We used to go to this ghetto Chuck E. Cheese that was in a crappy part of town. Someone had vandalized the name with spray paint so it read: Chuck E. SUCKS DICK Cheese.
My game of choice was Whac-a-Mole. I used to wail on those feisty moles. Although at this location most of the moles had been whac’d off (so to speak) so I was mostly just aiming at metal stumps. And this required some skill, because if you hit the metal the wrong way, you’d hear a loud clang, and a jolt of pain would shoot right up your arm.
Years later, I would find out that the words ‘Out of Order’ actually meant something.
But my main goal at Chuck E. Cheese was to find the game that would earn me the most tickets. If I was lucky, some punk kid would tip me off on a busted game that was accidentally spewing up scads of tickets. We’d all gather around with glee, as if money was falling from the sky. We’re rich, you mofos! RICH!!!! That stuffed Boba Fett is MIIIIINE!!!
And then, at the end of an exhausting day, after giving Chuck E. Cheese my all, I’d lug what seemed like THOUSANDS of tickets up to the counter, only to discover that I barely had enough for an eraser or a gummy worm. Thanks a lot, Chuck.
And that taught me a lot about life.