Filthy Rich

by Dorothy Samuels

  For the second time in less than three weeks, he’d ambushed me on live national television, except this time at least, it was cable, and he was trying to be nice. Or so it seemed.

  “That picture of me whispering in Jane McDee’s ear,” he said, “it’s not what you think.”

  “Really,” I said. “Are you saying it was trick photography? A doctored shot from the mysterious grassy knoll?”

  “I’m serious, Marcy,” he said. “The band was really loud, so I was talking directly into her ear. I told her to take two aspirins. Her braces were cutting into her gums.”

  “So what you’re saying, Neil, if I understand it, is you’re sorry for your behavior, and you want back with Marcy here,” said Larry King, summing up.

  “That’s right, Larry. I made a mistake exploding like I did after I lost on Filthy Rich! But I still love Marcy. And I hope she’ll let me be her Lifeline tomorrow night. I practiced a lot when I was trying out to be a contestant, and together we’d be a great team. That’s what I want if Marcy will have me: to be a team again. To spritz together. Marcy will get what I mean.”

  Larry could barely contain his excitement at having this scoop fall into his lap. “Wow!” he said. “Viewers, I want you to know we did not prearrange this. We’re as stunned as you are. Marcy, what do you say to Neil?”

  Frankly, I didn’t know what to say. Was Neal returning because he really missed me or because I was now a hot media babe with lots of positive buzz and lucrative endorsement deals? And what about me? Did I really want Neil back, or was the breakup really a blessing in disguise, freeing me from a prosaic lifetime of courtesy tooth cleanings and orthodontic anecdotes, just as Kingman had said? On the other hand, Neil sounded sweetly repentant, even if I didn’t buy for a nanosecond the fairy tale about him and the Burger Queen/Bandanna Lady, Jane. I felt my lips start to move, but I wasn’t sure what would spill out.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes?” said Larry King. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Neil can be my Lifeline,” I said. “That’s as far as I can think right now. We’ll see what happens tomorrow night.”

  “Hear that, Neil?” said Larry. “You’re a go for Marcy’s Lifeline, and the two of you can take it from there. I feel romance in the air. Good luck to both of you on Filthy Rich! tomorrow night. It’s another network. But it’s a bet we’ll all be watching. The news is next.”

  Norma was so peeved when I took Neil as my Lifeline that she almost didn’t show up for our final jog before Filthy Rich! It was as if in doing so, I had personally betrayed her, Gloria Steinem, Murphy Brown, and every other dedicated feminist going back to Susan B. Anthony.

  “Why did you do it, Marcy?” Norma asked when I met her and Lois in my lobby at 6 A.M. that morning.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Everything’s happened so fast. Maybe I just didn’t want to disappoint Larry King. He seemed awfully happy I said yes to Neil on his show.” What I was thinking, but didn’t say, was that I wished it had been Cliff who called me on Larry King.

  “Well, that’s some progress,” said Norma, softening. “At least you didn’t try to blame it on Marcia Brady.”

  For all this swirling confusion, I felt strangely calm. That cheery little voice inside was telling me to relax. It would all work out for the best.

  “Let’s get jogging,” said Lois. “Our public is waiting.”

  The crowd that last morning was at least double the size of the day before, ballooned in part by people who had flown in from around the country to send me off to Filthy Rich! in style. Lois, Norma, and I were so psyched by our following that we ended up jogging a lot farther up Fifth Avenue than we had planned, going all the way to Forty-second Street, and the main branch of the New York Public Library. As the crowd waited below, cheering, my two girlfriends and I ran up the library’s formidable steps, triumphantly pumping the air with our fists when we reached the top.

  When Oprah played a videotape of the scene on her show later that morning, keying it to the theme music from the movie Rocky, the entire studio audience spontaneously rose to its feet and applauded hard for a full three minutes. In the wings, so did Dr. Phil.

  I was ready.

  * * *

  An era sadly ended when original Brady Bunch cast member Maureen McCormick did not return to portray Marcia Brady in one of the show’s TV spinoffs. The family still got together, but for true Marcia fans, the magic was gone. Which spinoff was it?

  a. A Very Brady Christmas

  b. The Brady Bunch Hour

  c. The Bradys

  d. The Brady Brides

  See correct answer on back….

  * * *

  * * *

  ANSWER

  c. The Bradys

  * * *

  Sixteen

  “Tonight. Live. Marcy Lee Mallowitz returns to play for $1.75 million on a special edition of So You Want to Be Filthy Rich!” Even as the show’s announcer screamed those words, it was hard for me to believe this was really happening.

  To think only a couple of weeks before I’d entered this same studio on Neil’s arm, a semi-successful Personal Life Coach with a bad haircut, virtually unknown outside my own little circle of family, friends, and rich, self-absorbed clients. I was returning a certified national celebrity—I’d sung Broadway with Rosie, for goodness sake, become pals with Larry King and Oprah, and thanks to my commercial endorsement, Fritzies were well on their way to becoming a staple of the American diet. When I arrived at the studio this second time—separately from Neil—Kingman Fenimore himself came out to greet me. As cameras flashed away, we confidently waved and flashed thumbs-up signs to the large, enthusiastic crowd that had begun gathering on the sidewalk outside the studio hours before my arrival to catch a glimpse of yours truly.

  I wore the same drop-dead black column gown from Armani I’d seen Ashley Judd wear to a glitzy movie premiere covered by E! My hair, for once, was cooperating with my attempt at a casually sexy Jennifer Aniston look, although that cooperation broke down somewhat when my former stylist, the great Giovanni, showed up uninvited backstage begging forgiveness in that suave Italian accent of his, and I let him make a few minor adjustments with a styling brush just for old times’ sake.

  Still, in all, I thought I looked pretty terrific—a far, far cry from my brief but pathetic binge period.

  “You look a lot better,” said Kingman, proud and relieved that his gamble on the bedraggled female he’d picked up on East Tenth Street three weeks ago had paid off. I took it as a compliment.

  I only wished my father had agreed to come. But he said he’d be too nervous, and besides, he never wanted to be in the same room with Neil again. That’s my dad, I thought. I felt for the unique pendant he’d given me as a Hanukkah gift when I was four and adored nothing more than to accompany him on his weekend jobs—an Egyptian scarab he’d had a jeweler friend encase in a thin, round piece of clear Plexiglas and then string on a delicate silver chain as a token of those great times together. Holding it gently between my fingers, my mind latched on to a mental picture of myself as a little girl, excitedly unwrapping the small box containing Dad’s special present.

  “Do you like it?” he’d asked nervously as I picked it up for inspection. Like it? Was he kidding? “I love it, Daddy,” I screamed, running into his arms. I can still feel his hug. I feel it every time I put on Dad’s sweet if slightly scary lucky charm.

  This pleasant flashback was abruptly dissolved by the voice of my mother, whose otherwise sentimental nature has never warmed to Dad’s kooky concept of dead-roach jewelry.

  “I can’t believe you’re still wearing that grotesque thing,” she said upon spotting it hanging from my neck. “I love your father dearly, but his taste sometimes is from hunger. At least tuck it inside your dress so Kingman doesn’t get rattled during the game and call in a fumigator.”

  I didn’t know it at the time, but the evening’s ratings battle was already won. The producers of The Plank, the competition
whose sky-high ratings caused Kingman to desperately seek this return appearance, chickened out at the last minute from competing toe to toe with our extravaganza. They canceled the weekly hour with the Burbank castaways on the flimsy pretext that everyone connected with the cheesy endeavor was suffering severe intestinal pains due to a glitch involving the seasoning for the Spago rats.

  Realistically, however, this was just a temporary victory in a larger war. The Plank would be coming back the next week, and, according to the papers, casting was already under way for The Plank II, featuring a whole new set of castaways and the added twist of special guest stars every week. Yet more “reality” shows were on the horizon, including a provocative new hidden camera series from Fox called Pardon Me that is rumored to follow Bill Clinton as he hits on different young women each week at the Chappaqua train station. In the months ahead, Filthy Rich! would have to come up with more dazzling gimmicks than just Marcy Lee Mallowitz to stay on top. But for the moment, at least, Kingman Fenimore was still TV’s king of nighttime “reality,” and that wasn’t just gefilte fish, as Kingman would say.

  Yes, after all the emotional ups and downs, the jogging and cramming with Norma and Lois, the Big Night had finally arrived.

  What an amazing ride, I reflected, waiting backstage to be called out into the Filthy Rich! arena, and for the game-show part to actually begin. I wouldn’t trade any of it, not even our frenzied feng shui moment before Diane Sawyer’s arrival. Well, maybe I’d edit out the part where I meet a great new guy and he doesn’t bother to call, leaving me susceptible to Neil’s hangdog entreaty on Larry King Live.

  Neil was allowed to visit briefly backstage to wish me/us luck. “I love you, Marcy,” he said. “Winning tonight is going to bring us back together. You’ll see, it’s going to be just like it was before.”

  “Great,” I said as pages led Neil back to his seat in the audience—the same seat, fittingly enough, where I’d proved such a flop as his Lifeline. As a precaution against my mother beating Neil bloody with her imitation Louis Vuitton handbag in the event he blew his Lifeline role, or made more rude comments about her pot roast, she was given a prime seat on the opposite side of the set.

  Looking up at a monitor backstage, I watched as swirling spotlights and a dramatic drumroll heralded Kingman’s entrance, Kingman decked out in his customary dark, monochromatic shirt and tie. The audience thundered as if he was some kind of conquering hero. As he introduced a video of my last disastrous appearance on the show, and highlights of my busy life since, I thought hard about what Neil had said: If we won, it would bring us back together. Things would be just like they were before.

  Just like before. Is that really what I wanted? I wasn’t sure.

  It occurred to me that I sometimes paid more attention to figuring out what Marcia Brady would do in a given situation than what really made sense for Marcy Lee Mallowitz. If it hadn’t been for Episode Twenty-five, I wondered, the one where Marcia feigned an interest in insects to snag a bug-obsessed boy on whom she had a crush, would it even have occurred to me to pursue Neil so avidly, reading up on orthodontic issues in boring professional journals so we’d have something to talk about? Beyond our strong physical attraction, and my even stronger desire to get married, what else did we have going?

  I tried to refocus my thinking away from this personal muddle. I knew I needed my mind clear if I was going to successfully field Kingman’s questions. But I was a Personal Life Coach in turmoil.

  If I won with Neil’s help, our re-coupling seemed almost inevitable. The public would demand it. For me to stand in the way would seem almost like poor sportsmanship. But a lot had changed since Neil went ballistic three weeks ago and made me the world’s most famous dumpee. For one thing, I’d earned enough money plugging products so that the Filthy Rich! prize no longer meant as much as it had. My once-strong allergy to the trappings of unearned celebrity could be considered cured. Moreover, I’d learned an important lesson: Just because a couple spritzes together doesn’t necessarily mean they fit together.

  I’d never missed Ellewina more. My choices wouldn’t seem so difficult, I mused, if only my wise old friend were here to advise me.

  This reverie ended when I realized my presence was being requested onstage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kingman said, “it’s time to play So You Want to Be Filthy Rich! So let’s bring out tonight’s special contestant, Marcy Lee Mallowitz!”

  Simultaneously, Lois appeared out of nowhere wielding a big, round styling brush. She deftly undid Giovanni’s detrimental contribution to my hair with a few quick, last-minute strokes.

  “Good luck,” said a stagehand.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll need it.”

  What I was really thinking, in case you’re curious, was, I just hope no one calls me a bitch this time.

  “For $250,000, Marcy, which White House occupant could appropriately be called ‘the bachelor president’?”

  I’d made it through the early questions without straining my brain bone. I’ve never asked Kingman about this, but my hunch is that he and his producers made a deliberate decision to go soft on me in the beginning to ensure that we reached this place of ultimate drama. I was now just three correct answers from the Big Prize.

  “James Buchanan,” I answered without bothering to hear the other choices. “Absolute answer.”

  I don’t claim any great knowledge about the American presidency. But when man-crazy Lois is your presidential trivia coach, you come away knowing everyone’s exact marital status, including any cute Secret Service agents’.

  The next question, for $500,000, nearly tripped me up.

  “For half a million dollars, name the state capital of Alaska,” said Kingman. These were the choices:

  a. Fairbanks

  b. Anchorage

  c. Juneau

  d. Nome

  I’m no great student of the Yukon. Heck, I don’t even like the cold. As far as I was concerned, all four cities sounded like they could be the capital. At least I’d heard of them.

  Fortunately, I still had all of my help devices left. I asked Kingman to poll the audience. But with no disrespect to audience members, they were as ignorant as I was, splitting their vote evenly among the four choices. Thanks a lot.

  Temperatures on the Filthy Rich! hot seat can rise mighty quickly, I was learning firsthand, when you don’t have the first clue as to which is the right answer. I didn’t sweat as much as Neil or Richard Nixon, but, candidly, I think that’s only because women tend to have smaller sweat glands. Now why didn’t they ask me about that? My designer gown would have ended up a lot less soggy.

  But back to my Alaska dilemma. When the audience failed me, I decided to try the fifty-fifty option, where they take two incorrect answers away. They left just these two choices remaining:

  a. Fairbanks

  c. Juneau

  At first, this winnowing down wasn’t much help. Fairbanks and Juneau both sounded capital-worthy to my gullible ears. Then I remembered a little trick Norma had taught me when we reviewed state capitals. At the time, I was pedaling on an exercise bike my doorman Frank had borrowed from the vacationing family in apartment 11-S, and I wasn’t paying much attention. But somehow in this moment of desperation, I recalled Norma telling me how to remember Alaska’s capital.

  “It makes perfect sense,” said Norma. “June is warm; Alaska is cold. That’s why June no.”

  “June no,” I said. “Absolute answer.”

  “Juneau it is,” said Kingman, “for half a million dollars.”

  There was then a long commercial break to maximize profits and drama before I got hit with the $1.75 million question. With the blinding TV lights turned down, I had a chance to look around. I spotted Neil and my mother in the audience, and exchanged smiles and waves with both of them. I was trying to make out where Norma and Lois were sitting, but my view of much of the audience was blocked by the giant cameras they had ringing the set with the idea of performing
an illusion as impressive as anything David Copperfield has managed—providing quickly shifting angle shots to make what would otherwise be a rather prosaic game show appear ultra-fast-paced. I was admiring the video behemoth straight ahead of me when its operator came out from behind and some missing puzzle pieces started coming together.

  The cameraman was my promising Mr. eBay, Cliff Jentzen, who’d been missing in action since he’d taken me out that day for Chinese. So that’s how he got my ring, I thought. I’d just assumed when he told me he was in production, he meant deodorants, laundry detergents, and the like. In fairness, he didn’t lie. But he wasn’t very forthcoming, either.

  When he saw he’d gotten my attention, Cliff waved shyly, and mouthed, “Good luck.” Much less shyly, I immediately mouthed back, “Where the hell have you been?” But I don’t think he saw that. By then, we were back from commercial, the klieg lights were turned back on, and I could no longer see Cliff or his giant camera.

  “Well, Marcy, now it’s crunch time. Are you ready to go for $1.75 million? Leave now, and you go home with a cool half million. A wrong answer, and your take goes down to $75,000—still not bad for a night’s work, but far shy of the $1.75 million prize everyone’s rooting for you to win. Your decision?”

  “What? Could you please repeat that?” I was totally distracted now, which is not an ideal condition when you’re on live TV and have $1.75 million hanging in the balance. Cliff’s sudden reappearance had thrown me. Maybe good old Ellewina was trying to give me a sign, I thought. But what did it mean? And what was I supposed to do?