The Importance of Chuck E. Cheese in Your Career

The Setup

Over the weekend, one of my daughter’s classmates had a birthday party. Anyone who’s ever been a parent knows that there are few things more sacred to a child as birthday parties (with the exception of puppies, kittens, and major holidays involving presents, candy or both). I’m happy to take her to these events because she gets to be social and spend time with her friends outside of school, and she usually burns off all the sugar she ingests while playing with them. In all this time, we’ve been to parties in indoor playgrounds, at parks, people’s homes. But this one was at the hottest place to have a birthday party for anyone who can’t splurge on a trip to Disney World every year – Chuck E. Cheese (frequently referred to as “da rat” under my roof).

If you know these places, then you know what it’s like – laughing kids, crying kids, kids racing around like out of control rockets, helicopter parents following them around in sheer paranoia of losing them, parents sitting back with a plastic cup of beer enjoying a few moments of adult talk with other parents.

And the noise. The cataclysmic onslaught of sonic vibrations coming from countless video games and organic lifeforms loud enough so that you can’t hear yourself think. But I argue that it’s worth the hour or two of auditory torture to see her laughing and having fun.

However, this particular Chuck E. Cheese has a…“special” place in my heart.

The Skinny

Many years ago, I changed jobs from a mild-mannered proposal writer to an in-over-his-head young proposal coordinator. The new job was at a small company in the midst of bulking up its business development and growth resources. The head of admin (who I’m hoping reads this entry) was building a PowerPoint presentation for introducing the new corporate world order and growth team to the rest of the company. She set up one of the slides to show a picture of each of us, but she wasn’t happy with the ones we sent – none matched in style, lighting or color.

One afternoon, she walked into the office with a new spring in her step…the unmistakable omen of a professional with a purpose. She had taken her daughter to that Chuck E. Cheese, where they had posed together for a portrait taken by a machine that churned out an image looking like a sketch drawing. She decided that was how she wanted the pictures in her presentation, and doled out Chuck E. Cheese tokens to each of us with orders to go there, get our pictures taken and bring them back to her.

At this point in my life, I was single and without many social obligations, so it was a simple matter of going a block or two out of my way after work to do this. However, I couldn’t help shake a noticeable twinge of anxiety running up and down my spine. I couldn’t quite place what the root of it was, just that the closer I got to the restaurant, the greater that sinking feeling of dread grew inside me. The DC area rush hour was frustratingly light that early evening, so I arrived at the parking lot in short time. I must’ve sat in the car for a good five or ten minutes, debating to myself if I really wanted to step foot in this place. Still not sure why my nerves were forcing my neurons into full-on hyperdrive or my stomach gurgling more than normal, I screwed up my courage, stepped out of the car, and walked in.

Perhaps the single most daunting and honestly creepy thing about walking in the front door was the old man sitting on a stool in the entryway. Clearly not thrilled with his retirement, he must’ve decided that there would be nothing better to enjoy his golden years than welcoming countless children and parents to the magical world of “da rat.” However, I seriously questioned the manager’s common sense considering that this man was missing one of his arms below the elbow, possibly several teeth based on his mumbled “hello,” a collection of liver spots providing a never ending game of “connect the dots,” and looked as if the slightest gust of wind would be enough to nudge him off the stool and down to the ground. As creeped out as I was, I could only imagine therapists joyfully putting their own children through college thanks to the army of future patients and their Chuck E. Cheese PTSD traumas.

Once past the one-armed archaic bouncer, my anxiety found a whole new level of alarm.

As someone who really would rather attend his own funeral than exercise any form of public speaking, there are several moments in my life defined by an overwhelming and embarrassing self-consciousness. Attempting to kiss my college girlfriend for the first time (among other firsts with her). Not so voluntarily mooning my high school gym class because some jackass pulled my shorts down while clambering up the football stadium bleachers. Trying to run one of my first review debriefs on a proposal that was not going quietly into that sweet night.

But frozen in my tracks as a few dozen moms and employees stared me down, an adult male alone and without a kid in tow while entering a Chuck E. Cheese is still and by far the award winner.

I felt every pair of eyes looking me over. I think I even remember one mom cautiously curling her arm around her child and drawing them closer to her. I was beyond mortified. Long before I became a parent, I considered myself very sensitive to child safety and respecting “stranger danger” any time I spotted a child alone or out of their parents’ attention. I don’t know how long I stood there – seconds felt like hours as drops of cold sweat ran down my back and that damn token seemingly weighed a ton in my coat pocket. I half expected the skeletal touch of the one-armed-man’s hand on my shoulder or someone behind the counter tersely ask (and quite understandably) why I was there. I managed an awkward smile and tried surveying the place to spot said portrait machine. I even asked the cashier, probably still trying to decide whether or not to call the police, who had absolutely no clue what I was talking about.

A few minutes of hunting around finally brought me to my final destination. I sat down in front of the camera, read the instructions, and fatefully dropped the token in and prayed the resulting picture would be the ONLY picture. As I waited for that few-moments-turned-an-eternity, I felt the eyes of wary matronly patrons and confused cardboard pizza servers keeping close watch on me. The few tiny drops of cold sweat had now nearly drenched the back of my t-shirt. Despite the sounds of kids playing and blaring video games, the every scritch and scratch of the machine’s printer dutifully producing my portrait felt like thunderclaps by comparison. God as my witness, I fought the urge to get up and run out the door while babbling out a weak apology to everyone every second I waited in front of that machine. Finally, I felt immense-relief-bordering-on-spiritual-bliss as the comforting whirr of a four by six-inch piece of paper rolled out. I hate having my picture taken at the best of times, but this one was just satisfactory enough for me to pick myself up and haul out of the place.

My anxiety eased back on the throttle, my feet felt lighter than air, and I tried to ignore the one-armed-man as he incoherently mumbled what I believe was “thank you for coming and have a magical day.”

The next day I marched into work, messenger bag hanging from my shoulder and travel mug full of Dunkin Donuts coffee in hand. I strode directly to the head of admin’s office, and planted that damn portrait assertively on her desk. As she regarded the picture and met my gaze, her expression was a mix of “thank you” and “is something wrong?”

My reply was a simple, “I am NEVER FUCKING doing that ever again.”

The Wrap Up

So, back to the here and now. While that Chuck E. Cheese is alive and well, and that former company long since shut its doors, I have no idea if the portrait machine there is the very same one I sat at back then. Of course, I have been back there, and I have taken other portraits by that machine, but this time with family.

All I know for certain is that I feel a Hell of a lot better walking into “da rat” with my kid, and relieved that there’s no picture of me above the registers reading “CALL 9-1-1 IF HE SHOWS UP.”

The things we do for work…