For Five Hundred

For Five Hundred





         Don’t let your nerves get the better of you. This advice came from Ricky’s mother, Eleanor Miles, and a gracious, sound suggestion it was.

         “For five hundred,” said Regis, “what is thirteen multiplied by twelve?”

         Not math of all things, thought Ricky as he gaped down at his monitor, scrutinizing the four possible answers as they popped into appearance at Regis’s command.

         “Is it A, 113, B, 132, C, 156, or is it D, 166?” Regis had a complacent smile on his face and leaned to the side in his chair. What was he thinking? That this was easy? That Ricky should be locking in an answer already?

         Ricky slouched and said, “Huh!” He glanced around the studio at the cascading audience surrounding the pit where he idled. It was a Roman arena, Ricky the gladiator and Regis the lion. From the shadows encircling them, the audience pierced him with their eyes he couldn’t see, and soon sweat dripped from his forehead. His heart went into overdrive, pounding against his ribs and through his ears, begging to escape the torture.

         Regis frowned. “What do you think, Ricky?” he urged.

         “Well, Rege, I was never good at math, see? So I have to think about this. That might seem stupid to you or the folks at home but I just need to mull it over.” He spotted a cameraman zero in at him. He pointed into its glistening lens. “And you people at home who are moaning about how stupid I am, you get a life! I am more successful than you’ll ever be. Look at me, I’m here and you’re there!”

         “Woah, Ricky,” said Regis. “Calm down!”

         “Sorry Rege, I just really have a problem with coach potatoes who watch game shows and think they could do it better. Fuck, half the people who—”

         “No swearing!”

         “ –are at home groaning about my delay probably don’t even know the answer themselves. Sorry about the cursing. I just, I…”

         Don’t let your nerves get the better of you.

         Ricky sighed and stared at the options again. “I think it’s C,” he said, “but I want to…I want to use a lifeline.”

         “Are you sure you want to use a lifeline so early in the game?”

         “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

         “Okay. You can eliminate two wrong answers, ask the audience, or phone a friend.”

         Ricky mulled over the options. He couldn’t risk a 50/50 chance simply for fear of humiliation if he got it wrong anyway. What if the answer he was leaning toward got axed? He would be lost at sea.

         The audience probably knew the answer. They chuckled when they realized he was stumped. But that lifeline would come in handy later, and the audience was a malignant force given the way they judged him.

         “I’d like to phone a friend.”

         “Who are you calling?” Regis wanted to know.

         “My mother.”

         “Okay AT&T, get her on the line!” The sound of a speed dial filled the loud speaker overlooking the arena. Ring number one. Ring number two.

         Ring three.

         “It sounds like she stepped out!”

         Ring four.

         “I told her to be home. But she said she might need to go out for groceries. I thought maybe she was kidding. I guess I should have known.”

         Ring five.

         “We’ll have to kill the line,” said Regis.

         “Hello?” the echo of Eleanor Mile’s voice washed over the studio like rain on drought lands.

         “Mom! Thank God!” cried Ricky. The audience laughed.

         Regis said, “Uh, excuse me. Eleanor?”

         “Who’s this?”

         “This is Regis Philbin from Who Wants to be a Millionaire! We have your son Ricky here with us.”

         “So he won? I can’t believe it!”

         “Not yet, he needs your help with a 500 dollar question. You’ll have 30 seconds to answer after he reads it to you. Got that?”

         “Hey mom.”

         “Ricky, that you? You sound weird.”

         “Where were you, mom?”

         “25 seconds,” said Regis.

         “I told you I might have to go out. I just walked in.”

         “You almost left me hanging here.”

         “You’re running out of time!” exclaimed Regis. “Skip the chit chat!”

         “Ricky, I told you, I might not be—”

         “Okay mom, I don’t have time for this right now. The question is…” Ricky read it from the monitor as fast as he could. He rattled off the answer options and listened, fists clenched and jaw clamped, to the resulting dead silence that followed. “MOM?” he cried. The audience laughed.

         “Yeah,” said Eleanor. “I’m thinking. What’s this for anyway?”

         “What’s this for? What do you mean, what’s this for? Just answer the question! You know math! What’s the fucking answer? What is it? Speak, for fuck's sake!”

         The audience could not contain their gales of laughter as Eleanor said, “The answer is—” and the line finally went dead.

         Regis grimaced at Ricky overtop the video terminals. “What a shame,” he said.

         “When I was in grade three my teacher told me not learning math would be grief hanging over my head forever. Thirty years later I know what she means. Plug in C, Regis. What do I have to lose?”

         “Everything,” said Regis.

         C lit up in yellow. There was a long silence. Regis played with the tension by moving his eyes from monitor to Ricky and back again. Ricky shifted in his chair, swallowed hard. Don’t let your nerves get the better of you. Too late for that.

         The answer flashed green. “Yes!” shouted Regis. Lights around the studio came to life and the audience cheered in victory. Ricky grinned with a gaping mouth and wide eyes. No way. Impossible.

         “Wow,” said Regis. “That almost killed me! Are you ready for the next question for one thousand dollars?”

         “Bring it on!” said Ricky.

         Regis looked down at his monitor. He froze. He blinked. He stared. “Oh boy.”

         Apologetically, his gaze lifted from the monitor and he focused on nothing in midair. “For one thousand,” he sighed, “what is seventy three divided by three?”