Mice and Men

I hate shopping malls. I hate Chuck E. Cheese even more. Yet I found myself standing in the main corridor of Anchorage’s Fifth Avenue Mall, about to enter Chuck E. Cheese. My best friend Daryle had invited me to attend his son’s commercially canned birthday party. How could I not?

Chuck’s a clever rodent. To get to or from the dining area you have to pass through the arcade. The second I entered my senses were assaulted. Strobes flashed while twinkle lights from a disco ball spiraled. Every step I took sounded like Velcro being ripped off cuz my flip-flops were sticking to the floor. Sirens sang and bells rang. The loud background music was continually interrupted by the scratchy recorded voice of Chuck E. Cheese.

“Hey kids. You can’t win if you don’t play! Hyuk-hyuk-hyuk.” The air carried a hint of urine.

I pushed through the arcade’s central traffic lane between a row of Ski Ball alleys and a giant inflated Moon Bounce. The moon balloon was crammed full of kids diving and swimming through a sea of colorful vector-orbs. It was hot and they were sweating profusely, wrestling each other while sneezing, coughing, and expectorating copious quantities of ropey phlegm.

The giant “rat fink” himself met me head-on at the arched portal between the arcade and dining area. He belched out a “howdy pardner,” and attempted a high-five but missed. As we passed, brushing shoulders, I sniffed a whiff of weed. Then I caught a glimpse of Daryle, his wife Helen, and their son Travis, along with his birthday buddies. They were seated in a horseshoe-shaped booth ,sucking giant sodas through curly-cue straws and devouring pizza like hyaenas at a zebra kill. They hadn’t seen me yet.

Ratus ratus gigantus had given me an idea. I backed out of sight, turned, and followed him back into the arcade. Catching up, I twisted his tail and bellowed “Wait up Chuck.”

“Not now,” he muttered as he turned around and faced me. “I’m going on break.”

“How does a $10 tip sound?”

“Make it twenty bud.”

“Okay… twenty.”

“What’s this about? I need to step outside and toke up.”

“I wanna borrow your rat suit.”

“What for?”

“So I can play a joke on some friends in the dining room. Nothing weird.”

A minute later we were back in a small employee break area, stuffy and dimly lit.

“I could lose my job doing this,” groused Chucky.

I pointed at the ratty rat suit he’d draped over the table and asked, “Do you care?”

“No. But be quick,” he said while rolling a smoke. “Scratch up front, dude.”

It was hot and stuffy in my new skin. Hard to breathe. Itchy too. It reeked of B.O., weed, pizza farts, and cheap cologne. I waddled toward the dining room making mice-nice with kids along the way. As I approached Daryle’s booth I waved at the kiddies and motioned for Daryle to scoot over. He did. I slid in.

“Hey guys,” said Helen. “Say hi to Chuck E. Cheese. He’s here to wish you a happy birthday Travis.”

Disguising my voice as best I could I boomed “Happy Birthday, Travis!” With my left arm I reached across the table in front of Daryle and Helen, dragging my furry forearm through melted cheese goo, and paw-patted Travis on the head. As I did so I slipped my right paw under the table and rested it between Daryl’s thighs. He choked on his coke then gasped. His eyes got big, and his spine went rigid. I felt a death grip on my wrist forcing my big mouse paw back into my own lap. Then he let go, turned toward me, and whispered through clenched teeth “get lost pervert.” I nodded vigorously, waved goodbye to the kids with my left arm, then did it one more time for good measure.

What happened next is a little unclear, but I ended up on my back on the floor. Daryle was straddling me, reigning blows down upon Chuck’s well-padded cheeks and nose. I barely felt it. I heard Travis scream “Momma! Daddy’s hurting Chucky Cheese!” Daryle grabbed Chuck’s headpiece and jerked me into a sit-up position. Gripping the costume’s ears he attempted to wrench off the head.

Wishing to remain anonymous a bit longer, you know, just to see where this was going, I grabbed the whiskers and held on. As we played tug-o-war Daryle yelled “Helen! Find the manager!” Then he yanked so hard the whiskers gave way. The rat’s head flew off and arced high across a number of patrons attempting to exit the dining room, quite expeditiously. Then I heard Daryle laughing hysterically.

“Uncle Toford!” Screamed Travis. “It’s you!”

“You’re such a jackass!” giggled Helen.

A stern looking manager and assistant showed up and escorted a certain giant rat with a human head back to the break room. As I worked my way out of the costume, the manager said, “get out – and don’t come back.”

As I was ushered through a rear service door I asked, ”bye the way, are ya hiring?”

Toford Kroshus is the pen name of an humorous writer from the Whitehall area. What did you think? The Ledger is considering a monthly column by the Montana Man of Mystery - would you continue to read his adventures? Let us know at whledger@gmail.com.