As the proud and loving father of a three year old boy, it has become apparent to me that parenthood is a continuous learning experience. Every morning when I wake Jack up, I’m never sure what his disposition will be, but one thing is constant – trying to dress him is like wrestling a greased crocodile. But I have concluded one cold hard fact – children love to be entertained by a giant rodent, eat sub-par pizza, and play games of chance that are a total ripoff. And that’s exactly why we took Jack to Chuck E. Cheese last week.

 Every time I think about Chuck E. Cheese, I always hark back to my first job with MBNA America Bank. I worked in the commercial loan department but we had access to the credit card database. My friends and I had a game where we looked up funny names, wrote down the account number, then passed it around to each other. I once came across a gentleman named Charles E. Cheese. But since there were no charges for arcade machine maintenance, pizza sauce, or multicolored plastic balls, I’m not completely sure it was indeed the rodent CEO/mascot of the Chuck E. Cheese franchise. While I am mentioning it, some of the other classic names were Lou Bacca(who we said was Chewbacca’s brother), Jack B. Tuff (who was said to be Jack B Nimble’s bad ass brother), and a disturbing number of Donald Ducks in America. But my all time favorite that when I think about I still burst at the seams laughing – Freddie Krueger. Not Fred, not Frederick. Freddie. This asshole either lived under some rock in the south and had no idea, or was some sicko who thought it was cool. Regardless, we always imagined the actual Freddie Kruger character in the mall purchasing striped sweaters and leather fedoras and telling the salesgirl to “charge it” in that deep, scary voice while thumbing through his wallet with those metal claws looking for his MBNA credit card.

 Jack got a Chuck E. Cheese gift card for his birthday, so last week we decided to take him there and then go out for dinner. So on the way, I told Cailin (probably for the millionth time) the Charles E. Cheese and Freddie Krueger story. Jack was getting pissed that we were referring to it as Charles E. Cheese and kept correcting us. Cailin and I thought this was hysterical so we kept on making up variations of Chuck E. Cheese’s name. Chalie Chee. Chaz Chez. Charles Edward Cheeseworth III. Cha-Chi Cheese. Chunky Cheese. And when we realized we were completely out of hand – Drunken Jesus. (Say Chuck E. Cheese in a baby voice fast enough and you will hear it)

 We got to the place, and Jack nearly busted out of his car seat and through our back window. He couldn’t wait to get inside. As we walked in, they have a bouncer of sorts who (I guess) makes sure you aren’t some creep coming in alone, or you’re not a group of teenage kids who come to wreak havoc. They seemingly have no reservations however, about allowing families and children in who would soon be wreaking havoc on my son’s well-being and my nerves. The place was a cacophonous mess, kids running wild, buzzers and beeps, and disturbing animatronic characters on a stage. It smells like sweat, pizza, poop, wet rat, and ignorant parents.

The clientele (children and parents) were depressing and obnoxious from the get-go. Some kids just looked so raggedy and disheveled it made me sad. But then from the amount of fathers with Tap-Out shirts on, I felt even worse for these kids. Jack, of course, looked sharp as a tack – he was rocking his checkerboard “Spicolli” old school slip on Vans, a great shirt from Baby Gap our friends Chad and Mary Beth gave him, a Nike track jacket, and some jeans. He was the best dressed kid in the joint and dressed nicer than 96% of the adults in the place too. Even me, in a pair of Wranglers and a t-shirt, may as well been in a tuxedo.  

 I got a ton of tokens with our gift card, but it turns out Jack is a cheap date when it comes to Chuck E. Cheese’s. All he wanted to do was play in the tubes that wrap around overhead that lead to a twisty slide. I realized afterwards that chances are these tubes are probably lined with gnawed on pizza crusts, communicable diseases, and giant rat hair. When all was said and done, we came home with 33 tokens and had 50 to begin with. So during out trip there, I was walking with a limp because I was weighed down and jingling around with a pocketful of golden tin arcade tokens.

 The highlight of the day for almost everyone under the roof was when the giant rat himself came out. Clearly the dude in the costume was some pimply teen who probably blazed a joint in the woods behind the place before his shift. (What a resume builder! Entertained children in a creepy and sweaty large rodent costume) But the kids were mesmerized, following him around and submitting to his every request to stand up/sit down/clap/cheer – it was like a religious service at one of those wacky churches in the Bible Belt. Apparently kids can win free tickets, so maybe this is why they were so entranced and submissive to Chuck E.’s every demand and desire. Finally, Mr. Cheese grabs a pawful of loose tickets out of a bucket that his “assistant” was carrying then literally made it rain with the redemption tickets. As the tickets came cascading over all the children’s heads, I was surprised how diplomatic the kids were in picking them up. It was the one rare time kids were civil in the place.

 The rest of the time though, kids were running around like angry and hungry packs of wolves. In the tubes Jack was playing in, he took more elbows than someone trying to box out Bill Laimbeer in the 1989 NBA Finals. And we couldn’t escape this one kid who would magically appear when we started playing a game and would bump Jack to the side and play his game. We would go to the far reaches of the arcade to get away, and then he would appear out of thin air and start whacking moles, shooting mini-hoops, or saving SpongeBob. Jack would give me this distressed look that seemed to say “dad, please step in and help me”. But I thought if I did say something to this kid, his dad would appear out of the blue in his Tap-Out shirt then put me in some chokehold, deathpinch, smackdown, or whatever the hell you call the moves these fighters do to each other.

 Jack’s efforts at the games of chance won him a pack of Airheads and a pack of Smarties when we redeemed his tickets. For those doing math right now, that’s twenty cents worth of candy for ten dollars spent on games. For those who don’t have kids, I would imagine a child eating Airheads and Smarties is roughly the same as snorting cocaine or meth. We high tailed it out of the place, and sat down for a nice family dinner at Chili’s, where we elevated our sodium levels to ridiculously unsafe proportions. (Almost a week later, and I am still thirsty)

 So thanks Charles E. Cheese, once again, I learned the hard way. By trial and error, I have vowed there were things I would never do again – like eat a meat product that comes off those spinning grates at 7-11, or give the distressed prince of an African country my bank account number. But the sad fact is, as much as I never want to set foot through the doors of that ninth circle of hell, Jack loves the place so I’m sure I will be suffering at the hands of that rotten giant mouse and his evil empire very soon.

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