Tonight I leaned into the gaping abyss of flaming hell and stared straight into the eyes of the Prince of Darkness. His name, dear friends, is Chuck E. Cheese.
My husband and I took Cranky Jr there to check it out. He’s almost four, and I thought he might be old enough to enjoy it. I figured it would be awful, but my boss swore her kids loved it and it wasn’t that bad. I trust her judgment, so I roped my husband into going tonight. That is, I used to trust her judgment.
As soon as we stepped in I thought I’d walked into the middle of someone’s migraine. The screaming kids. The running. The shrieking. The loud video games. The flashing lights. The cups and plates everywhere. The smell of stale pizza. The crackly PA system announcing birthdays. People were supposed to eat in this environment? And have fun?
My husband and I were absolutely horrified. For the sake of Cranky Jr, we stopped clutching at each other in terror, plastered on fake smiles, and tried to get into the spirit of it. We gagged down the pizza and the overpriced soda and let Cranky Jr put tokens in whatever machine he wanted to try.
Then we heard that some “show” was beginning in one minute. We shrugged [how could it be worse than the rest of the place?] and moved into the “Studio” area to watch. A curtain jerkily slid open and there, in all his cheap animatonic glory, was Chuck E Cheese himself. He appeared to be in a DJ booth and he “talked” to people & puppets on the video screens playing on either side of him as he spun tunes. It was not only laughably fake, but the plot (what I could grasp of it) was beyond boring. I noted to my embarrassment that we were the only family bothering to watch this abortion of a performance. I mean, the place was pretty busy, but no one else was dumb enough to waste time on this.
The saddest thing of all was that my son kept creeping closer and closer to Chuck E., waving shyly. He came back to me and moped “Chuck E won’t say hi to me!” I came up with some excuse about the bright lights in Chuck E.'s eyes preventing him from seeing his fans. Then Cranky Jr began calling Chuck E’s name as he approached him, calling it hestitantly, but a bit louder and more plaintive each time. It was pitiful. My sweet, innocent little boy was not only being sucked in by the Prince of Darkness, but he was getting his little heart broken at the same time. Again I struggled to come up with a reason why Chuck E was ignoring him which wouldn’t hurt his feelings. My husband said “I can’t believe you’re encouraging him to believe that hideous thing is REAL.” He had a point, but what to do? I just wanted to get the hell out of there without any more pain.
When we finally got out of there, I felt like I had narrowly escaped something evil. My husband and I are still reeling. And I will be FUCKED AND HORNSWOGGLED before I go back in there voluntarily. If for some currently-unforeseeably reason we do have to go back, I’m getting drunk first. I’d always hoped my son would have a happy social life with lots of little friends. But now I fear that every friend will increase the odds that we will be invited to some birthday party there at Hell Central. Please god, let my son be lonely and unpopular. He can make friends over the internet.