If you didn’t know we were all in line to audition for “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” you could be excused for thinking that we were victims of some sort of nerd ethnic cleansing. Hundreds of us, dorks to a man, blinked and shivered in the early morning chill. The line snaked around in a sinister imitation of a Temple Grandin-designed cattle slaughter-chute. Occasionally a crisp and blank-faced functionary would come out and address the line.
“If anyone needs to sit down, or use the bathroom, just let me know.”
We looked at each other. It was six in the morning. Everyone in the line would be happy to use the bathroom and sit down. She must know this. A trap. No one raised a hand.
“I’m giving you a magnet. If you pass the tests, you will be called by the number on the magnet, not by your name. Please make sure you know the number on your magnet.”
My new name was 258.
The man next to had been in the Navy – submarine duty. His longest stretch beneath the waves was seventy-four days. We talked about military life – my father was Army – and joked a bit about the giant cruise ship that blocked our view of Elliot Bay.
A gentleman behind me in the line lost his nerve, asked to use the bathroom. The functionary, who still had a name instead of a number, talked him out of it. I have forgotten her name, but I have not forgotten how deftly she convinced a senior citizen he was better off not urinating.
400 of us were in the first cohort. We filed into a conference room and took our places in the uncomfortable rental chairs.
We were addressed by a young woman. She spoke in a clear voice with a peekaboo Tri-Borough accent. When some of the old ones said they could not hear her, she grabbed a bullhorn.
She told us again to make a not of our new numeric names. She told us to use our “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” number two pencils. She told us how to fill out a Scantron test sheet. She asked us where we were from like a bored warm-up comic.
There were two tests, thirty questions each. The first was a test of general knowledge and the second was movie lore. Ten minutes allotted per test. Multiple choice, Scantron – very community college.
I was finished with the first test with several minutes to spare. Most of the questions were easy, but I guessed on a few.
I elected to use the extra time to try and stuff the paper with the test questions back into its manila envelope. This proved to be the greatest test of my skills the day would offer. I was sure that everyone in the silent assembly was listening to me fumble and fail. Eventually I succeeded, but not until several mortifying minutes had passed.
We passed our answers back. There was a grading period between the tests, and we made some small talk between ourselves. Someone nicknamed our handler “Brooklyn.” A man, maybe the incontinent man from earlier, maybe not, asks to use the bathroom. Brooklyn suggests that he wait. If he misses the next test, or does not hear his number called, he will lose his place in the queue permanently. Clearly desperate, he decides to risk it.
The second test was easier. I spend a lot of time in movie theaters. I got through the questions with almost five minutes remaining on the clock. This time I decided to leave fumbling with the envelope until time was called. 400 faces, twisted in concentration, trying to remember facts about “Less than Zero.”
“If we don’t call your number, you will be escorted from the building.”
“That didn’t come out right – we’ll have someone lead you to the exit.”
The numbers are called. First, the numbers of those who passed the general knowledge test. My number is not among them.
The numbers of those who passed the movie test are called. My number is again absent. Perhaps I am vain, but I find it difficult to believe that I passed neither test. My nerdiness is questioned by no one. How much greater nerds these assembled must be!
Finally, the numbers of those who passed both tests are spoken through the bullhorn.
“Two Fifty-Eight,” she says. I breathe a sigh of relief and smile. My Navy friend smiles back, rueful but congratulatory.
Maybe ten of us have passed both tests. All the test-passers are lined up and passed before a camera. We are instructed to smile and asked innocuous questions about how we feel about succeeding thus far. When my time comes, I answer cautiously. I do not wish to seem as if I expected to pass both tests. I smile and tell the camera that I thought I might get one, but am pleasantly surprised to have aced both. The surprise is relatively genuine, but the smile is a little forced. I hope that no one watching this tape later will notice.
I am given a questionnaire to fill out, and a time to return for a face-to-face interview. We are not to hang around the pier to wait – we must leave and return. I live close, so I elected to return home to fill out the form.
In both the questionnaire and the interview I strive for a tone of casual, humorous engagement.
While waiting for my interview, I can hear the three simultaneous interviews going on in the front of the room. Much of the time the interviewers are struggling mightily to draw out the applicant – asking them questions gleaned right from their answers.
I resolved then to make my interview into a conversation. I will not make my interviewer work for her answers. Whether this strategy is wise I do not know, but I want to make it clear that I don’t have to be coaxed into conversation. I am wagering that this is more important than the answers to any individual question.
After the interview, most of which took place with my consciousness floating slightly above my body, she says I will get a postcard in the mail in a few weeks. This postcard will contain my answer.
Those who failed the test were indeed escorted out of the building, in a long and silent line. I never saw any of them again.*
*But why would I, really?
