Game
Show
pg.7
What was happening? Eight-something
in the morning, half of these people had hardly
slept in the last day, and yet the level of energy
was off the charts! Random cheering continued
to erupt around us. I was awake and full of energy,
but I just could not generate the interest to
scream and yell in the waiting area. Pages in
red coats came down the middle of the benches
and handed each person another yellow slip of
paper with a number on it. We were told to disperse
and return at 10:00 a.m. David and I retired to
my car to watch a DVD on a wide-screen laptop
(episodes of Ab-Fab, if you must know). The rest
of the would-be contestants either tailgated in
the parking lot or wandered aimlessly up and down
the attraction-free streets surrounding the studio.
It was suggested many times throughout the day
that we all “visit the gift store and snack
bar.”
When we returned to the benches,
the numbering system had changed. Before
we disbursed, the red coats had informed us of
the change. To ensure cooperation, the benches
were actually numbered with the new system.
This time, 1-44 was against the black wall, 44-150
was against the red rail, and the numbers continued
on benches located on the other side of the building.
There was a woman sitting with her mother in the
exact area David and I should be sitting. I explained
to her the new system. She stayed there. Didn’t
seem to get it. I explained again, said, “See,
that’s why the ONE is on that side, and
the FOURTY FOUR is on the other.” She and
her mother were numbers 43 and 44. They should
have been at the END of the bench. My patience
was wearing thin. She asked me again, “Now
what… where?” I repeated, “The
ONE is over THERE by the DOOR to the STUDIO, and
the FOURTY-FOUR is right THERE. THAT’S where
YOU should be.” I pointed to the physical
labels with these numbers that were affixed to
the benches as proof. She couldn’t see them
from where she sat, and seemed intent on not moving
her ass to witness the exhibits.
Finally, as I stood over her in
exasperation, someone walked by and the bench
idiot asked that person where the numbers
were and where she was supposed to be. When it
was explained to her by this new person (in a
much less coherent way than I had explained it,
I might add), she said with a bewildered look
on her face, “Really? So I should be down
there?” I looked at her incredulously and
said, in a slightly hysterical and very raised
voice, “If I have to repeat myself ONE MORE
TIME, I SWEAR TO GOD… !” At this,
a young guy walked by and said, “Hey, no
anger, we’re all friends here,” and
continued on his merry little way.
I sat down in a frustrated huff.
David seemed torn between his own frustration,
and his amusement at seeing me so flustered. Scott
and Greg appeared again at our sides on this new
bench, our backs against the black wall. This
time, the red coats came down the center of the
aisle and gave us our nametags. Restless cheering
began to erupt for “Number One!” Frederick,
our old friend and first in line for the day (and
night before) had gathered a fan-base in the last
several hours, and support was growing. Loudly.
Red Coats
After receiving our nametags and
obediently slapping them on our left shoulders,
we were told that we were not to leave the lot.
We were to be back on those benches by noon. Trapped.
Now our only choice for entertainment,
shopping and food was the gift shop and snack
bar. For some reason, nachos with chili sounded
great to me, and we headed for the long line.
Eager for the full experience, I also hit up the
gift shop and purchased a tiny little TPiR shirt
for my 2-year-old nephew. Like Jane Goodall studying
wild apes, the red coats circulated through the
crowd, observing us. They were already scouting
for the afternoon’s contestants -- looking
for signs of enthusiasm and animated behavior.
Every time I passed a red coat, I put a little
skip in my step and widened my smile. I held my
sign high and engaged in energetic conversation
with everyone around me, which wasn’t a
stretch for this loquacious freak. I can’t
help it, I’m a talker.
But regardless of my propensity
for discourse, I also needed an escape from the
energy. It was just so… fervid.
David and I retreated to the side of the building
where the benches were empty, and devoured our
chili nachos. At a quarter to noon, they came
flooding back to the benches. This would be our
longest wait of the day. Sitting directly across
from us was a group of black women in matching
shirts, members of M.A.S.K. (Mothers Against Senseless
Killing). I assumed the organization was gang-related,
as I had heard that term, “senseless killing,”
used before in that context. These women were
particularly lively. Earlier, they had practiced
their “Come on down!” runs with the
trucker hat gang by announcing each other’s
names excitedly, as the named woman jumped up
screaming in mock surprise and jubilation, and
then ran down the middle of the benches, accepting
the encouraging hand-slaps of those she ran past.
I was content to improvise if called as a contestant.
I do my best work on the fly.
I sat, holding my sign on my lap.
Red coats came down the line, asking each of us
where we were from. We answered right on cue.
I really thought my sign would give me some kind
of advantage. He glanced at me. “San Diego!”
came flying out of my mouth. He inquired about
my sign, “Is that you on there?” I
said, “Did you really have to ask?”
and he continued down the line.
David went to the restroom. When
he came back, he told me that while he was standing
at the urinal, an old man sparked up a conversation
with him. I am aware of the faux pas of speaking
to someone who is “taking care of business”
in a public restroom. Rules like this do not apply
when you are confronted with an elderly man from
Florida who came to California for the sole purpose
of helping his wife realize her “life’s
dream” of the “last 30 years.”
Ever the gentleman, David tossed traditional etiquette
out the bathroom window and conversed briefly
with the fired-up old fellow.
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