“I’ve signed you up to audition for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” my wife announced as I walked through the door at the end of another workday. This was atypical yet welcomed, especially as I was coming out of a week in which I was promoted (good) but reassigned to new supervisor (bad) whose welcoming line to me was, “I don’t hate you, you know.” So the idea of running away from my problems via the simple act of winning a cool million appealed to me. “When are they coming to town for tryouts?” I asked, enthusiastically.
“Oh, no. You have an appointment on July 17 at 5 pm in New York. Y’know. At ABC Studios.” Of course. Taking a train to the City on a midweek workday—with a new supervisor to impress, no less—wasn’t out of the ordinary. I’d have to sandwich it between my skydiving appointment and speaking at a men’s convention. You’d think I’d fallen into a rut.
On the train ride from New Haven, I reflected on what a good idea this was, doing something spontaneous after years of grinding out a career marked by perpetual full-time and part-time jobs. One day out of the office in the middle of the summer wouldn’t hurt, I reasoned, and work would always be with me. I brought along New Yorker magazines that had piled up in the crush of work, and I sat down at a corner table at the Times Square Olive Garden and opened my ever-present journal to record my good fortune. As the appointed hour neared, I sauntered leisurely toward ABC on 77th, passing the soon-to-be-demolished Mayflower Hotel on 61st and the spot where I’d stood several years ago for five hours with my son on my shoulders for the Macy’s Parade. “Give yourself credit. That trip was impulsive, too,” I thought, wrestling with the rut of predictability I feared I’d slid into. This walk, this memory, was beginning to change all that.
The line of 150 Millionaire wannabes snaked around the studio. We all clutched our printed instructions, nervously eyeing the competition but secure in the knowledge that we’d be among The Chosen. We’d watched hour after hour of the show, effortlessly answering correctly the questions from the secure comfort of our couch. This in-studio experience would be no different. Besides, Meredith Vieira, the show’s host, and I were peas in a pod—both Rhode Island natives, Roman Catholic and English majors. With a wink and a nod, we’d understand each other. Fate. These Others didn’t stand a chance.
Lemming-like, we filed into what appeared to be the employee break room and sat at tables of four. “These people need this more than I do,” I thought, followed by speculating as to when they’d get that first kiss, if ever. My irrepressible tablemates chatted among themselves to determine who was the biggest fan of the show while I nervously toyed with the Millionaire-imprinted pencil placed before me on a very empty bubble sheet. Quickly we were instructed by NYU-looking summer interns that we would have ten minutes to answer thirty questions and that five of out 150 would be chosen.
“Ready? Go!” they commanded, and feverishly we filled in the ovals, sometimes pausing to stare straight up to the ceiling as if to find inspiration, or the answer, something. “Time’s up!” someone bellowed, and the scantrons were collected while the surrounding nerds speculated about their prospects for advancement.
Dismissal was swift. Just after someone asked what we were to do if not chosen—“You are welcome to keep the pencil as our thanks and exit out that side door” came the robotic reply—the Chosen Five, notably untelegenic, screeched in delight and performed a frenzied “Price is Right” dash for the front of the room. I darted quickly and, within one minute, eager to leave defeat in my wake, was street side, beckoning a cab with a hearty “Grand Central, please!” in hopes of getting away from this stinging rejection, and moving swiftly on the next train to carry me away. Away from the novel and exotic and exciting, and returning to the typical, the predictable, the comfortable. Home.
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