ReadingLipps

This winter I tried out for Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I randomly put my name in by email and was selected. After much deliberation, mostly based on the comment made before I sent the email: "What if I get picked?" To which my wife replied, "I guess you have to go."

So I booked airfare to New York for the audition, emailed my buddy Raul in Brooklyn for couch rights and it was done.

The first night in Brooklyn, Raul and I started drinking Rye in his apartment, then we headed out to some bars in his neighborhood. We ended up at this jumping little eatery where the waiters wore black neckties, aprons and spoke with the boldness and bluntness of a Brooklander. The spot was called Walter Foods. The food was great, the booze was perfect and it was good to see my old friend Raul. The streets outside were barren and I sorta wanted to go back to the energy of the restaurant. It was a wednesday night so not much was happening. Not until later when I threw up Rye and Buffalo chicken strips in Raul's kitchen sink.

The next day I had some time before the 4pm audition for Millionaire. Raul had a photo shoot in the Polish part of Brooklyn. He wanted to have his model cutting sausage for the shoot so we stopped in a Polish deli. This place had buckets of sausage. They weren't twisted into individuals yet, just long tubes of spiced meat. Raul ordered several and the yound woman behind the counter gladly twisted a few sausages off for him.

By now my hangover was in full swing, sweating, sick to the stomach, headache. We arrived at a friend's house just in time for me to realize I wasn't going to make it very far today. I caught a cab back to Raul's and slept until 2pm.

Much refreshed, I arrived at the ABC building in Manhattan. A line was forming and a two young folks were organizing things. A young man named Kevin was wearing a headset and was as nice as could be. He cheered us on and rallied us as we waited. His job was to check people in and get them excited, a game show fluffer of sorts.

Next to me in line was a kind woman named Cathie, who was a chatty one indeed, to avoid the pun. She was excited to audition for the show. We hit it off, exchanging notes and ideas. Soon we were showing pictures of dogs and of my new baby girl. Cathie was a pediatric nurse and had some tips for the baby.

Kevin announced we were going into the audition room and that we would be searched. We were also told we would take a test and only those who passed the test would go on to an actual audition. This turned my stomach, but I never missed any questions when I watched the show. I'm not like some loyal Millionaire viewer either, I just enjoy trivia in general.

We entered the room where several totalitarian she-interns were bossing people around. I can only assume they were interns by their sour demeanor. First a bag search and metal detector, then they handed you a pencil and a scantron sheet. We were told to sit and remain quiet. There would be a 30 question quiz and we would have 10 minutes to finish. Empty answers count as wrong, this ain't the SAT.

The National Socialist intern came by and dropped a quiz near me. She painfully asked if everyone had one. A guy near me didn't have one and raised his hand, but I noticed an extra at our table. I handed it to him just as the intern arrived and held up a blank form asking repeatedly, "Who needed an answer sheet? I said, who needed an answer sheet?"

She was not a bit pleasant in her demand and ignored three people who informed her that the man had gotten an extra. I suppose they are just sick of dealing with the hopeful little sheep that we were.

"Who needed this?" she asked a final time, then muttered a "whatever" as she returned to her perch.

I asked a man nearby why she was such a bitch. "Not from around here?" he asked in return, implying that was the norm.

The test started and I jumped out to an early lead rattling off the first 15 answers with little trouble. Then they hit: According to the American Barbecue Association, what distinguishes 'grilling' from 'barbecuing'? I have no idea. Put these events in calendar order: signing of the Magna Carta, OJ Simpson Verdict, Moon landing and something else. Calendar year? No idea.

In all I guess I  missed five, with a few others unsure. Each test had a number and they would scan them right there and call the passing numbers. One by one they called them all. Mine was not called and Cathie and I were dismissed.

Within 15 minutes I had been determined unworthy and was back out on the street in front of another line of hopefuls, holding a Millionaire refrigerator magnet. Oh well. So much for that. So much for bringing home thousands of dollars to my family. But Cathie learned you could walk up the next day and audition again. But my flight was the next day at 4. I told Cathie I would work on it but that I couldn't afford to pay more for my flight.

That night Raul and I went out again. I tried to lay off the booze again but the food was fantastic and the drinks were great. After we left we were quickly in the vacant streets of Brooklyn again, hardly a soul out.

We tied on a few more drinks then headed back to his place where his photo model for the night was waiting, a girl named Amanda. She was naturally waifish and pale but for a 22-year-old she carried a lot of weight, she was spiritually heavy, whatever that means.

We listened to music, drinking, as he prepared his gear for a shoot on his porch. They had subtly moved outside and shut the door. Soon I was asleep on the couch.

Cathie called in the morning to see if I was going to audition again. Essentially, she talked me into it with a nudge from my wife.

I set out that morning and did a little sight seeing. I ended up at the audition and met Cathie and Kevin again. Kevin was jovial as ever and gladly shook my hand and asked if I was ready this time.

The test was administered again by the interns of death and the questions immediately seemed harder. I began to sweat and have defeatest thoughts about at least trying. After I filled in each answer I tossed my pencil down and looked to Cathie who shook her head with bewilderment.

"This one was tougher than the last one," I said.
 She nodded and agreed. I figured my old number 17 wouldn't get called. As the intern's voice began to drop in tone, signifying the end of the list of winners, she said it: "...and number 17."

The last number called: I grabbed my bag, hugged Cathie and thanked her for encouraging me. I interviewed with a pretty blonde girl who was immensley friendlier than the ground troops in the exam room. I answered my questions poorly, my brain froze and I got a letter three weeks later informing me I had not been selected.

Cathie bought me a beer after the test and we had a great talk in a sweet Manhattan restaurant. And I beat their damned test, even if they didn't pick me, I beat their test. And those are the treasures I brought home from New York, and an "I 'heart' New York" onesie for the kid.