Chuckie’s on Fire!

My first job as a teenager was working at Chuck E. Cheese –- I was the mouse -– and one of the things I loved to do was harass the little brats that were old enough to see me under that big helmet thingy and point it out to other little kids, for instance, “Chuckie’s a girl!” and the like.

The Chuck E. costume (or Chuckie, which is easier to spell, and not Chucky, which reminds of that awful movie)… it was insanely hot and itchy to wear as it was made out of wool, and Chuckie’s head was pretty heavy although the weight was on your shoulders. Chuckie also had a long, heavy tail made of thick foam rubber that I had to hold in my hand as I walked around waving at the kiddies. It was hard to maneuver in at first but once I got the hang of it I was a pure terror. 

Being a teenager pretty much guarantees that I did not like whining screaming brats so whenever I encountered one being particularly persnickety to his or her parents, “I want it now!” for example, I would swat the kid with my tail. Not hard, but enough to get their attention. The best part was when they started yelling at their parent(s), “Chuckie hit me!” and the parents would walk away as if to say, yeah right, kid.

One particularly bad day at the office, a day in which I was suffering from a major hangover (yes, Dad, I drank when I was a teen), was a Saturday, and that meant one thing: Birthdays. All day. A whole day of screaming brats that I couldn’t swat because they were all right there in my face with the parents not yet having escaped.

If you’ve ever been to Chuck E. Cheese or Showbiz Pizza Place you know the drill. Pay lots of money to make Junior happy on his special day by giving as much junk food to him and his friends and letting them all run around like wild animals, without the liability of doing it in your own home and possibly angering another parent. A parent, by the way, that invariably does not show up at Junior’s party because Ma & Pa are so damn glad the little banshee is out of the house, they have gone back to bed while you suffer alone.

At the birthday party, usually the kids have all had their pizza, and there has been at least one “on-stage” performance by the animatrons. Then out I come carrying Junior’s cake to the table where everyone sings Happy Birthday and the special boy blows out the candles.

Notice I do not mention ever lighting said candles. This is because the candles are lit before the cake is placed in my furry paws, and I am sent out to war without a weapon. Well, almost.

As I lean over to place the cake on the table, a wave of woozy from the boozy hit me and I leaned over too far. Chuckie’s big black enamel-painted nose went straight into the cake.

Ear-splitting peals of laughter soon turn to screams of pure terror, “Chuckie’s on fire! Chuckie’s on fire!”

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone is pointing at me and screaming that I am on fire, I do what I have to to put the fire out.

I take off my head.

Somehow the side of the “helmet” had slid forward over my shoulders and some of the gray wooly hair on Chuckie’s head was smoldering. This is easily rectified, however, so I didn’t at first understand why the kiddos were still acting so hysterically. Until I noticed the angry looks on the parents’ faces and realized I have just let their children in on the biggest secret a parent will ever keep from their bundle of joy: There Is No Such Thing As Santa.

Needless to say those families all went home to their therapists with full bellies and pockets, and I was relegated to the game room for the rest of my career. There, anyway.

One of the best days of my life.