I Chuck E. Choose You

Before we control impulses, we double down on whatever tickles us. For some, this may be somersaulting naked all summer. For others, it's blowing $20 per annum on a relationship with a fictional rat.

During my annual Birthday trip to Chuck E. Cheese (aka The Children’s Rat City Casino), I didn’t play the arcade games. While the other gamblers-in-training were blowing tokens on Skee-Ball to get into the winner’s circle, I had my sight’s on bigger things.

Instead of trying to win a Tootsie pop or carcinogenic carney toy, I was sinking my loot into automated phone calls with Chuck E.

Like a prison inmate trading cigarettes for extra phone time, I placed call after call, inserting token after token, to stoke the flame of a one-sided relationship with a fictional rat. 

And to my delight, every hour on the hour, Chuck E crawled out of his sewer (staff smoker’s pit) to take a lap of the casino floor. Whenever I caught a glimpse of his ratty silhouette, I’d abruptly hang up the phone and dart across the sticky arcade.

It should be noted that whenever I came in contact with any mascot, I instantly transformed from innocent tot into total construction worker creep. The Blue Jay’s Birdy, Barney, a makeshift Sesame Street thing—it didn’t matter. If there was a mascot on premises, I’d be hootin’ and a hollerin’, whistlin’ and an air kissin’, as I shimmied closer to cop an unsolicited feel.

Amongst all of the mascots I admired, there was one that clearly stood above the rest: the 7-foot tall baseball cap wearing bad boi rodent himself, Chuck E. Chuck E’s hockey bro aesthetic and Atlantic City grit was unlike any of his puerile peers.

Note: The Chuck E mascot of the 80’s and 90’s is not the soft cherub-faced, smiling *mouse* of today. Our Chuck E looked like he’d seen some shit. Done some time.

Our Chuck E was giving wrong-side-of-the-track energy with a hustle and charm that won the respect of street savvy adults, but also made him grow up too fast.

Our Chuck E became a Dad at young age and never got to go to college, but he was always there to play catch with his sons and retell the books he’d memorized (he never learned to read—this was before dyslexia went mainstream and he was too proud to admit he couldn’t tell the diff between b’s and d’s).

Our Chuck E had a rawness and authenticity that set him apart from the other corporate show ponies.

Our Chuck-E was real.

Naturally, seeing our Chuck-E on the floor instantly transformed me beyond my years into a crazed tween who’d elbow a bitch for a direct sightline of Justin Bieber. 

While the other kids were busy high-fiving and taking photos, I approached Chuck E from behind. In a display of possessive power, I firmly grabbed onto his tail and began trailing him.

As Chuck E made his rounds, I creepily lurked in his shadow, aggressively side-eyeing the other kids who dared get close to my man. Tethered onto his polyester appendage, I dipped and dodged, pivoting from left to right, to avoid getting batted by his giant arse.

When we finally had some breathing room, I released him to demand uncomfortably long hugs. Then, I asked the tough questions that were better off in person than over the phone.

And just like that, as soon as he was contractually able, Chuck E excused himself and left the floor.

For a few minutes, I was satisfied and able to bask in the afterglow.

Then, I choked back a pizza slice and resumed the rotary, inserting token after token, until it was time to go home.

Long before cheat days or being preached work-life balance from an açaí-eating, matcha-blending, celery-juiced, celery stalk of a TikToker, we live all in, all of the time.

Moderation, like filtration, doesn’t yet exist.

We are maximalists, doing what we want, when we want, with our own authentic brand of weird.

We aren’t curbing behaviour or following rules because we aren’t playing any games. The world is our arcade—no simulation required.

Fucks given: zero.