Chapter 13 Wren Have a Birthday Party at Chuck E. Cheese
Wren: Have a Birthday Party at Chuck E. Cheese
With less than three weeks now left until baby, until parenthood, until full life upheaval was upon them, Arthur was driving blind.
Wren would have driven herself, but squeezing in behind the steering wheel was getting more than a little uncomfortable. Plus, it was more fun this way.
“Right at this light,” she called out at close to the last second, reading off her phone’s GPS.
Arthur just barely made the turn, sending the loose car seat in the back tumbling.
He was really going to have to get around to putting that in, or they’d never let him take the baby home.
Worse, he’d be the laughingstock of all the other new dads at the hospital.
“You could just let me see that map; that would be easier. And safer,” he said.
“It’ll ruin the surprise. A left up here.”
“You said this was an experience for you,” he said, jerking the wheel again, “so why do I need to be surprised?”
“Because it’s clearly annoying you.”
Wren gave his leg a squeeze above the knee, then another high up on his thigh. Arthur let out a yelp and jerked the steering wheel.
“Woman, what are you doing?! You know driving in the city stresses me out; you’re not helping.”
“I know,” she said, beaming. “I’m just excited.”
So it hadn’t gone great with Martin. But at least it had gone at all. Maybe getting right back on the horse was the smart thing to do.
A few minutes later, they arrived, pulled into the parking lot, and stepped out.
Wren needed an extra hand from Arthur to make it all the way out of her seat.
Her legs were feeling like jelly and her energy was low.
She knew Dr. Abadi would tell her she should be at home resting.
But she wasn’t going to pass this up, not a chance.
Before them was one of the few remaining Chuck E. Cheeses in the greater Baltimore area, and even though it had seen better days (the H had fallen off of the sign, making it just C Uck E. Cheese), it lit Wren up on the inside like Christmas morning.
“This is what you drew out of the jar,” Arthur said. “This is what you’ve been so secretive about today?”
“Not just today,” Wren said wistfully. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
Inside, the place was dark, a little damp, with flashing neon lights and upbeat synthetic music pouring out of all the machines. A children’s casino. They walked up to the front desk, where a bored-looking teen girl twiddled on her phone.
“Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese,” she droned.
“Hi,” Wren began. “I’d like to book a birthday party.”
She could feel Arthur looking over at her now, no doubt wondering what the hell she was doing.
Wren’s birthday wasn’t for another two months.
But by then, she knew, no one would care.
The day would be like any other, going by in a haze of diapers and bottles and all the day-to-day tasks that couldn’t be paused just because Wren wanted to feel special. God, being a grown-up sucked.
“What day?” The teen still wasn’t looking up.
“How’s about right now?”
That got her attention. The girl looked at Wren, looked at Arthur, looked around, looked at Wren again.
“You usually have to book in advance.”
“Usually, OK. But maybe you could make an exception?”
“Sorry, it’s policy.”
“Come on,” Wren pleaded. “The place is dead. I promise you can go right back to posting TikToks for your twelve followers.”
“I’m actually an influencer.”
“And I’m an artist. Now, what do you say?”
It was true, the place was dead. There wasn’t another paying customer in the place at midday on a weekday, except for maybe one sad-looking child playing on an iPad in the corner. Probably an employee’s kid, Wren guessed.
“How many in your party?” The girl sighed. “We offer an all-inclusive six-child package for ninety-nine dollars.”
“Just two adults—wait, ninety-nine dollars?” Arthur said, aghast. “Are you kidding?”
“If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go down the road and try your hand at Boing Trampoline Park. Their party packages start at four hundred dollars.”
“That’s completely unreasonable! When I was a kid—” Wren shot him a look, signaling to get on with it. He promptly bit his tongue.
“Whatever, fine. Just two adults,” Wren said.
The teen groaned, looked at the ceiling like Come on, lady. “I don’t have a button on my computer for that.”
That’s when Arthur stepped back in.
“Look, we’ll pay the”—he swallowed hard—“ninety-nine dollars. Can you just give us a pizza and some game cards and get the mouse guy to sing to my girlfriend?”
In that moment, Wren could not recall ever loving him more.
“Girlfriend?” The teen couldn’t help but eye Wren’s belly.
“Hey, up here,” Wren snapped, pointing to her eyes. Arthur put a hand on her shoulder, Down, girl.
“So can you help us out?” Arthur asked.
The employee sucked her lips, then hit a few buttons on the screen. A moment later, she handed over a few game cards.
“These are loaded up. Your pizza will be in the party room in about twenty minutes. What’s the name and age of the birthday boy or girl?”
“Wren, that’s W-R-E-N, and…twenty-nine,” Wren answered.
“This is amazing, thank you,” Arthur said, grabbing the cards before the employee could change her mind. “And what about the mouse?”
“No one sees the big man without an appointment,” she replied, stone serious. For some reason, Wren gulped. “I mean the guy that plays him doesn’t get here until five. Now, if you had booked ahead, like you’re supposed to…”
Wren, light on her feet with glee, grabbed Arthur by the arm and dragged him toward the games. “Come on, let’s go!” she said, before yelling back, “Thanks again!”
“Hey,” Arthur said, “you’re sure Ferdie will be all right if we’re gone a few hours?”
“He’s nine thousand years old and totally housebroken, what’s he gonna do? Have a kegger? Now, hand over the game card.”
They reached the center of the establishment, arcade and midway games and ball pits and trampolines surrounding them.
Wren took a moment just to soak it all in.
The lights, the sounds. The stale odor of pitchers of Coke spilled many years ago.
It was pure extract of childhood, and she let it wash over her, trying to absorb it into her soul like a witch trying to stay young.
“Charles Cheese, you magnificent bastard,” she said. He really was the best celebrity mouse. “Mickey Mouse can eat shit.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt this spiritual baptism for you,” Arthur said. “But…what did the slip of paper say, exactly?”
“It said ‘Have a Birthday Party at Chuck E. Cheese.’ ”
“And you’re sure you didn’t mean have a child’s birthday party? Because that, I think, we can do.”
Wren supposed that, to him, this all seemed ridiculous. That maybe she owed him at least a brief explanation.
“We can do it, and we will. But it won’t be for me,” she said bluntly. “Look, I can’t wait to be the mom handing out floppy plates of pizza and leading the chorus of ‘Happy Birthday,’ really. But is it so bad to want to be the star? To be the birthday girl, one last time?”
Last time, first time. Who was counting?
Family had done their best when she was young; she remembered a few Funfetti cakes with cheap numbered candles, a handful of presents unwrapped at kitchen tables.
But never the big party all the other kids at school seemed to be having—and not inviting her to.
And why would they? She was never in one place long enough to make good friends, birthday party friends, Chuck E. Cheese friends.
Except there had been one girl in fifth grade, Emma.
She and Wren had become close pretty quickly, close enough for Wren to get the coveted invite to Emma’s Chuck E.
Cheese birthday. It was everything she had ever wanted, and it was all finally happening.
But her uncle had an unexpected work trip come up and sent Wren away for a couple of weeks to stay with his sister, who lived far on the other side of town, and she wasn’t able to go.
Worse, everyone who went brought in all their winnings from the Rat Casino the next day, to show off: little plastic army men, slap bracelets, candy necklaces.
Flaunting all of it right in front of Wren. Those traitors.
Arthur smiled, understanding, and took her hands. “No, no, it’s not so bad.”
He looked like he wanted to kiss her, but she had her sights set on something else.
“I see Skee-Ball, get out of my way!”
And she was off.
After a dozen rounds of Skee-Ball and three sweaty, profanity-laced games of air hockey and a down-to-the-buzzer basketball shootout, Arthur and Wren’s party room was ready.
The influencer led them to the Yellow room, where they were seated next to each other at one of several long, cafeteria-style tables draped in cheap confetti tablecloths.
There were two paper plates in front of them and a piping-hot, golden-brown pepperoni pizza sitting on a silver stand.
“Happy birthday,” the teen deadpanned. “Do you want a cake? It’s an extra charge.”
“Yes,” Arthur chimed in. “We’ll take your finest cake.”
“There’s only one kind.”
“Then that’s the one we’ll take.”
The girl rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but Wren stopped her.
“Sorry, no chance the costume guy decided to come in early, is there?”
“Not yet, but I’ll page him. Let him know there’s an emergency.”
“Really?”
“Oh sure, right away.” And then she left.
“You know.” Wren frowned, donning a cone-shaped party hat from a stack on the table. “I’m beginning to think these people aren’t taking their job seriously enough.” She blew loudly into a paper party horn.
“So,” Arthur said, ignoring her and serving them each a slice of pizza. “Is it everything you dreamed of? I’m sorry you won’t get to meet Chuck.”
“Yeah, that part is a bummer,” she said, a little embarrassed by how disappointed she was. “But, on the plus side, we have so many tickets!”
“Wait, we do? From Skee-Ball and basketball?”
“When you were in the bathroom I might have played a few ticket games. What took you so long, by the way?”