A little jealousy can go a long way. In this case, I became green last Thursday when an 18-year-old college student made his way to the hotseat on that show of shows, "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." Rapidly feeling my next birthday approaching, that toll-free qualification number popped into my head, teasing me -- "If only you had tried a little harder."
This odd bout of schizophrenia aside, I was determined to match the feat of the young theoretical physics student. Regis Philbin, your friend and mine, came to the rescue by mentioning that in the upcoming week "Millionaire" would conduct a contestant search for a special college edition
After a bit of web surfing, I found that the nearest tryouts would be at the Cambridge Marriott -- conveniently located for Harvard, MIT and a handful of other universities, not so for Dartmouth.
Nonetheless, I made a reservation, and my "Millionaire"-hating roommate agreed to accompany me. Interesting how personal tastes get pushed aside when a chance at the million comes into play.
Thus begins the story of How I Tried to Be a "Millionaire."
On Sunday morning, the first concern was when to get in line. Only the first 125 there would be allowed into the tryouts. The "Millionaire" web site said that the first tryouts would be held at 9:00 a.m., "but no camping out, hangin' around, etc you can arrive only 1 hour before each test time."
Indeed, when we showed up at 7:30, we were shooed away by "Millionaire" staffers. But by 8:00, the line had formed in spite of them -- 20 feet away from the "official" point.
Once in the approved line, we were given tickets with numbers based on our position in the queue (I was 58). As the producers informed us on at least half a dozen occasions, these tickets were extremely important. By the end of the day, such value had been attached to these tickets that we began to suspect that they would be necessary in life beyond the "Millionaire" tryout. Want a marriage license? Let's see your ticket.
But the little red piece of paper did nothing more than give us access to a small portion of the "Grand Ballroom" that had been cordoned off with dividers. Next door, there was a dental convention taking place. As it turns out, that probably would have been more exciting.
Sure, it started out well. We were given a 30-question quiz to complete in under 15 minutes. The questions were similar to the "Fastest Finger" questions on "Millionaire." An example:
"Put these athletes in order of their birth, starting with the most recent: Carl Lewis, Lance Armstrong, Martina Hingis, George Foreman."
I got a taste of why the contestants on the show sometimes struggle with some of the easiest questions when I arrived at a complete loss as to who Lance Armstrong was. I knew that this information was somewhere in my head, but it wouldn't come to the surface. (I figured that on account of this memory loss, Lance Armstrong must be the oldest, so I of course groaned afterward when someone mentioned the Tour de France.)
The quizzes were collected, and with them went the last morsel of fun for the day. The assembled nerve-wracked students were told 25 pass/fail results every 15 minutes. This made for great anticipation when the passing numbers were read, great dread during the fails and more uncertainty if your number weren't called. My roommate and I had the fortune of being in the fifth and final group after an hour of chewing our fingernails to the nubs.
Later, we would yearn for the stimulation of that hour. Both of us had passed, and we were told to wait our turn to interview with a producer. And wait we did -- for over four mundane hours. Only my nagging jealousy of 4.0-GPA-Physics-Major Boy kept me going.
The interviewing stations were at the front, with small dividers to hide the interviewee from the rest of the room. The producers/interviewers were easy to see, however, and the repressive boredom drove my roommate and me to make fun of their mannerisms and construct fictional personalities for them. After about an hour of this foolishness, we realized that we had doomed ourselves, for we doubted our ability to survive an interview while keeping a straight face.
Again, our preconceptions failed us. Imagine you're having a job interview with somebody who's wagered $1,000 on a football game showing on the TV set three feet away. The producer who questioned me, Tracy, was similarly distracted -- or "bored" might be a better word.
The session was videotaped, so there wasn't a desperate need for Tracy to make eye contact with me while I answered questions like "If there were a movie made about you, what would the title be?"
But she avoided looking at my eyes so adeptly that I believe she expected lasers to come shooting out of them any second. (Dear Tracy: If you are reading this, just kidding, ha ha! You're great. Aren't I a nifty wit? What fun Regis could have with me.)
After the interview, Tracy shook my hand and said they would call the Chosen Ones if the producers selected them to appear on the show. You might think I'm anxious waiting for that call, but the end effect of the experience is one of relaxation -- I'm just glad to be out of that damn room.
So now I'm back at Dartmouth with nothing to show for my expedition except a slip reminding me to sit by my phone on October 20. Oh, and I get to tell people for the next month that I have a chance to compete for a million dollars.
Aren't you jealous?
