I call the big one "bitey"

I recounted the following story at Thanksgiving dinner, and my Dad encouraged me to blog it. This is an early memory I have of using logic to solve a problem.

So, one time I was at Chuck E. Cheese at Southdale Square for my brother's birthday. I think I was about seven, but as we've established, I'm an unreliable narrator. Anyway, under the stage with all the creepy animatronic animals, there was a kid-sized mouse hole. Through the hole there was a little room, almost a crawl-space, with a strobe light. Essentially it was a little kid rave, so you could go in there with your E and glowstick to "Smack My Bitch Up." Except this was 1986 instead of the mid-90s, The Prodigy didn't exist yet, and the robot band was playing a crappy cover of "Surfin' USA" with the lyrics changed to something about "If everybody had a birthday..."

I was in there with a couple of kids I didn't know, thinking it was really cool that everything looked all slow-motion (this was definitely before Pokémon ruined strobes for everyone), when an entire birthday party's worth of kids (not my brother's party, incidentally) piled into the Rave Hole (TM) like frat boys in a phone booth. Now, I'm not usually claustrophobic, but this freaked me out. I was pressed against the back wall by a mass of writhing kid, and started to fear that I wasn't going to get out I have to get out how am I going to get out?

I formulated a plan. I executed the plan. I bit the nearest limb.

Not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to get the appropriate attention.

My unknown victim yelled "there's a biter in here!", and like "Fire!" in a crowded theater, the words did the trick. The other children fled for the safety of their extremities, and I joined them, worrying aloud to anyone who'd listen, "somebody bit one of the other kids in there!" My innocent bystanding established, I nonchalantly disappeared into the sea of pizza and skee-ball.

That's the closest I've ever been to being James Bond.

In hindsight, I could've achieved the same result without biting the other kid if I'd just yelled "there's a biter in here!" Damn, now I've ruined it for myself. Let's pretend I didn't write that last part, ok? Thanks.

I leave you with a bonus, a creepier Chuck E. Cheese picture. I can still feel his hugs: