I could hear a painful “ooooh” from some of the members of the studio audience.
“That was just one element that made this particular dating experience so dreadful. At the moment he chose to walk away, I wasn’t able to look in his eyes, couldn’t reach for his hand, had no opportunity to try to explain myself face to face. But the kicker was that I was finally, totally sure that this man was The One. At first, this guy was very easy to get to know, but for certain reasons, far less easy to trust. What did he want from me? Why did he want to get to know me so quickly? Why was he being so damn nice to me? It didn’t help matters any that my two closest female friends in the world tried six ways from Sunday to convince me that he was bad news.”
From the cone throne I could see some of the faces in the front few rows of the audience. There sat Jem in her t-straps, holding hands with Carl, and Nell in her slingbacks, with A.J.’s arm draped affectionately over her shoulder. I wondered what they were thinking.
My right index finger began to itch inexplicably. “The hardest part of being involved with this guy was that, because of certain conditions, we had to sneak around and avoid getting found out, even though we were both legally and emotionally available. So here I was—am—head over heels in love and didn’t want the most special relationship I’d ever had to remain a secret; but the catch was that if I wanted the whole world to know that I had finally met The One, I would most likely lose every opportunity to reach Bad Date’s million-dollar jackpot.”
I suddenly found myself fighting back tears. “My boyfriend tried to convince me that we should fly below the radar, as it were, as long as the contest was so important to me. But I wanted it both ways. He felt my response meant that the grand prize was more important to me than our relationship, and, therefore, he wasn’t going to do anything to stand in the way of what I seemed to want most.”
Although I was successful at stifling my tears, I had started to sniffle a bit. Instinctively, I reached for a tissue, but realized I had no pockets and my fingers were still in the metal cones. I saw Jack remove his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wave it at Rick, who brought it up to me and awkwardly dabbed my eyes with it. “Anyway,” I continued, when Rick had returned to his downstage position, “after that conversation, my lover pretty much said he was removing himself from the equation . . . and said good-bye to me over the phone. I admit that eventually we did reconcile, but I know our relationship suffered for it. Anyway, I just wanted to tell everyone about the stupidest mistake I ever made and what the consequences were.”
I laughed softly. “I mean, it’s pretty cut and dried, isn’t it? It’s like that Beatles’ lyric ‘money can’t buy you love.’ It’s true enough in my case, anyway. Money can buy someone sex, even great sex—so I’ve heard— but without love, in my humble opinion, how great can the sex really be?” I pointed a metal-tipped finger toward an audience member who was a fraction of a second away from becoming a heckler. “Don’t answer that,” I warned collegially. “I just want to add that while this has been a scintillating thirteen weeks, nothing you folks up there in the control booth can offer me will come close to the greatest treasure I have: my precious, wonderful man.”
I had nothing more to say. I slid my fingers out of the cones and returned to my seat. The house was quiet. A somewhat subdued Rick Byron introduced the next commercial break.
We returned to the air. “Well, Jack,” Rick said, his energy doubled, thanks to a huge jolt of lukewarm black coffee imbibed during the station break, “can you top this, as they say?”
Jack rose from his chair and took his final journey to the cone throne. He installed himself, paused, then furrowed his brow. “This is certainly my unhappiest dating experience in recent memory,” he began. “Nearly every Sunday evening for the past quarter of a year, you have heard me talk about all these wacko, toxic bachelorettes I have encountered during my decades of dating. Invariably, in every story I shared, one of these women did something off-the-wall to me. This story is about something I did to one of them. When I first met her, what most intrigued me about her was her brain. She had the fastest wit of anyone I’ve ever known, and a glib sense of humor that she wore as defensively as a suit of armor. That’s armor, Liz, not Armani.”
“I noticed the polygraph lines didn’t do anything on the screen when you mentioned how attracted you were to this woman’s mind,” I said. “Hmmm. Cool! Wait a minute—what about her hair?”
“Are you supposed to editorialize here?” Jack asked.
Rick looked at Geneva, then toward the mezzanine-level, glass-enclosed booth above the studio audience at the back of the theater, where the producers sat. He lifted his hands to them in a question, then shrugged. “I think all bets are off at this point,” Rick said. “Just keep telling your story.”
“Right. So here’s this incredibly lovely woman with her angular New York edges,” Jack continued. “And I’m from Miami. We’ve got sun and sand and salsa and, face it, we’re technically in the South, where women—I’ll shoot straight here—conceal their steely cores with a cloud of ultrafeminine gentility that comes from centuries of carefully cultivated behavior modification. Well, I was determined to pierce this New York lady’s armor and discover what truly lay beneath. What I found was that this amazing woman I fell for turned out to be the inside-out version of these other women. She’s a marshmallow underneath. The hard veneer she’s developed to protect her soul is as consciously crafted as the other women’s seeming softness.”
I watched Jack’s face in the monitor. He appeared utterly composed.
“You have no idea how happy I was when this woman finally felt comfortable enough to drop her guard with me . . . how excited I was to discover what was beneath her shell, and how fantastic I felt when she began to realize that I had no intentions of hurting her, that it was okay to trust.” Jack splayed his fingers and wiggled them as though they were cramped.
“Liz, I promised myself I would never hurt you, and by walking away from us the way I did, I broke that promise. I was at such a boiling point of frustration at the time, but I’m not a quitter when it comes to relationships. Your wanting things both ways was making me nuts, but if someone cuts and runs at the first sign of trouble in Paradise rather than doing their damndest to work things through, then how much did they care about their lover in the first place? I hope you’re glad I wasn’t such an ox about it to stay away, because I couldn’t be happier . . . I don’t need to win a million dollars. You’re all I want.”
“Whoa, there! Hold it!” Rick Byron rushed up to the cone throne just as Jack was releasing his fingers from their metal confinement. “Did we all just hear what I thought we heard?” Rick escorted Jack back to his captain’s chair and stood between us. He looked back and forth from me to Jack. When he finally spoke again, Rick’s tone was at once accusatory and incredulous. “Liz? Jack? Did I miss something here, or did you two just tell the same story?”
35/
The Real Jackpot
They went immediately to a commercial. The hullabaloo on the set was something to behold. When the live telecast resumed, the circus atmosphere prevailed. A third chair had been brought onstage for Rob Dick, who introduced himself to the world as the show’s producer, quipping that the strands of gray in his hair had been brown at 7:50 P.M., when he and his colleagues at the station entered their glass booth to view the final episode.
“This is what’s called ‘winging it,’ ” Rob told the studio audience. “Our attorneys and researchers are checking for precedent, but at this point it’s safe to say that nothing like this has ever happened. Bad Date is the Urban Lifestyles Channel’s maiden foray into reality television production. So, all I can ask you to do,” Rob continued, “is to vote the way you have been doing—well not you specifically, since our studio audience is a new one every week—but just use the electronic box in front of you to record your vote the way you were instructed to do during the pre-broadcast.”
I have to say that s
ome of the audience members looked confused. One of their number, a woman in her thirties, stood up and asked, “Well, how can we say who had the worst time of it, if they pretty much told the same story?” A man about ten years older than her stood and faced us. “I mean, you two were talking about each other, right?”
Jack nodded and reached for my hand.
“Did you plan to do that?” I asked him.
“Not until you were in the middle of your story,” he said. “It just made sense to me to set the record straight and go completely public. Besides, if you were watching the monitor, you’d have noticed that the polygraph lines didn’t wiggle and wriggle as I was talking. It was my unhappiest dating experience in recent memory. I wasn’t breaking any rules by sharing it.”
“I think the studio audience should vote, just as they’ve always done,” Rob Dick said. He gestured to someone in the wings. “And at this juncture, I think we should remind the voters what’s at stake here.”
Bad Date’s announcer reiterated the prizes via voiceover. A man and a woman came onstage. The woman was your typical bony fashion model, dressed in a tasteful navy evening gown. She bore a gigantic check in the amount of one million dollars, with the payee left blank. A stagehand came running out with an easel, which he quickly set up center stage, so that the super-size check could rest on it. The man, who carried a gilt-edged envelope, was introduced by the announcer as the publicity director of a major airline, the company that was sponsoring the rest of the grand prize: the all-expense-paid trip for two to Paris-the-Romantic-City-of-Lights. The airline was also a major sponsor of Bad Date, running at least two commercials over the course of the half-hour show each week. I wondered if this was the influential advertiser Domingo had alluded to.
Then it was time to vote. The band struck up the suspenseful theme music that it had played each of the dozen previous Sunday evenings.
“And now . . . it’s time for our final vote,” Rick Byron intoned somberly. “For the past twelve weeks, Jack Rafferty and Liz Pemberley have shared their stories about the worst dating experiences in their lives and have squared off against one another and the other dozen Bad Date contestants.” He turned to the audience. “In fact, some of them are here tonight.”
The house lights, which ordinarily remained on during the show anyway, came up a little brighter. Rick moved downstage. “We’ve got four of our former challengers right here. I trust you all remember Jemima Lawrence, to whom we bid a fond farewell after week five; Anella Avignon, who waltzed off after episode eight; and, together again, Allegra McGillicuddy and Candy Fortunato. Candy, as you folks may recall, outstayed Allegra by a few weeks, but found she just couldn’t stay away!” Rick made an appeal to the audience. “Let’s have a big hand for them!” The women smiled and waved at the cameras and the crowd responded enthusiastically. I saw both Jem and Nell point to their footwear and then to me. Jem blew me a kiss. Nell touched her heart.
Rick walked back to the center of the stage with his right hand behind his back. “Folks, it’s time to vote. I know it’s going to be a tough decision, given that they’ve both more or less told the same story, but rules are rules and it’s up to you. Which of our two final contestants has shared the worst experience tonight? Ladies and gentlemen: Cast your votes!” Rick raised his hand with great fanfare, as though he were waving the green starter flag at the Indy 500.
For the next thirty seconds or so, all we could hear was the sounds of people shifting in their seats, muttering to themselves, looking like they were trying to make up their minds. The band resumed playing its suspenseful-sounding score.
Then, the oddest thing happened. The verbal rumblings in the audience began to build. “The thing’s jammed,” someone said. “Yeah,” another agreed. “The system won’t let me cast a vote.”
“Oh shit,” Rob Dick muttered. He grabbed the handheld microphone from Rick Byron. “Well, folks, that’s the magic of live TV, isn’t it.” He tossed the mike back to the host and went over to talk to our stage manager.
“Geneva, I’m at a loss here,” I heard Rob say between his teeth. “What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”
Geneva motioned to him to incline his head toward hers so she could whisper something in his ear. Something people should know about stage managers and wardrobe mistresses: a great one of these pros is worth his or her weight in gold. They also carry so much stuff on them that they’d be an easy bet to win a few quick bucks on the old Let’s Make a Deal game show, or survive Survivor. From somewhere on her person, Geneva produced several packets of index cards. I think she normally used them for pre-telecast audience surveys. She handed the cards to Rob and suggested he distribute them to the studio audience. When I saw him question what they were expected to write with in case they had no pens or pencils with them, she pointed to a box at the foot of the stage.
Rob retrieved the box, which contained hundreds of little yellow pencils. I turned to Jack and pointed out with some relish how much fun it was to watch the producer taking orders from his stage manager. “What are we supposed to do while they’re all writing out the cards?” I whispered to him.
“How well do you sing?” he answered.
“Better than most contestants on The Gong Show but not as well as Judy Garland.”
While Rob and Geneva and a couple of stagehands hastily handed out the cards, Rob instructed the members of the audience to write down the name of the person who they felt had the lesser story of the night. “I know, I know,” he commiserated with those who remained confused, and still hadn’t a clue how to answer that question.
“Can we write stuff in?” someone asked.
Rob Dick looked momentarily confused himself. “Like what? I mean, don’t write ‘Mickey Mouse’ or ‘Mata Hari’ or your vote won’t count, but you’re welcome to write a comment, I guess. If you invalidate your card by writing in a name other than one of the two contestants, tonight’s winner and loser will be based upon the number of correctly filled-out cards. Tell you what—we’ll go to another commercial break, and as soon as we’re back on the air, we’ll collect the cards and count the votes. As always, a representative from the accounting firm of Tilzer and Durant will oversee the tabulation.”
I leaned over to Jack and whispered, “This should be very interesting,” but he seemed miles away. I’d never seen him like that.
Back on the air, the index cards now collected, Rick Byron was told to banter for a bit—“vamp,” as they say—to fill the time while the cards were being read and sorted. “So, you two, how are you feeling?” he asked us.
What a question. “A bit tense,” I replied. “And very curious.”
Jack shifted in his chair. “Rick, as long as we need to do something to pass the time while the ballots are being counted, I have something I’d like to share.” He rose from his chair. “And if those cones are still plugged in, you can verify, if you choose, that what I’m about to say was not something I planned ahead of time to say on the air tonight. I’ll repeat that phrase under your polygraph if you want me to.”
“Does it have anything to do with the million dollar jackpot?” Rick asked him.
“Not particularly. Not remotely, in fact.”
“Then just say it, Jack,” Rick replied.
Jack looked over at me. “A lot of guys pride themselves on being loners. They guard their independence as fiercely as a lioness protects her cubs. That’s never been who I am. I think the most natural thing in the world is coupledom; it’s loner-ism that seems like an imposition to me. I see my woman not just as my lover, but as my helpmeet, confidante, full-time partner, and lifelong best friend. How ironic that I had to get cast on a show that focuses on disastrous relationships to find the love of my life.”
Jack took a small box out of his jacket pocket. He held up the jewelry box and grinned at the camera. “Liz Pemberley, get over here.”
I arched an eyebrow. “A command, Jack?”
“Yes, actually.”
I desce
nded from my captain’s chair. As I headed over to join him center stage, Jack looked at me. “You know, you’re better dressed than I am tonight,” he quipped appreciatively.
“I imagine that will frequently be the case. Especially if you keep buying me Armani cocktail dresses.” My heart was pounding a mile a minute, and here I was spouting nervous nonsense.
Before I knew it, Jack was down on one knee, clasping my left hand. “Liz, I’m not doing this to vamp for time and I will never take back these words. I just want to add that I decided to do this now because I don’t want the outcome of tonight’s episode to have any bearing on either my question or your answer. We have no idea what the audience vote will be and in any event, I don’t care. For you, Liz, this Miami boy would sail the Circe up the inland water route and dock it permanently at the Seventy-ninth Street boat basin. For you, I’ll open my own restaurant in SoHo instead of South Beach. What I want to say to you is not a publicity stunt . . . it’s as spontaneous as I can be, given that I had intended to ask you this question pretty soon anyway.”
We looked in each other’s eyes. I can’t remember when I had seen his sparkle with such depth. “I love you, Liz Pemberley . . . will you make me the luckiest, happiest man in the world and be my wife?”
The entire studio fell silent, save for one happy yelp from someone in the audience whom I was quite sure was Nell. I couldn’t swear to it, though; my eyes were brimming over with tears.
Jack opened the box and slid a stunning emerald onto my ring finger. “Liz? Will you marry me?” For a moment Jack looked worried that I might say no.
I grabbed both his hands in mine and pressed them to my breasts. Well, that’s what he could reach, from the position he was in. Besides, holding his hands to my heart helped keep it within the confines of my body. I thought I was going to burst with joy and exhilaration. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Jack!” One of my tears plopped right into the well made by our joined hands. “Oh, my God . . . I love you so much,” I murmured into his hair.
Reality Check Page 29
