the end I was good at finding my spot and taking guys out. We ended the day with a one on five because the one had his own paintball company and was the mayor of Avondale. I got the flank and took him out, which was a good finish.

We sat in the shade and drank a beer to end the day. I came home and showed off my wounds. Chicks may dig scars, but the jury’s out on paintball welts.