March 7th, 2017, dawned cool and clear in Los Angeles.
I wasn’t all that surprised by the sunlight — this is southern California we’re talking about — but the brisk air did. I was expecting heat and humidity, not a bracing freshness that could have come from the Berkshires as I stood outside my hotel and waited for the shuttle to take me to the Jeopardy studios.
Not that I was complaining, mind. I’d gone to bed at 9:00 pm on the 6th, worn out and somewhat dehydrated after my epic journey from Massachusetts, and I kept waking every few hours for a few sips of water and the inevitable aftermath. I was in much better shape than I’d expected, but I still hadn’t gotten the 7-8 hours of solid rest I’d hoped for. One former contestant had claimed that lack of sleep and lack of food had been what had kept her from winning more than one game, and I was determined to avoid her fate.
Fortunately I was still on East Coast time, so my body believed it was mid-morning, not 7:00 am as I stood in front of the hotel, chatting somewhat nervously with my fellow contestants. Even better, the hotel had given me a voucher for a free breakfast to compensate switching me from a king room to two queens, so instead of a granola bar or an Otis Spunkmeyer muffin from the gift shop, I’d had an omelet cooked by their most excellent chef, fresh fruit, a bagel that was quite respectable by West Coast standards, and plenty of orange juice and coffee. It had been a tasty, well balanced meal, and I would need every molecule of that nutrition over the next few hours.
There were more women than men standing out there waiting for the shuttle. This was a surprise since most Jeopardy episodes I’d seen had had more male than female competitors, but then again I dumped my cable about four years ago so I was less than current on the show’s demographics. I talked with a few of my fellow waitees — a young woman with gorgeous, shiny hair, a college professor with a flower tucked behind one ear, a couple of men in business suits — wrapped my pashmina about my shoulders, and wondered if I would ever use the extra sweaters tucked into my battered Kalamazoo Medieval Studies Congress tote bag. Those were for multi-day contestants, the ones who actually won, and I had no idea if I would join their company or —
Eyes on the prize, Ellid.
You’re here to have fun.
Don’t freeze up, don’t think too far ahead.
Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize —
- or simply have yet another interesting story to tell.
Then the unmarked van pulled up, the studio driver got out and checked our names off his list, and we were on our way. I chatted with the professor and one of the men, watched the houses go past as we took the back roads either to the Sony-Columbia lot or the landfill where the serial killer who’d kidnapped us all would dump our limp and unresisting corpses, and marveled yet again at how very, very many palm trees they have in Los Angeles. The bright sunlight beat down upon us, the driver occasionally said something, the conversation died and the silence grew —
- and grew —
- and grew —
- and then we turned left, drove under an arch that any film buff would have instantly recognized, and pulled up to a security checkpoint. Our names were checked off another list, our bags were wanded, and then our guide led us down an alley to a plain soundstage just like all the others.
Except that this one had a blue and white sign on it that read JEOPARDY.
I stared up at that sign, something that was part joy, part nerves, part disbelief bubbling up inside me. All those years of playing at home, all those years of wondering how I’d do on the actual game, all the comments from friends who said you’re so smart, you should be on Jeopardy — all had come down to this.
I was in Culver City, ready to film my appearance on Jeopardy. Nerve and luck and a head for trivia had gotten me this far. Would they be enough to win?
Eyes on the prize, Ellid.
Deep breath. You’ll still be you no matter what.
Eyes on the prize.
Eyes on the prize….
The green room was behind the Jeopardy set, right across from the case that contains the three dozen Emmys, Peabodies, and other awards the show has won since its modern revival in the 1980’s. I barely noticed as we walked past, stashed our bags, and sat down for an explanation of the rules, yet more paperwork, and then a session with the studio makeup artists. Some of the quiet ones were starting to relax a bit, while others who’d been bubbly and talkative went ominously still. I was about the same, that is if you don’t count the urge to giggle that was right below the surface.
Pictures of Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter on the walls.
An overstuffed sofa, sagging slightly from years of service to anxious hopefuls.
Carafes of coffee, baskets of granola bars.
A huge box of doughnuts from a local bakery.
And in one corner, a dressing room with a star on it for the reigning champion so ze could change clothes between episodes….
One of the producers came in, laughing and smiling and telling stories to put us at ease — did you know contestants used to walk in, see 74 game winner Ken Jennings quietly reading the paper, and gasp out, “Oh shit!” ? — and by the time we were herded into Makeup the atmosphere had lightened considerably. Even yet another test, this one full of test questions the writing staff was checking for difficulty, didn’t make us nervous. This was an adventure! It would be fun!
I even started chuckling myself in the makeup chair. I’d expected the base, blush, and eyeshadow, but when I felt something being smoothed into my eyebrows, I blurted out, “Oh, surely you aren’t using eyebrow pencil!”
My makeup artist chortled and continued her work. “Oh no, honey,” she said. “You have enough eyebrows for three people. This is just gel to smooth them out.”
I think you can see why I found this amusing, especially when you take a look at the picture of me on set.
Then it was time for rehearsal, and it was only after we walked past that case full of gleaming golden trophies onto a set that is about twice as large as it appears on television that I finally, finally realized that yes, this is happening, you are about to appear on television, my God my GOD this is real it’s not a fantasy television really truly oh God what have I done.
I took a deep breath and forced down the urge to giggle, or possibly swear.
Eyes on the prize.
Don’t count your chickens, the eggs aren’t even fertile yet.
I stared up into the space between the top of the enormous, silent game board and the ceiling of the soundstage. It was crammed with mechanicals, electrical lines, catwalks, and lights that slowly warmed the chilly air.
Chin up.
Shoulders straight.
I tried out the clicker — about the size of an El Marko, smooth and straight — and waited for the riser built into the floor to lift me to the point where I wouldn’t look like a midget next to the other contestants. We met Alex Trebek (firm handshake, direct gaze, much younger looking and acting than you’d think), filmed promos, played a practice game, and then it was back to the green room to wait.
Eyes on the prize….
One man, who’d been cocky and confident before we’d actually set foot on the stage, was all but in tears because he simply could not figure out the clicker. A woman who’d been the life of the party was suddenly silent. Others made quiet jokes, had their makeup refreshed, read the newspaper.
There was nothing to do but wait.
And then one of the producers stuck her head in the door, and it was time.
Eyes on the prize….
First show: two people I would have laid odds would win went down with scarcely a fight. I wrapped my pashmina about my shoulders and murmured the answers to myself. This would be me soon enough, but for now I was content to watch the returning champion defend his crown.
Second show: livelier, but once again, the returning champion took the game. He was good, but I realized as I watched him play that he was no better than I was, as long as I kept my head on straight and got the hang of the clicker. I can take him, I thought, and then the producer called out the names for game three.
One of them was mine.
Eyes on the prize….
Back to makeup to have my nose powdered, then a quick sound check. I took a last trip to the bathroom, sucked in a breath, and rearranged my pashmina.
And then, as I settled myself on the little riser and gave the camera what I devoutly hoped was a smile and not a grimace, Johnny Gilbert, well into his 90’s and still announcing with all the verve of the youngster who’d hosted Dialing for Dollars, spoke over the swelling music:
“This — is — JEOPARDY!”
I gripped the clicker and waited for the categories. My palms were slightly wet.
Now or never. Go big or go home.
The early going was rough — I got into a -$800 hole at one point, but during the first commercial break one of the stage managers came up to remind me to click only after Alex Trebek stopped. “You’re jumping the gun,” he said. “Remember, Eddie Timanus was a five day champion even though he’s completely blind. You’ll be fine.”
I smiled, wiped my hands on my trousers, and nodded —
Eyes on the prize —
And you know what? He was absolutely right.
Because once I waited, once I took my time and clicked only after Alex finished, suddenly I was back in the game. The answers came almost without me thinking, and after I answered a clue about Abraham Lincoln’s war service with “What is the Blackhawk War?” it was as if I’d been doing this all my life. I tore through category after category, clicking at exactly the right moment time after time after time, and as my fellow newbie faded and the champion worked to regain his rhythm, I caught up, then passed him until I was leading by nearly $4000 when Double Jeopardy ended and it was time for a break.
Almost there. Almost. Chickens, egg. Eyes — on — the — priiiiiiiiize……….
I glanced at my opponent’s total during the prep for Final Jeopardy. I could still take him even if he doubled his bet if I wagered a certain amount. I’d only win by a dollar, but I’d still win, if only I could overcome my natural caution.
Go big or go home.
I wrote the amount, set down my stylus, and waited for Alex to announce the final answer.
He did.
I knew the answer.
So, as it turns out, did my opponent...but because I’d gone big, because I’d set aside a lifetime of avoiding risk, I’d bet more than enough to win.
Which I did.
I sucked in a gasp, almost shaking as the camera zoomed in on me and I was crowned as the new Champion. My heart banged in my chest, and I started to laugh and smile and shake my head as I realized that my dream had come true, that the reason I’d taken that test in 2013 and again in 2015, why I’d gone to Boston and New York and Los Angeles, had all paid off.
I was Jeopardy champion.
The next few minutes were a blur as my opponents congratulated me, I chatted with Alex Trebek (very tall, which was disconcerting once I was off the riser), and whisked off to the green room to have my mic removed and given a voucher for lunch at the studio commissary. I was still shaking my head and laughing as I ate — was this really happening? — but by the time we were ready for my second game I’d pulled myself together.
That one went much easier, with categories about horror fiction and the Popes, and though my opponents fought hard, victory was mine when I turned out to be the only person who knew that Francis Gary Powers, the U2 pilot who’d crashed in the Soviet Union, was the man exchanged for Soviet spy Rudolf Abel in 1962 on the Glienicke Bridge. I was cruising, confident, and ready to go for my third game….
Which turned out to be my last, when I once again bet enough to win by a dollar if my closest competitor had wagered everything, then wrote “What is To Kill a Mockingbird?” instead of “What is The Bell Jar?” I shook my head in disgust — of course it would be a fellow Smithie’s only novel that brought me down — but I was the first one to congratulate the new champion, and I was still smiling as we chatted during the end credits. I hadn’t won, but I’d come in second, and thanks to those first two stunning victories, I could retire my debts, pay my fair share of taxes, and truly breathe easy for the first time in years.
The next day was fun —my friend Katie-Kate and some of her buddies took me first to the LA Fabric District and then to the costume exhibit at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, which is how I know that Scarlett Johansson is genuinely very small and Chris Hemsworth is enormous — and then it was time to go home. The flight home was satin-smooth, and I was relaxed enough on the plane back to Hartford to order a Bailey’s and coffee. By the time I pulled into the driveway at the Last Homely Shack a little after midnight, I was singing along to the Hamilton Soundtrack at the top of my lungs.
So in answer to the question posed at the beginning of this diary: yes, I lost on Jeopardy. But before that I won. And that will make all the difference, both to me and to those I can help now that I’ll have the means to do so.
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UPDATE:
SIAB just reminded me that I promised to show you the glorious, tacky, utterly awesome and amazing souvenir I picked up at LAX. So here it is, in all its wonder, the first fruit of my Jeopardy winnings:
Even better? It works exactly as described, as I can now post fascinating news on my refrigerator just like a regular person:
Isn’t that totally worth going out to Los Angeles just by itself?
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Did you watch me triumph, then faceplant? Have you ever read The Bell Jar? Been to Los Angeles? Are you Francis Gary Powers? Alex Trebek? Have you flown in a U2? Listened to a U2 album? Potpourri for $2000, my friends, and a lovely summer night to one and all….
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