Who Is That in There?!

As I sat in the little square with netted walls and floor of primary colored balls, I pressed my fingertips against my temples and tried to take deep breaths. “David, please come on, baby. It’s time to open your presents.” He stood and instead, dived again into the sea of plastic. I’d been trying to persuade him out of there for the past eight minutes, during which time everyone else had gathered around the table in the back. What is it about the games at Chuck E. Cheese? Are they really that enthralling that even the allure of presents is not enough?

Every year, my family carts gifts and balloons to Chuck E.’s for my brother, David’s, birthday party. We march single file through the stamping station and receive a picture of the grinning rat’s head, visible only in black-light, on each of our wrists. Here is my question, why the black-light? The only place you can even see your proof of purchase is at the door under that one lamp. Why not use a regular, black or even red, ink stamp? This bothers me.

We continue on towards the back where a table is set up with plates, kiddie cups, and goodie bags. Since one of David’s friends couldn’t make it at the last second, I’ll be the one sitting on the kids’ end with a set of miniature everything. After the tokens are handed out, everyone scampers away to the games, and I am right with them. My favorite game there is called Pirate’s Cove. You use the wheel to steer your ship and pick up treasure along the way. I monopolize the game, putting in token after token. If some persistent kid keeps standing there, I graciously allow him a turn, and then stand over him until he finishes so he knows who is next.

You can get thirty tickets, if you’re lucky, playing Pirate’s Cove. Thirty tickets used to be a lot at Chuck E.’s but now your hard work is rewarded with a mauve eraser the size of a corn kernel. The only prizes that have not changed are the Chinese finger traps; I am convinced they will always cost fifty tickets. They are magical with the spell that encompasses everything in Chuck E. Cheese- no matter how many times over the years you stick your pointer fingers in each side, you still wind up surprised that you cannot get them out.

This spell looks rather powerful when you think through the reality of the great things at Chuck E.’s. Can you imagine what someone from another culture would think, to see us doing the motions to the YMCA song with four mechanical characters that come to life every fifteen minutes? The curtains roll back and they move forward, choppily waving, as they would be whether or not we were sitting there. Seven minutes later, they are back behind the drapes, and we sit back down to our pizza that tasted like it was from Ping’s Pizzeria in the shady part of Chinatown. What was Chuck E. thinking? Everyone knows not to order anything but Chinese from a Chinese restaurant. Anything else and you are just asking for constipation.

Because it is my brother’s party, meaning because we paid an unwarranted amount extra, the “real” Chuck E. makes an appearance. After singing to my brother, the rat forces the YMCA song again. Midway, he sidesteps over to me, takes my hand, and starts dancing with me. Everything was fine and dandy until whoever was wearing that head made it kiss me. He tried to pull that bashful look on like the walk-around characters at Six Flags do, but he was still holding on to me. I make a move to go back to my pizza but apparently we are still dancing. He dips me and kisses me again. At this point, all I want is to know who is in this head! Finally it is over. The rest of my visit is overshadowed by my intent peering at all the employees; I am looking for Mr. Gettin’ Fresh.

We go back to the games a while longer, only to be told that now we are ready for presents. I do not know why it is that we were not ready less than ten minutes ago when everyone was already gathered. I also do not understand what it is that my mom and god-mother have done to be “ready” for presents. I stand there picturing the two of them climbing down into bunkers. “All right!” they scream, “Bring on the barrage!” It is at this point that I am sitting in the ball pit, futilely trying to persuade him back to the table. Of course, the most unfortunate of these situations is the child who refuses to leave the overhead tunnels. Every time I go, I see embarrassed, frustrated parents standing with their necks craned back, trying to talk some sense into their stubborn child through the dirty plastic. The little devil just shakes his head, laughs and disappears into the maze again.

I have finally convinced David back to the presents. We sing, eat the cake, and eventually pack up the kit and caboodle. The motorized characters slide out and start to sing as I look around again at the potential Chuck E. head wearers, and I find no solace. On our way out, we walk beneath that black-light and admire our shiny, periwinkle stamps one last time. What am I saying? We will be back next year, and the year after that, and the year after that.